Nezumi barely slept during the night. Sheer exhaustion granted him two solid hours after eons tossing and turning. Now he was wide awake, staring at the dimmed recessed lights in the ceiling and imaging dawn creeping over the horizon feet above his head.

Today was the day. The Capitol and District 13 must have come to an agreement by now. He had no idea when he and Shion would be pulled out of this cell and marched to the surface, but they only had until then to get what they needed to escape.

Shion shifted beside him, knocking his knee. Nezumi turned his head. Shion gazed back. His eyes shone deep dark and clear. Worry edged the soft planes of his face, but the trust Nezumi saw reflected in Shion's gaze made his chest crumple. And expand. Shion believed in him. It made him feel warm and strong, but part of him wanted to curl up and shrink from the hope they held between them.

This wasn't the Games. If he failed, it wasn't just his life. But when Nezumi searched his face, he could see that Shion knew the cost and he was determined anyway. Nezumi didn't want that responsibility or that guilt. He turned from Shion and threw an arm over his eyes. One last moment of shutting out the world before he had to face it head on.

The overhead lights blared to life. Nezumi and Shion shot up. Yamase walked into view with a tray and Nezumi's attention sharpened.

One chance.

Yamase fixed them with a rickety smile. "Breakfast," he said, stooping to place the tray on the ground. Nezumi stood and the man flinched back, ready to bolt.

Nezumi's stomach tightened. He regretted his harshness yesterday; now he had to backtrack before he could gain ground. I can do it. Just watch me, he swore grimly.

"Wait." Nezumi put a hand out in a gesture of goodwill, and Yamase was so accommodating he paused. Nezumi rewarded him with his most pleasant smile. He was rusty, but it seemed to work well enough, even under all the wear and tear of the past few days.

"I'm sorry if I came on a bit strong yesterday."

Yamase's brow creased. His eyes flicked to Shion, who remained still, sitting up in bed.

"Look," Nezumi said, coaxing Yamase's attention back to himself, "I don't want to go back to the Capitol. I know you can't do anything about that." The retort Yamase was forming melted on his lips. "I'm just saying I was angry, and I lashed out. I can't help it. I'm a district kid, and a victor. I guess I'm used to fighting." Nezumi dropped his shoulders and sighed. "I know you were just trying to help."

Nezumi could see his words working their way through Yamase's mind. Wariness still clung to the lines of his body, but his face began to show signs of uncertainty.

"We started on the wrong foot, I think, and I know we don't have much longer in 13, but I'd like for us to start with a clean slate. What do you say?"

"Well…" Yamase tucked his hands under his arms, his eyes ever darting between Nezumi and Shion, as though he might be able to spot the deceit. Nezumi held his hopeful expression, but his heart thumped hard in his chest. Yamase was malleable—it was written all over him. If he had another day, he had no doubt that he could bring him fully under his influence. But they might have only minutes.

"Well…" Yamase said again and shifted from foot to foot. He cleared his throat. "Here." He reached into his bag and pulled Shion's notebook out. Shion perked and Nezumi held his breath, hoping the pen would follow, but Yamase wasn't a fool.

Yamase flashed Shion a small smile and Shion returned it full force. Nezumi joined in on the smile fest, weaving gratitude and humility into the edges of his expression.

He moved forward to take the notebook. The other man tensed when Nezumi was close, but he looked nowhere near running, which was a vast improvement from a moment ago. Nezumi took a risk. When Yamase slipped the book through the bars, Nezumi took hold of it, and pressed a hand over Yamase's.

"Thank you, Yamase. This means a lot to us." Yamase startled, but Nezumi held him where he wanted, with his hand and a honeyed tone. "I don't want to be a bother, but could you do me one more small favor? Shion's been coughing all morning. And…" Nezumi dropped his gaze. "He was crying a lot last night. He tried to hide it, but…" He pressed Yamase's hand a little firmer, and peered sideways through his lashes. "Shion's parched. Do you think you can get him some water? Please?"

