A/N: Hi everyone! Not much to say except... enjoy.

I run.

I run to change, not bothering to shield myself from Zelda and Max as my pyjamas switch to a sweater and pants and Kevlar. I run to throw on my sneakers and snatch what few belongings I have. I run into the car and strap myself in for a bumpy ride.

Now we escape.

All in all, we're out of Mariam's safe house in five minutes tops. Darkness pools in the sky like a bottomless ocean, washed with foamy clouds. It's 3am, not even a few hours since I arrived. I barely take in details as the 4x4 scrapes off the tarmac and out of the addition, back onto the crackled roads of the Angeles mountainside suburbia. The convoy, with every other Resurgence rebel, peels apart to form a distraction, many others going left up the mountain to our right back down to the freeway. That's where the Second's rebels are coming; they'll least expect it.

"We're regrouping elsewhere," Mariam explains. She hits the accelerator, and we speed down the incline. "We can think of another plan when we get to safety."

Zelda, Aderyn and Rose are in another vehicle, on their way to being deposited elsewhere for safety. We didn't get to say goodbye, to hug even. Swear to me that whatever happens, you won't die? Please? Zelda's last words to me are possibly the last words I'll ever hear her say. There was thick calculation in her eyes, like she was scheming, before we went to sleep last night. I hope it was only with ideas on how to get away.

Max is next to me. His tone is accusatory. "The false trail failed? How?"

"I don't know," says Mariam. "It must've taken them less time to break into my files than I thought."

"Then all of the safe houses are compromised," Max retorts sharply. "So where are we going?"

"I know a place."

"Where?"

"A gas station, at the edge of town." Her eyebrows knit together, seemingly displeased that she had to share such information. "We can lay low for a few hours and reconvene."

Max just laughs, but it's cruel. "A gas station? You can't be serious."

"Unless you know somewhere better?"

"It's public!"

"Exactly," she growls. "It's public. It's open. We'll be forgettable and we'll see any hostiles coming from miles out."

Max is red-faced and trying to hide his frustration, but eats whatever words he wants to say. I take his hand.

"We'll be okay."

He exhales loudly through his nose. "I hope so."

It's a small comfort to know that Zelda, Aderyn and Rose will be fine, at least. "What happens when we get to this gas station?"

Mariam says, "I'll get in touch with my contacts—"

The glass shattering behind me rams any question I have back in my throat. Max has already pressed my head down before the next bullet pings against the car's hull. Cold air rushes into the compartment as I withhold a scream.

Mariam swears loudly, slams the accelerator so we're speeding down an empty strip of tarmac and barks into her earpiece, "Reinforcements, now!"

"Give me a gun!" Max yells in the pause of gunfire. "I can get their tyres!"

"If they get ours, we're finished." She unholsters her pistol and chucks it to him. "Don't dare miss, boy!"

Bent at the spine, Max removes the safety and reloads the chamber. I watch, in both fascination and horror, the ease and swiftness of his movements, the familiarity he has with the weapon, his cold pragmatism as he unclicks his seatbelt. Then he turns, aiming the gun through the broken rear window, and volleys off a few shots. Something bursts. Screams pierce night air. Then a loud crash, tyres squealing, more shots firing in the distance.

Then silence.

Max grunts, switches the safety back on and slides to gun back onto the front seat. Words don't come to me. The last thirty seconds alone have made me re-evaluate my entire life.

"Reinforcements will clean them up." Mariam's hiss is broken by an unexpected waver in her voice. "Status?" she barks into her earpiece.

I wish I was privy to what's being said on the comms, but whatever Mariam hears satisfies her enough that she drops her hand and commands, "Let's get out of here."

I don't think I've ever heard such emotion from her before. Back when she was just a voice, the Voice, to me, she allowed little inflection into her tone, kept it even and neutral most of the time. Now, though she tries to bury it, I hear her pain. I hear how wrecked she truly is that everything has come to this: her on the run, her beautiful vision of the future in tatters.

If there's any more resistance, we don't meet it, and we head out of the city's boundaries, chastened and silent in mourning of what we've lost. I can't help but stare behind me occasionally, wondering if any of the cars we pass on the freeway, then interstate, are rebels in disguise. Wondering whether these will be my last thoughts.

"Are you okay, Gail?"

I force myself to look at Max, who watches me with dipped brows. Wordlessly, I shake my head. He offers his hand for me to take, and I trace the calluses with my eyes. Hands so delicate on me, yet deadly anywhere else. Max is full of strange contrasts.

But I take his hand, and I find comfort in his touch.

After some time, Mariam nudges the vehicle down a ramp off the interstate. I take in the sight of the poorly-lit gas station in the incoming distance, ramshackle in appearance, a flat one-storey building with a coverway so faded I can't read the brand logo in the darkness. Paint chips and peels off stucco walls, bits of trash flutter along the ground, and one of the desolate lights meant to illuminate the pumps flickers poorly. Inside is lit, a typical gas station lined with shelves of snacks and drinks. A teenager – no younger than me – sits behind the desk, earbuds in, reading a magazine.

