Nixon is gone. The hovercraft is gone. But the cameras must have caught him departing, because they're crowded around the bottom of the steps when Leela emerges a minute later, dragging Fry along. The lenses wink as they turn to her, flashing like little silver fish in the weak winter sun.
For an instant Leela feels like a fish herself, gutted and hung up on a line.
Her mother. Fry. The smell of formaldehyde.
She can't think straight. She can't breathe.
And then Amy's voice sounds out, ringing with delight, from the opposite steps, and the press pack turns to face her instead.
"Oh, wow," Amy gushes, beaming straight into the camera as she picks her way through the ice. "You two! A personal visit from the President himself! I can't believe my little tributes would deserve such an honor."
My little tributes, Leela thinks, irritation scratching the surface of her shock and fear. Amy is only months older than her.
It's not that Amy means to belittle her. It's a way of keeping them safe, she knows that. But in the wake of their encounter with Nixon, the tactic leaves a bad taste in Leela's mouth. Making herself small never made her feel safe in the arena. Weakness didn't win her the Games. And she's still in the Games. She knows that now. It's not just a feeling she can't shake any more – it's reality. Nixon made that clear. She's playing for all their lives.
She can't afford any wrong moves.
But she doesn't have time to think about it, because a new, sleek white hovercraft is waiting outside. Amy can only steal focus for so long. This is the commencement of the Victory Tour. The newest round of the Games. Leela needs to perform now.
She stumbles down the front steps, towing Fry behind her. She hardly dares look back at him, but his breathing is heavy and Leela isn't stupid. She saw how hard those Peacekeepers hit him. Even if she managed to straighten out Fry's clothes, she can't straighten out his face. It's always been an open book, and right now she's terrified his pain is written plain across it.
She waves at Amy, forces the smile on her face to spread wider. Then she slows her pace, pretending to take one last look back at the house. She winds her arm through Fry's. Somehow, she manages to make it look as if he is holding her arm as a romantic gesture, not relying on her for support.
Lean on me, she mouths. Smile.
She tries not to flinch when he looks her in the eye.
She was right. Hurt is written all over his face.
But he shifts his weight slightly and his breathing steadies. He can't form a smile, but he moves his mouth in something that might pass for one from a distance. Leela tries not think of her own words to President Nixon. He does what I say.
She gives him an encouraging nod. Fry only stares blankly back at her. The air starts to flash, as the cameras go crazy.
Here goes nothing.
Kif stands to the rear of the crowd with her mother, and Leela is relieved to see they both look unharmed.
Amy is pushing towards her tributes, just ahead of the cameras. She's dressed in the same moon-white shades as Leela, but not as warmly, because Amy's stylists never prioritize comfort. Today the "maximum sexiness at all times" edict has her wearing a dress of thigh-skimming ivory silk, and a polar bear fur shrug that only covers her arms and the top of her shoulders. She has boots as well, but they're unlike any boot Leela has ever seen - platform-heeled and plated in glass. It's a miracle she hasn't broken her neck in the snow.
The glass dazzles when it catches the sun. The effect is so striking it hides the broken panels in the toe of Amy's right boot - a little patch of darkness only someone standing as close as Leela is would notice. Leela wonders if the camera crew is filming them from the waist up, to hide the fact that Amy walks favoring her other foot. She wonders if they're used to this, the way Amy is.
Her mentor is standing angled slightly to one side, the collar of her fur turned up high against her neck. More hidden ugliness. At this angle, only Leela can see the angry red mark under the fur, where the line of Amy's neck meets her shoulder. What is that? The butt of a rifle? The shape of someone's hand?
Even from a distance, Leela can see how appalled her mother looks. Kif's stony expression.
What happened in the other house? What did Nixon's goons do to them?
She can't ask.
Amy steps up to her tributes and crushes them both in a hug, smiling wide for the cameras. Leela tries to match her efforts. Tries to keep her expression delighted as Fry makes a tiny pained sound at the hug. Pretends she can't feel Amy shivering when they hug, because if it doesn't show on the outside then maybe she can do what Amy does, and pretend it's not real.