Yamase swallowed, but Nezumi knew it was no longer from fear. That's right. I'm pretty, aren't I? Nezumi coaxed. Nothing to be wary of.

This was the tricky part, though. He could only get so far with seduction. He needed Shion's help to convince Yamase to give them the water bottle.

Shion blinked at him, and Nezumi felt a pang of fear that he had frozen up. Shion cleared his throat and waved a hand to say he was fine. Then his face pinched and he turned aside and gave a surprisingly convincing cough, then another, and another. Nezumi's eyebrows raised a fraction, but he cloaked it with a look of worry. Shion rubbed his throat and looked ashamed.

Yamase murmured in concern and fished through his bag. The glass bottle twinkled when he pulled it free. Nezumi watched it hungrily, but to his chagrin, Yamase pulled out a paper cup as well. He handed the filled cup to Nezumi and Nezumi thanked him demurely.

He brought the cup to Shion, who gave a few more breathy coughs into his arm before he took it. Nezumi placed the notebook at the foot of the bed and patted Shion's back. "We need that bottle," he whispered in Shion's ear. Shion's eyes flicked to Nezumi's and back to the cup.

Shion threw the drink back and breathed in halfway through the swallow. He retched violently, spilling water down the front of his shirt and crushing the cup into his hand. There was no doubt that the coughing Shion performed earlier was an act, because this was the real thing. Shion's eyes filled with tears and his coughs sounded fluttery and raw. Nezumi felt a flicker of pride in his chest mixed in with the concern.

He turned. "He needs more water, quickly!" Yamase stuttered, and Nezumi repeated himself with sharper desperation, rushing to the cell door. "Quickly! He's choking! The water."

Nezumi knew that Yamase's brain would be telling him a person couldn't actually choke from drinking water, but logic would be at odds with the blare of emotion, with the grating sound of Shion's coughs and Nezumi's shrill cries for help, telling him now, now, you have to do something now!

Yamase half raised the bottle towards the cell door, and Nezumi didn't wait for logic to overcome the visceral impulse. He grabbed the bottle from Yamase and his heart soared. He savored the smooth, cool curve of it in his hand, held it tight, feeling the hard resistance of the glass. Nezumi took a hurried step toward Shion. Stumbled.

The bottle shattered against the floor, glass and water shrapnel radiating out from the point of impact.

Nezumi cursed. He reached to pick up a piece of glass and sliced his finger wide open. He cursed louder.

"I'm sorry. I didn't…" Nezumi met Yamase's gaze, and Nezumi saw himself through his eyes: bleeding, hair loose and disheveled over his shoulders, and looking so pitiful it was heartbreaking. And maybe a little breathtaking.

Nezumi pouted at his bleeding finger and slipped it into his mouth to nurse the wound.

Yamase jumped. "I'll go get some bandages!" he squeaked. "And—and someone to clean that up. Wait here." He bolted from the room.

Nezumi almost laughed. He pulled his finger out of his mouth and pursed his lips. "Small price to pay, I suppose," he said, wagging it at Shion.

Shion narrowed his eyes at him. They were still glassy from the tears.

"What?"

Shion raised his eyebrows.

"Hey, come on, I can't help it; my looks are the only weapon I have right now. It was just a bit of teasing. You know I only have eyes for you." He batted his lashes.

Shion puffed out his cheeks and turned aside, but Nezumi caught his blush. He chuckled, but didn't waste another moment. He found the biggest, least likely to be missed piece of glass and tucked it into his pocket.

Nezumi raised his head as he heard the footsteps slap the floor. Several sets. He and Shion scrambled up and assumed innocent expressions.

Yamase came in running, bless his soul.

Rashi arrived an hour later. To Nezumi's surprise, the officer didn't gloat. He looked haggard and irritable, much the same as Nezumi and Shion. Two others came with him, a man and a woman, and at the sight of their prim white uniforms and batons, Nezumi felt a conditioned kick in his stomach.