Mariam reverses the car into the furthest spot from the building possible and checks the fuel. It must be okay because she shuts the engine off. For a moment, she sits there, and we sit here, drowning in the sudden silence of the middle of nowhere.

"I used to come here as a child," she murmurs suddenly. "I used to come here with Rose and our mom and my stepdad. It became a tradition, a ritual almost, to visit this place when we were on road trips outside the province. Rose and I would share a hotdog every time."

The fractured quality of her voice makes me think that it was an important memory to her, a memory that anywhere else would be sweet, charming. Now the situation tarnishes it, paints the memory with a stroke of night black and bullet grey.

"Does the Second know all that?" I mumble.

"No. We never discussed our personal lives. This is the first place I thought we could escape to. The people here know me. They're good, and hardworking. And discreet."

"So what… what do we do now?"

"Lay low," says Mariam quietly. "I need to contact my reinforcements about where to move you next. We won't be disturbed here." Her fierce but empty gaze lands on Max. "Stay vigilant. Both of you."

Max nods, and Mariam alights, heading into the gas station. Through the broken rear window the other rebels slowly dip into the shadows of the building, waiting for their next orders, inspecting the damage to their bashed and bullet-pocked vehicles. I exit the car too, even though I don't need fresh air or to stretch my legs. I just need… open space. Max follows, clicking his door gently shut.

"Do you need anything?"

I take a deep breath and lean into Max's arm. "No, thank you."

"Okay."

"You're… a good shooter."

He swallows and nods. "Part of my grandfather's sick training regime."

"Right." I don't want to know what happened when Max failed. "Are you… scared?"

"Terrified." His honesty warms me. "You?"

"I… don't know." Because I don't. I'm scared and I'm not. I'm worried and I'm not. I feel alone, terrified I won't see the next sunrise, but comforted knowing there are so many people who will do everything in their power to see that I do.

"I've met death in the face many times before, Gail," he mumbles. "But nothing quite like this."

"This seems… final."

"Very final."

"Your… your grandfather…" I glance sidelong at him, his side profile engulfing my peripheral, "you don't think he'll show even a little remorse? Or regret?"

His lips flatten. "The only thing he regrets is not killing me when he had the chance."

The only grandfather I've ever known is my oji, Hwan, who is so jovial he'd probably laugh at his own funeral. I can't imagine not having a relationship with him, let alone have one where all you want to do is kill the other. I also can't imagine having a similar relationship with my brother.

"What about Caspian?"

"If… if we see him again, I'm going to try and give him the option to come to us, to get help… I don't think he'll take it, but…"

I squeeze his hand. "Maybe he will. He doesn't even realise what sort of life he's been raised into."

"I'm not getting my hopes up."

And I don't blame him.

"You're going to see your family again." He looks down at me, smiling tenderly. "They're going to be worried about you."

"When I get back, I'm going to bake so many cakes with Tay," I try to inject some enthusiasm into my words, but it doesn't quite feel genuine. The palace, right now, seems like some hazy otherworld. Unattainable. "We can bake together, right?"

"If… if you want me to."

"Of course I do."

He takes a long breath. "But your Selection…"

"Well, I never eliminated you, so technically you're still part of it."

"Your… brother won't be pleased."

I scoff. "My brother can't say squat. I choose my winner. That's that."

I feel him still at the implication, so I face him. Seeing his face, so absent of his usual unreadableness… right now there's a faint blush permeating his cheeks, and those bashful eyes are wide and unbelieving.

"Erm." I bite my lip, suddenly flushed myself. "If… if you want, that is. To… to win the Selection."

His Adam's apple bobs in time with a loud swallow. He shakes his head. "Gail, I… I've literally killed people."

"You're a survivor," I say instead. "There's a difference."

"I— I'm messed up. I have— a terrible past—"

"Your past does not define you. What matters is what you do in the present, and what you will do in the future." I force myself not to get too flustered under his shadowed eyes. "What I see is a man willing to go above and beyond to protect his friends and family. A man who has had to make impossible choices but still fights to do the right thing. A man who is sweet and caring when given the chance to be—"

"I can't," he interrupts me gently, lethally. "I can't accept."

It's an understandable rejection, but a rejection nonetheless, and I swallow it about as well as a pill the size of a tennis ball. Gosh, it hurts.

"Please don't misunderstand me. I… want to." He's so quiet I can barely hear him. "I really want to, more than anything, but I can't… not right now. Ask me… ask me after this."

"I asked you now because— because I don't know if I'll make it—"

"You will. I vowed to protect you. I will do anything to keep you safe."