Leela herself is sweating, despite the cold. All she can do is hope that doesn't show either.
Amy squeezes her shoulder, a sharp little pincer movement. Leela doesn't need to decipher its meaning.
You're on. Don't screw this up.
Leela takes a deep breath.
"President Nixon just came to wish us well on the Tour," she says, her voice clear for the camera crew. "He's . . . he's very invested in the Games."
"What an honor!"
Today's interviewer isn't one Leela knows. Somehow she thought it would be Linda, that they would bring her back for the Tour. But maybe they got rid of Linda after they killed Doubledeal. Maybe they wanted to clear out everyone who worked for him, too. Leela hopes they just fired her. Linda was an idiot, but she didn't deserve to die.
"What did the President say to you?" this new interviewer asks, breathless with excitement, as if she can't imagine anything more wonderful than a personal visit from President Nixon.
Maybe she can't. She is human, after all.
Leela's jaw is beginning to ache with the effort of smiling.
"He just wanted to wish us luck."
"Oh, of course! Public speaking is such a trial. I bet he had all kinds of useful tips for you!"
Useful tips.
I know where your mother lives. Love's young dream.
One wrong move.
"He . . ." Leela struggles for an answer. "He told us to enjoy it. The experience. It's such a wonderful opportunity for us. To see the empire."
"Of course! And -"
"He's very supportive of our love," Leela blurts out.
New Linda coos, delighted.
"Oh I just bet he is! The whole empire is rooting for you two lovebirds. So adorable. Now, I know you can't play favorites, but is there any place you're especially excited to visit?"
"I . . ." Leela swallows. What kind of question is that? How is she supposed to answer? I can't wait to visit Mars, after I killed their tribute. Or Omicron Persei 8. I killed theirs too. He was just a kid. I can't wait to see their faces -
The silence has gone on too long. She's starting to panic, despite herself.
Fry jerks.
"The Amphibio planets," he says suddenly. "Kif is from there. We're friends."
The interviewer blinks. She seems to have forgotten Fry could speak at all. Leela doesn't blame her – he's been locked in a rictus of silent agony since the interviews began. Still, New Linda rallies fast, turning her mega-watt smile on him.
"Of course! It's so nice to see past tributes befriending each other. It must be like a little club for you all, out here in Victor's Village. And I hear Kif Kroker is coming on the Tour with you too!"
"That's just to even up the numbers," Amy says swiftly. "I had an extra tribute this year, and Kif's so agreeable. He gets along with everyone."
There is it again. That tone. Kif gets along with everyone. My little tributes. Amy is packing Kif away in a neat little box. Not a real threat. Not a real friend. He's a Victor - as much a killer as any of them - but when Amy talks about him, she makes him sound like her butler.
Amy picks up the conversation now, deftly steering them back into pre-rehearsed territory.
Leela follows her lead. Here, she is on firmer ground, talking about how excited she is to see the culture of the other planets and how much she'll miss her mother. And how grateful she is. Grateful, grateful, grateful, over and over again. Leela thinks it's overkill, personally, but the interviewers don't seem to agree. They nod along happily, as if it's only natural that Leela would thank the surface a thousand different ways for making her into a murderer.
They all pose and smile, and then it's time for their goodbyes. On camera.
Leela never planned for this.
"I love you, Mom," she says.
It's true, but there was so much more she wanted to say. She wanted more time. She wanted to take a minute and just look at her mother. She wanted to lock Munda's image away and use it to keep her going in the months apart. But she can't do that, so she hugs her instead, and tells herself it's enough.
"I love you too," her mother says fiercely. "You take care of yourself, you hear? And take care of your friends. And you be careful, out there."
"You be careful too," Leela chokes, against the lump in her throat. She wants to say more, make her warning clearer, but she can't.