The male Peacekeeper scowled at Nezumi, and then Shion. "Unlock the door," he barked at Rashi. A muscle in Rashi's jaw slid, but he obeyed. "Come," the Peacekeeper growled through the open door.

He looked to be in his fifties, his face tan and sun-creased, but his dead glare threatened against any ideas about his age being a weakness.

Nezumi slunk forward. Shion followed, so close behind Nezumi half expected to feel him clutch the hem of his shirt or take his hand. But Shion was braver than that and kept his hands to himself.

Rashi grasped Nezumi's forearm as soon as he stepped over the threshold, and for one burning moment their gazes met and the hatred warped the air between them. Then the female Peacekeeper grabbed Rashi's arm.

"We'll take it from here, officer." Her voice was casual, but a layer of ice lay beneath it.

Rashi's face twisted, but he matched her tone tit for tat. "These boys are still prisoners of District 13. I'm in charge of their transfer until they leave the building. After that, they're all yours."

The woman's hand stayed on Rashi's wrist for a charged second. She stepped back, tipped her head, and smiled.

Rashi led Nezumi through the passage, and this time Nezumi could distinguish some signs of life within. A door in the corridor swung open, and he heard people laughing and the clink of cutlery. He caught a glimpse of more District 13 officers as they climbed a staircase, but Rashi steered their group away.

Nezumi glanced back to check on Shion. The Peacekeepers flanked him, following a step behind, but they hadn't laid hands on him and seemed entirely disinterested.

Guess they're used to ignoring Avoxes.

But Nezumi wasn't bitter about that for once. He was glad Shion flew under the radar. The Peacekeepers paid every mind to Nezumi, though. He was the obvious risk: The victor, a tried and proven killer.

Nezumi turned back around.

They had begun to scale a set of stairs. They were close. Nezumi recognized the tang of metal and dirt. Rashi paused before the door to the outside. Nezumi could smell the dying heat of the late summer air. Goosebumps pricked at his arms.

"You're someone else's problem now," Rashi said to him, low. His flinty eyes sparked. "May the odds be ever in your favor."

Rashi pushed the door open and shoved Nezumi into the afternoon sun. Shion stumbled out after him, the Peacekeepers riding his heels. The door to 13 clanged shut and Nezumi swiveled around, wary of a bullet in the back.

The male Peacekeeper had drawn his gun, but he didn't raise it. The corner of the man's mouth curled mirthlessly when Nezumi's gaze lifted from the gun to meet his eyes.

The female Peacekeeper stepped forward and wove a length of rope around Nezumi's wrists and then Shion's. She jerked her chin forward. "Hovercraft is that way. Get walking."

Nezumi moved as slowly as possible without being obvious, Shion by his side. The male Peacekeeper stayed ahead, and the woman brought up the rear. The man still held his gun, but Nezumi eyed the baton at his hip.

He could see the hovercraft in the distance through the thick of trees, and at least one other Peacekeeper guarded the ramp.

Nezumi pitched forward in a feigned stumble, his hands closing over the baton handle. He yanked as he tucked his body and rolled forward, popping up front side of the male Peacekeeper. The man looked murderous and Nezumi knew he would only get one shot.

He swung his arms across his body and twisted into the upward arc, cracking the man across the face. Something crunched, the sound turned more hideous by the spray of blood that spattered the nearby bushes.

The man pitched sideways. A wet wheeze gurgled from his throat. The crack of Fissure's club and Flint's answering death rattle reverberated through Nezumi's skull. He grit his teeth against the sick swell of memory. He dropped the baton and dove for the gun. If he could get the gun, the shard of glass in his pocket would be nothing.

The man still held the weapon in his hand, and when Nezumi's fingers curled around it, the man whipped his head up. His right eye was a red pulp, and his jaw hung askew, the skin around it already purpling. Nezumi hissed through his teeth. He abandoned the gun and stomped on the man's hand.