My legs unwittingly turn to jelly. It's the wrong time, wrong place, wrong everything, but the assertiveness of his statement is so flustering I can barely stand. "So… so afterwards…"

"If… if you still want me after all this… if you can still find it within you to give me a chance…" He nods. "I will accept."

"Okay," I say, clinging onto hope. "Afterwards."

"Afterwards."

I inhale a dusty breath of air to change the subject. "What are we going to do then? How are we going to get back to the palace?"

Max, too, rakes a hand through his hair, expelling the moment as easily as breathing.

"The rebels will find us if we go the normal routes, and they'll find us if we use the secret passages…"

I have no doubt in my mind the Second will do anything to catch me as I try to find safety. Nowhere is safe from her anymore, and I don't feel like trying to flee the country entirely to avoid her. It's intimidation and I will not bow to it. The previous night floods back into my head, and I close my eyes, savouring the feel of Max in my arms, the brush of my eyelashes against his shirt.

Yesterday I suggested I use myself as bait. Put myself out there to draw in not only the Second, but Alaric and Caspian Washington too. Max will have to come with me – even if I say no, he'll volunteer, force himself to stick by my side until the end. I scour for other options, heart a dismal dollop of hopelessness in my chest, but I see no other way. It's our last resort.

I take a deep breath and anchor myself to this moment. Then I open my eyes and take a step back, wiping my face from wind burn and errant tears.

"The bait plan is our best bet, Max," I declare. "I know Mariam said no to it yesterday, but things have changed. It's time to end things."

"Are you sure?" Max's voice is husky. "Gail… this isn't something you do lightly…"

"I know. You're… not going to try to stop me, are you?"

He shakes his head. "I know how serious this is, and I think you're right. It's time we use your title to our advantage."

The only thing it's been good for, lately.

We share a nod. The deal is done. We'll use ourselves as bait.

Now to convince Mariam.

We're back in the car by the time Mariam returns. In the wash of light I notice how stiff she has become. She shuts the door inelegantly, furiously.

"They've gone missing."

"What? Who?" I ask.

"Rose," she says. "And Zelda and Aderyn. They've shaken their escorts and disappeared."

Oh no. Oh no no no. "It must be Zelda— she might try to help me—"

"There's nothing we can do about it now. They're lost." But she sounds angry with herself, as if she was the one to personally lose sight of them. "There was a shoot-out at the safe house just after we left. They underestimated our force. We're interrogating the rebels left alive, but they're not saying much. We need to make a move again."

"Mariam, about our plan—"

"I know what you're going to ask of me, Your Highness, and I implore that you put away your ridiculous ideas of self-sacrifice. There are simply too many dangers."

I've heard this argument before. Except it was coming from Roy, and it was about playing hockey. So many times in my life that my ability to choose has been stripped away from me by people who think they know better.

"No." My tone is resolute, and it causes Mariam to glance over her shoulder at me. "No matter what we do, the rebels will give chase."

"They can't chase us forever."

"We can't run forever." I clench my hands so much I leave half-moons in my skin. "You want immediate results? This is the best way to do it. Use Max and me as bait. We'll draw them out of hiding, have some confrontation, and then you'll get both the Second and the Washingtons on a silver platter."

"We are not changing the plan for something that might work," Mariam reminds me tersely. "You are going back to the palace. It's the safest place for you."

"And what's the plan to get me there? Unless you have an armoured helicopter to drop me onto the roof?" She goes silent at the jab – any assets she had were probably taken by the Second. "We've only escaped for now. It won't be long before they track us here. Our options are limited and this is the best plan we have."

She doesn't move. In the barely-lit parking lot, only shadows twitch is response to my words. It appears that she doesn't hear me, but I know she has. I know she's thinking my proposal through. Funny, how I used to see the Voice as this disembodied entity, as calculating and clinical as a computer engineered to serve one purpose, but seeing her take pause to think, listening to her share intimate memories of her past, tracing the pain she hides on her stoic face, is a stark reminder of her humanity. Mariam is no different from the rest of us, trying to find our place in this broken world.

"It's incredibly dangerous," she replies softly. "If we are to use you both as bait, then there would be no guarantees to your safety. There's only so much I can do to minimise the possibilities of lethal consequences. You could die."

"If I can prevent a bloodbath," I say, sounding stronger than I feel, "then it's worth it."

Max's expression is imperceptible in the moonlight, but his head bobs in agreement. Mariam lets out a low breath – finally her arms move as if to wrap around herself.

"If we do this," she ponders aloud, "then we must make it look like we were careless. A trail of breadcrumbs on the Internet implying you will rendezvous with the palace's forces. The Second and the Washingtons will come to us thinking they have the element of surprise. That should allow our teams the leeway to protect you." She pauses. "Well?"

I don't have a brain for strategy – I feel a pang of longing for Zelda. But Max exhales slowly, serrated.

"I think that's the best plan."

"I can have snipers ready to kill those three on command."