Her mother nods anyway. And then, to Leela's surprise, she turns to Fry, and pulls him into a hug.
"Stop putting sugar on all your food," she tells him. "It's not healthy. And eat a vegetable, every day. A real vegetable. Potato chips don't count." She tilts his chin up, studying him. "And don't do anything your mother wouldn't want."
Fry stumbles back, beet red. Leela wonders if he can even remember what his mother would want. He opens his mouth and shuts it again in total silence.
Fortunately Munda doesn't seem to expect an answer. She has already moved on, to clasp Amy by the hands.
"Wear warmer clothes," she says fiercely. "And don't you keep smoking. You know how I feel about the smoking. Take care of yourself, you hear me?"
Amy swallows. Leela is the only one close enough to see it, to catch the bob of her throat, the sudden way she blinks.
"Yeah, yeah," she says, indifferent.
Kif gets a squeeze on the shoulder, and a sincere smile.
"Thank you for all you've done to prepare my daughter for this tour. I know she can depend on you. You're a good, sensible young man. You can't imagine how relieved I am you're going with her."
Kif is visibly moved.
"Thank you," he stammers out, then coughs and clears his throat, as if it doesn't matter.
The last goodbye is unexpected. It's Elzar, who lopes up to the group with two good fists rammed deep in his pockets. He's as twitchy as an animal in the vicinity of the cameras, and steers Amy just out of the range of their microphones. New Linda - monologuing to the folks at home about the wonders of the upcoming Tour - is unwittingly providing him cover.
He looks down at his former tribute, his expression supercilious and unreadable, and whistles through his teeth.
His voice is so low Leela has to strain to hear it.
"You're getting house calls now? You forgot the game you're playing, girlie."
Amy jerks away from him, annoyed.
"I didn't forget anything. And I'm not your tribute any more. You don't get to dictate my strategy."
"I tried to warn you. You can't say I didn't."
It's the wrong thing to say. Amy stiffens in pure fury, the muscles of her jaw tightening as she struggles to keep herself under control. Elzar takes a step back. Leela doesn't blame him. Amy looks like she might hit him, even this close to the cameras.
But that would draw attention. Amy remembers herself in time. She balls her fists and hisses under her breath instead, like an angry cat.
"I don't care if you did! And I don't care if you care. Too little, too late! I don't need your help. And I don't want it. Just-" her eyes flicker back to Munda "- don't forget our deal."
Elzar's eyes jitter in the same direction, then settle back into laconic indifference.
"Yeah, yeah. I said I would. If you knew me better, you wouldn't even need to ask."
"Oh, boohoo."
Amy is already turning to go. She doesn't say anything further, or look back when Elzar breathes, "Stay sharp, girlie," just loud enough to hear.
Amy's smile is already fixed. Her expression doesn't change at all. But Leela can feel the rage radiating from her stiff stance, and for the first time she wonders what it was like for Amy, to have Elzar as a mentor. He's not as agoraphobic as Cobb, but he's still pretty withdrawn, and Leela knows he drinks heavily. He rarely seems to leave his house. Not that she blames him, knowing what Nixon did to his family, but . . .
What was it like for Amy, after her Games? Fourteen and fat and newly orphaned, her hands awash with blood. No Fry, no Kif. Not even an Amy of her own. Did Elzar sit by her bed and wait for her to wake up? Did he try to fight them, when the Gamemakers remade her in the image of their own personal sex doll? Or did he just teach her how to kill, and then how to numb herself, day after day, to go on living with it after?
No wonder she's angry. Leela doesn't think she could forgive either, in Amy's shoes.
But Amy overcame her feelings enough to ask for his help, and Leela knows what for. She knows what that little look at her mother meant.
Munda will have a protector while she's gone. Maybe it's not anyone Leela would have chosen - maybe it's Elzar - but it's better than nothing.
Not for the first time, it strikes her that Amy is more complicated than she will ever understand. And that she owes her mentor a debt she has no idea how to repay.