"No," Max interrupts. "No killing, if we can help it."

Mariam's eyes narrow on him in the mirror. "You wish for the Second to live?"

"I don't care about her, or Alaric. If they die, they die. But not Caspian. I… I want to believe there is good in him still."

"Then we make truly a naïve trio of hopefuls," she scoffs. "How can you be certain he won't attack you, or Her Highness?"

"I can't."

"And you accept that, Your Highness?"

Caspian's only a year younger than me. Hatred can be unlearnt. Wrath can be tempered. I choose to believe that Caspian can be saved, not only for Max, but for all the bad in the world.

"Yes."

Mariam does not seem happy. "Very well," she says. "But I will remind you what I said yesterday. Your life is far more important. If he makes a move to kill you, he dies."

"I accept that, too," Max says quietly. To him, after all, the old Caspian is already dead, and he's doing all he can to salvage the scraps.

"All right. Then let me organise this. There's much to prepare and little time to do it."

Mariam leaves again to discuss with her troops. The moment she walks in their collective direction, the rebels form around her, attracted like magnets to her presence. It's a cohesive force, her Resurgence, ordered with military precision. I've never underestimated the rebels, but seeing them work in action brings a whole new light to what they do. She shortly returns with two fingers pressed to her ears, mumbling orders. We jump into another vehicle that isn't so battered, and I watch the rest of the convoy slowly pull out of the parking lot and join the interstate. Only one other car remains, but before Mariam leaves she enters co-ordinates onto the in-built GPS of our console.

"We're going dark once we return to the city border, in case anyone intercepts our line," she says, back to her inflectionless speech. "Do not attempt to communicate with us. No one will respond to protect our positions."

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"Here, a parking lot in downtown." She allows a moment for the GPS to pinpoint the location and calculate the shortest route. "Wellington should be familiar with this place."

Max winces. "Yes."

"Good. I thought it fitting."

"How?" I ask him.

"It's an infamous rendezvous point," he mumbles. "Sometimes the rebels would make me drop off their marks or loot there."

"The keys are in the ignition." She stares first at Max, then me, and her expression is heavy with expectation. "Don't mess this up."

She goes, leaving us alone. After Max and I slide into the front seats and Max readjusts the seat for comfort, he guns the engine, and it chokes in response, chugging then rumbling then finally revving to Max's commands. Soon we're back on the road, and the others split off.

There are few cars out this late. If it weren't for the street lamps, pooling orange at increments down the freeway, it'd make me think this place was empty of life too. I glance at Max, his hands clenched on the wheel as he navigates the 4x4 with a semblance of composure. I'm going to try and keep him safe, too. I might not know how to shoot a gun or highjack a car, but I still have my head, and I have my dan grades in jujitsu, too. Not that they're going to do much against the barrel side of a gun.

"Tell me what you want to do in future," I blurt suddenly to fill the silence.

Max raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"In the afterwards," I clarify. "After the Selection is over and everyone can go home."

He hesitates a moment. "I don't know. I guess I figured my life would be easier after the Selection. I'd get a job easily enough."

"At a garage?"

"Maybe," he hedges, and suddenly I feel an echo of Max before I knew his past. "I'd… like to see my mom. Make sure she's okay. Make sure she's still…" Alive. "I want to bury my biological mom, too. Lay her to rest properly. I've already made my peace with what I did, but I think it would be good to get final… closure. I know it's a fantasy, but…"

"It will happen," I encourage. "Both things."

"What about you? What will Gail Schreave do afterwards?"

I almost don't answer, but instead I say, "I think I have a good idea of what I want to do with the rest of my life."

Max doesn't pry, so I leave it at that. Soon the mountainous suburb civilisation breeds cityscape as Los Angeles re-emerges from behind the trees and buildings, the sea a dark, sluicing quilt on the horizon beyond. We skirt around the heart of the city towards the palace, taking our time, savouring the scenic routes to maximise time for our teams to get into position. I track the little countdown to our location on our GPS as we weave along the threads for roads.

"We're nearly there," says Max quietly.

"How do we know they won't shoot us the moment we get there?"

"They won't," Max says confidently. "Alaric will want to taunt me before trying to kill me."

Reassuring. We dip back into the far suburbs, the palace's gates and walls swallowing the distance. I think, when ordinary people see it, awash in spotlights, a pillar of humanity's peak, it's supposed to be a symbol of hope and status and leadership. People like Mariam, however, see a message of austerity, of power, a flaunting of wealth that greedily hogs the distant hills. What I see is neither. It's my home, my birthplace, but right now it feels… oppressive. A rule that must be bidden.

Once we turn into the wide, industrialised Los Angeles streets, the pavements crowded with parking metres and goose-necked lampposts, the palace melts from view, no longer the looming presence that stands watch over me like a terrifying guardian angel. Soon the location is upon us, ensconced on three sides with defunct storefronts and apartments, and Max slips through the slit in the crumpled wire fence to a parking lot littered with trash and skeletons for neglected cars. Tucked in as we are, there's a perfect view from the taller adjacent buildings for Mariam's Resurgence to pick off the bad guys. Clever. I smell rubber and dirt and weed and hostility as Max cuts the engine off.

"Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," I squeak.

The moment we step out, bodies appear around us from all sides, cloaked in dark clothes and chilly night air. I try scout the faces for someone familiar, but I get nothing, only faceless people who leer with obscured, but hungry expressions. Pressing my back to the car, I hold tightly to courage.

"Pathetic."

The Second approaches us, knife in hand and gun holstered at hip, and stops a few feet away from us. I recognise the pale, saggy and marred skin, the nose purple with the bruise Mariam gave her yesterday. There's a glimmer of frustrated abandon in her eyes, an unquenchable thirst for vengeance. She's at her wit's end. This is it for the Second.

This is it for me.

"You should be more careful what you put online, children. Don't know who's watching. Don't know where. Or, hold on," she grins, her teeth uneven but razor sharp, "did Dr Mariam Noboru think you could meet your palace friends here?"

My neck prickles. This is good. The Second laughs.

"Yeah, thought so. All a complicated network of plans with her. As usual, too green for her own good. Did she think we wouldn't be waiting for you to slip up?"

"Why are you doing this?" I counter. "Why— why did you betray her?"

"Because I used to think she had our best interests! I used to think she cared about the people! Not all of us can afford to be patient and happy-go-lucky with the circumstances we were forced into by the powers that be. By the system you represent." Her grip on the knife handle shakes, and she points it at me. "Why should I have to suffer to spare your feelings? Why should we have to spare you at all? If there was no insipid monarchy, if you were dead, the balance of power would finally be restored to the people who deserve it!"

I hate that I agree with her sentiment. I hate that I agree with why she's doing this. I hate that I am just a prop for an age-old, biased institution, and I hate that, in some ways, I don't want that to change.

"Mariam wants peace," the Second says. "I will get peace. In any way possible."

But I also know that being driven so far as to not only wish death on a person, but also to actively seek it, is not the answer.

"What? No clever retort?" the Second quips. "No grandiose last words about how you've changed and how you think you've done good in the world?"

Anything that comes out of my mouth will be perceived as insincere, whether or not I mean it, so I choose not to say anything at all. I hope that all the targets are here. I hope Mariam and her people are in position. I hope they know when to strike.

The Second spits at our feet and angles her knife at Max. "If you want your lovesick grandson, come collect him then, Alaric."

A figure steps out from the crowd. Max goes rigid with recognition besides me. I take in Alaric Washington's features – old, but not elderly, with fine contours that sharpen his features, liver spots like a starry night, hair as white and brittle as wheat in moonlight. It's his eyes that betray him as anything but a kindly old man. The wickedness I could see in Caspian Washington's eyes is here, and it is a brutal force that will stop at nothing.

He's impeccably dressed, too. Tailored suit, waistcoat, loafers and a thick, wool peacoat and fedora. He barely cares about me; all his attention is tuned onto Max. No resemblance between them, except perhaps the way both of their bodies are tightly wound with anticipation.

"You are mistaken, madam," he says softly, and I shiver. On anyone else's lips, the open greeting would be sweet and gentle, but his voice is like poison. "This is no grandson of mine."

Max shivers. "Alaric."

"Manners, boy. Have you remembered nothing?" Alaric raises his head, bearing down on him with fierce judgement. "I suppose seven years away would be enough for you to forget your place."

"I told you, Grandfather, he is an embarrassment."

Caspian's voice catches us both unawares. He emerges to the right of us, practically in the same outfit as his grandfather. What Alaric possesses in sheer eminence, Caspian possesses in sheer arrogance, and he flicks his head in amusement at the sight of us close together. All three, in one place. The bait worked.

I wait a beat. Nothing happens.

Max shakes. "Caspian—"

"Why can't we just shoot him? It would save us so much trouble."

"To show the world," Alaric says smoothly, "what happens when you cross a path from which you can never return." He gestures through gloved fingers. "Take him."

"No!" Max barks, as dark figures – the rebels or the Washington henchmen, they look the same – inch closer to us, knives and guns drawn. "Caspian, please, he's manipulating you! He always has been!"

"Whatever you say, Nathaniel," Caspian says, inspecting his glove hems idly.

Max is snatched away and thrown into the centre by the rebels. Caspian approaches me, his henchmen at his side, pressing me up against the car to stop any interference. I try to stay composed even as they shove and bat Max around like a punching bag. They haul him up by his arms; he doesn't struggle.

Alaric steps forwards. Slowly, languidly, he removes a glove by the finger, revealing crooked hands weathered by age and decorated with rings. He flexes a moment, reels back.

Then punches Max square in the jaw.

I cry out, but one of the rebels pulls a knife on me and holds it close. I can disarm them if I want – I'm still a blackbelt – but with Max in their clutches I don't dare do a thing.

Max sags. Blood speckles on Alaric's knuckles and rings, but he plucks a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes it away. Replaces the glove. It's so … procedural. Nothing more than a man carrying out his civil duty.

"When your skin is cut open, boy, you bleed the red of commoners." There's a ghost of a smile on his lips. "A true Washington bleeds gold."

"Really?" Max goads, but the sound is puffy, pained. "Cut yourself. Let's see."

"What a waste you are. All that promise and potential to be great, and you squander it." Alaric seizes Max's face so hard he grunts in pain. "I was glad to have killed your deceitful father, and I have been aching to make you suffer for the audacity of your existence for seven years."

"What about Wella?" Max spits the question, but he can't quite disguise the genuine note of fear behind it. "Is she alive?"

For the first time a hint of hesitation comes into Caspian's eyes. So there is hope. He still cares for his mother. She's still alive.

But maybe Caspian's intervention is the only thing keeping her alive.

"She's weak," Caspian snaps before Alaric can speak. "She's weak, and always will be to have harboured you for so many years."

"She's only alive to rear Caspian when I cannot," Alaric says. Rear. I feel sick to my stomach. "But she has proven to be a weak link in a strong chain. I will purge bad blood from our family name. When I deem Caspian ready, he will follow in your footsteps, boy. It has become a rite of passage."

Max cries out and tries to break free, but the grip on his limbs are too strong. I start forwards, but the henchman with the knife stops me. Finally the movement catches Alaric's eyes, which flicker perceptibly in my direction. I swallow. Intimidating is an understatement.

"Don't—" I grab hold of my voice. "Don't hurt him."

His focus returns to Max. "So you have bent the knee for royalty. Touching."

"Leave her out of it and kill me, then," Max taunts. "Get it over with. Or are you too much of a coward?"

"Oh, don't worry, kid," the Second says coolly. She draws a tender finger down the length of the knife, watching intensely as the edge creases her skin. "You'll get your death soon enough. All this talk was merely a distraction."

A— what?

Gunfire peppers the distance around us. The rooves of the nearby buildings. I face the chaos of sounds, but it's over almost instantly. After a few tormenting minutes, I see why: through the slit in the fence, masked rebels drag the bloodied body of Mariam and dump her in front of Max. She braces herself on her hands but doesn't stand – cannot, when there are too many wounds on her legs to count. Blood trickles down the slashed fabric of her pants.

"Do you think me a fool, Mariam?" the Second spits. "Did you really think I was stupid enough to fall for such an obvious trap?"

Yet Mariam's laughter is cool. "You are too headstrong for your own good. Of course I thought you were stupid."

The Second kicks her in the face. Mariam whacks her head against concrete. My heart sinks into my stomach. We've been had. Yet Mariam comes to stand with surprisingly fierce countenance.

"This was never what the Rebel Resurgence was about."

"This was never what your Rebel Resurgence was about," the Second corrects angrily. "It took me too long to realise that your methods were not enough. The only way things change is if we take action. Now. Starting with the princess."

"Then kill me," I taunt, drawing her attention back to me. I don't know why I say it with such aggression, such vigour – I don't want to die. "Kill me now and get it over with."

But the Second laughs. "Oh no, Princess Gail Schreave. No, I will make it a slow, torturous death, so slow you will wish for it, beg for it. It will be a mercy compared to what your family has done to me."

It pangs in me suddenly that no one is coming to our rescue. This is where it ends for me.

"Don't watch, Max," I tell him softly. "Turn back around. Close your eyes. Do whatever you need to do. Just don't watch."

He struggles. "Gail—"

"That's my final decree."

Distraught, he bows his head and looks away. The Second wipes her knife needlessly on her thigh.

Then she takes one more step towards me before a minibus launches into the parking lot and rams into the back of the car.

It whacks the Second and me hard to the ground. Pain shoots up my arm as I cry out, vision blurry from the sudden whiplash. Screams shortly follow as I watch the mass of colour – the bus – barrel into the group of rebels. Distracted, I search for the Second. She comes to a shaky stand beside me, blood dribbling down her forehead. Her knife is on the ground. She reaches for it the same time I do. She grabs it first.

The other rebels are scattered. The Second screams as she swipes for me, but I dip and dodge, trying to seize my moment. There. She hesitates in pain, and the rush forwards, ignoring the searing agony in my left arm and hit precisely against her wrist so that she drops her knife in my hand. Then I plunge it into her torso.

Her scream lacerates my conscience. I just stabbed someone. Not close to her heart, not deep enough to damage, but to hurt nonetheless. She drops to her knees and I kick her down. All around is chaos. Bullets ping off the minibus hull, which has taken down almost every other person in the vicinity. Mariam is tussling with henchmen. Rebels fight rebels.

Max is struggling to wrestle against his captors, but I dive in, punch a man to release Max's arms. Then he's shrugged them off by the time I pull him back towards the car, towards cover. We have to get out. We have to escape. In the chaos bodies sprawl and bones crack and throats go raw from screaming. Bullets fly. Max pushes me down, and I yelp as my chin bangs against concrete, but I grab his sleeve and yank him, sagging, around one of the cars for cover.

"Max, what the heck—"

He crumples against the door frame. Only then do I notice, with the vivid clarity, the gaping bullet holes in his torso and thigh. Only then do I register the blood soaking his shirt and pant leg. Only then do I hear how his breaths have shallowed, how his chest labours.

"No, Max, no!" I shriek, pressing my hands to both wounds, ignoring how my bad arm cries. "No, no, no—"

"I-I'm okay—"

"Don't lie to me," I shrill, easing him to the ground. He saved me. He pushed me out of the way of a spray of bullets just now, took them himself. "D-Don't you dare look into any light—"

The minibus slams into our cover, rocking us both back. In my daze, I barely have time to reel in my shock when Bellona's head pops up from the dashboard. Her expression is Amazonian in ferocity.

"Stop them!" Alaric shrieks from somewhere behind us.

Glass windows shatter in the spray of gunfire. Screams – multiple, familiar screams – pilfer the air from within. It wasn't built to withstand gunfire. Neither were they.

My stupid, wonderful hockey team.

The minibus reverses slightly to provide us cover, and the double-doors unfurl. Bellona, at the wheel, and Felice, reaching to help me drag Max inside.

"H-How did you—"

"We got the rebels to tell us where you were," Felice explains hurriedly. "Now come on!"

The sight of Max's wounds peals in my head like gong, but I reach my arm around the good side of his torso and drag him onto the minibus. It might not be armoured, but it's the safest place. The rest of the team's faces, crouched behind the velvet chairs for cover, greet me with horror as I lay him flat on the aisle. Beverly. Janet. Willow. Madison, Jocelyn, Wendy, the others. They all came for me.

"I-I don't know what to do—"

Beverly is ripping part of her torn shirt at once, and presses it to his wounds. She – and the rest of the All-Stars – look battered, clothes torn, dirt and dried blood smudging their cheeks. Most are still wearing their hockey gear from yesterday. I thought Mariam said they were in her protection, but obviously they've had to go through a few unpleasant scrapes to get here, however they did. Max seethes as Beverly presses harder, firmer. His chest rises and falls with increasingly sluggishness.

"Bullet wounds in his torso and thigh. He needs immediate medical attention. If any of them have hit the big arteries…"

I don't even entertain the thought. "Ma'am, can you get us out of here?"

More bullets ping on the minibus' roof. "Working on it!" Bellona yells. She ducks to drive blindly towards one of the exits. I glance down, making sure Max is okay for a mere moment—

Thud. Suddenly the bus jerks to a stop, and Bellona is on the floor. Blood oozes from the wound in her shoulder. She doesn't move. No. No. I crawl to her, unbelieving. When I turn her around, her face is wan, frozen, but scrunched in pain.

"Bastards," she hisses, with such uncharacteristic venom I almost laugh.

"Beverly, quick!" Felice cries as she throws herself into the driver's seat. "I'll get us out of here!"

Beverly moves over to Bellona. Shaking with terror, with agony, Felice grapples the wheel and hits the accelerator. It's all business, technique, the next play on the rink after a failed goal shot. The other girls dive in to help Max and Bellona staunch the blood flow. Before long we've dived out the exit and are belting back onto the roads. Shakily, because Felice looks like she doesn't have a clue what she's doing.

"Stay conscious, please," I encourage Max and Bellona both. "Stay conscious and focus on me."

"Pffft," Bellona hisses through the pain. "This is nothing. When I played that infamous 13-12 match against the Calgary Canaries, Nina Hunter-Green body-slammed me into the ice, breaking three of my ribs and forcing me into leave for three months. I missed the rest of the tournament."

"Ma'am," says Janet disbelievingly, "you've literally been shot."

"Just a graze."

"Max?" I slide over to him, terrified to see how his face is paling by the moment. "Max? Are you still awake?"

"Yeah," he croaks, but it's weak.

"Seatbelts!" Felice yells. "This is gonna' be a bumpy ride!"

We help Max and Bellona onto seats to secure them. Max is barely conscious, eyes fluttering, tempted by slumber, hurtling towards the next life. I can't face the idea of anything other than him coming out alive and well, so I hold onto his hand fiercely, as if my thumbs alone can rub life and warmth back into him. Panic razes my senses.

"How close is the hospital?"

"A couple of blocks!" Felice says, then glances at the rear-view mirror. "I'm going as fast as— oh motherfu—"

The minibus launches into the air. We flip nose-to-trunk like a slinky down a sharp incline. I grab the seat and Max at the same time as the ceiling becomes the floor and back to the ceiling, screaming, squeezing my eyes shut because I can't bear to watch how I and everyone I care about dies. The impact lances down my side as we crash. Everything goes black. My ears ring. I can taste blood in my mouth, dust in the air. My arm is in agony, digging its claws into the rest of my thoughts.

I open my eyes. The bus is upright, but leant against a shattered storefront. By some miracle I'm otherwise unharmed – thank goodness for seatbelts.

"I-Is everyone all right?" Beverly calls.

Felice is unmoving, with blood trickling down her forehead. No.

"W-Why did we stop—?" Willow asks nervously.

I peer up. Through the smoke I can see the rebels emerging from their cars. They chased us; this minibus being big and slow, it was easy. Then it was a simple matter of flipping us like a pancake. We're stuck in an intersection, and the hospital is only a short distance away.

"M-Max, hang on," I glance down at his ashen face, still as a painting. "P-Please—"

"Come out, Your Highness!" screams the Second from outside. "Or I'll light up the whole damn bus!"

I unclick my seatbelt and stand, feet straining under the suddenness of my weight. Every part of me hurts. My head, my heart. I'm drained of the energy to persevere. My friends are almost dead, my love is almost dead. I go to let Max's hand slip from my grasp, but he clasps it suddenly, trying to sit up even as his face seethes with pain.

"D-Don't… please…" he croaks.

I shake my head. "No more."

"Then… then I'm coming with you."

"No. You're going to stay here—"

"They're not going to let us live, Gail," he murmurs softly.

Madison lets out a sob. Janet swears.

"I'm going out." I remove Max's grip from my own – it's too easy. "You can get to the hospital in the meantime."

I turn and head through the broken doors of the bus before anyone can stop me, bringing me into the dark depths of Los Angeles. Smoke haunts the air in thick columns, and little fires sprout from the ground, lap at the destruction like hungry ghosts. Sirens wail in the distance, but it's too late. Nothing will deter the Second now.

She stoops as she takes one step forwards. "I'm going to enjoy killing you." Then another. "And your friends. And your boyfriend."

She hasn't yielded to the wound in her torso, a testament to her determination to kill me.

"Just stop," I say softly. "It's over."

"It will never be over."

"And will my death truly bring you happiness? Truly bring the peace you want?"

She hesitates, but raises her knife, coated with her own blood.

"It will be a start—"

The black 4x4 rams into her without hesitation, crunching the Second underfoot like nothing but a blade of grass. She doesn't move. My eyes dart to the windows of the familiar vehicle, which roll down on the front passenger.

It's… Kingsley?

"I do always like to make an entrance," he says nonchalantly.

A millisecond later the whole place is swarming with palace vehicles. The rebels open fire, but they're quickly overwhelmed by the forces – the red uniforms and gold epaulets of my own guards and security. The back door of the vehicle swings open. Zelda runs out and suddenly her arms are around me. She's speaking but I don't register the words against the backdrop of the surrender.

To my eternal surprise, Kingsley is followed by Ben, Sheng, Soren from the driver's seat, Aderyn and Rose. Immediately all of them come to hug me, squeeze me so fiercely I can barely breathe, barely comprehend what the heck just happened.

"Ow!" I suddenly cry, and they all drop back. "My a-arm—"

"It's broken!" Aderyn cries, the first words I understand through the haze of reality.

Through their barrage of questions, my eyes find the wheels of the vehicle, and the body crunched beneath. The Second is still moving, still alive, but barely.

"H-How—"

"We snuck back into the palace through the secret passage! Then we had the palace track that shit breadcrumb trail you left online," Zelda cheers. "You genius, you."

"You— the secret passage—?"

"Yeah! That Victor dude was meant to be keeping surveillance, but he let us go."

"But— Captain Durante would never let you—"

"We took the passage out of Max's bedroom again!" Rose pipes. "Like sneaky thieves!"

"And we weren't going to let them go without us," Ben says. "We wanted to come, too."

"Gail…" Sheng swallows. "Where's Max?"

My heart jumps into my throat, and I spin back into the minibus. The rest of the All-Stars are tending to Max and Bellona's wounds, but though Bellona is still conscious, chattering, grinning even, Max is no longer blinking. No longer even awake.

"N-No," I mumble, kneeling to him. "I-Is he—"

"He's weak," Beverly says. "He's lost a lot of blood. Him passing out… it's not a good sign—"

"I'll get one of the medics," Soren says, rushing out.

I watch his the steady but shallow rise and fall of Max's chest. I don't know if he'll survive. He must. He must. Medics from the palace's team arrive seconds later behind Soren. We clear a path for them to access Max and Bellona, and I stand back, too shocked, too stunned, too overwhelmed to do anything.

He must live.