Nezumi dampened his thoughts against the snap of bones beneath his boot and searched for the female Peacekeeper. He had been too preoccupied with the man and left himself open to her attacks. He had left Shion open.

The woman had Shion by the scruff of his neck, her gun pointed at Nezumi's chest. He didn't know why she hadn't shot him already. She must have had a clear line for seconds now. Shion's face was pale and grim. He held his arms stiffly to the side away from the woman, one hand tucked and fisted in his pocket.

The woman paid no mind to her crippled partner. She sneered at Nezumi. Something about her expression felt righteous, as though she expected this outcome and was smug it had come to pass. Maybe she despised her partner and was happy to see him crushed to a pulp. It would explain why she hadn't fired her gun.

Nezumi held up his hands in surrender to give him time to reevaluate. He shrugged a shoulder. "You had to expect an attempt at least."

"Yes," the woman said, and yanked Shion a step back. Shion's throat contracted, his shoulders bunching up.

Nezumi's blood jolted. He raised his hands a little higher as the woman adjusted her grip on the gun. The adrenaline began to fade and it dawned on him just how outmatched they were. He had narrowed the odds by taking one Peacekeeper down, but a glass shard didn't mean shit when the Peacekeepers had guns. He was accustomed to the district breed of Peacekeepers, who typically only brandished batons. What little hope their attempt at arming themselves garnered slipped down his spine in a cold sweat.

"President Fox wants to have a talk before we put a bullet in you," the woman growled. "But pull something like that," she tipped her gun toward her half-conscious partner, "on me, and I swear I'll shoot you right in that pretty—"

Shion whipped himself around and slashed at the woman's outstretched arm. The woman yelped. The gun fell from her grip and she pulled her wrist to her chest. She gaped as she watched blood seep through her fingers, as though she couldn't comprehend Avoxes were capable of independent thought, let alone the look of pure disgust Shion wore.

Shion held a piece of jagged glass in his hand. Nezumi stared at the blood staining the edge.

When? How? Shion hadn't taken a piece of glass. He never saw him. But apparently Shion had.

Shion held the glass out in an unsteady hand and took a step back from the woman. The woman broke from her trance. She dove for her gun. Shion tackled her.

Shion and the woman landed in a heap and rolled in a vicious tangle of limbs and grunts. Another yelp of pain sounded between them and both bodies froze, petrified.

"Shion!"

Nezumi rushed forward and dragged Shion off the woman, searching for wounds on his person. The first thing he saw was red. Shion's hands were coated with blood; his cheek was smeared with it. Nezumi couldn't breathe. But Shion wasn't injured. The blood wasn't his. That realization didn't make breathing any easier.

The female Peacekeeper's right arm was red to her elbow from the slice in her wrist, and the blood dribbled and pooled where her other hand gripped her neck.

There was so much blood—how could one cut bleed so much? But the woman coughed and a fresh gush pulsed beneath her palm. The sliver of glass winked from between her fingers, razor-sharp and wet with promise.

Nezumi tasted bile in his mouth. The whites of the woman's eyes shone in bright relief to the red-black bubble of blood at her lips. Images of Sylva's mutilated body and Syrah's yawning throat exploded behind his eyes. The air was thick with metal and sweat and primal fear. He could feel it pressed up against his skin, mingling with the dirt and grime of days of running and hiding.

He felt Shion's shoulders heave with labored breaths beneath his hands. Nezumi held onto the feeling, trying to banish the phantasm of the Games from his brain. Now was not the time to become mired in memory. Voices murmured in the distance. The hovercraft hummed.

The hovercraft.

Nezumi sucked in a breath. "Run. Come on, Shion! The other Peacekeepers will come looking any second. Let's go."

Nezumi snatched at Shion's hand. Their palms slid slickly against each other. Nezumi pushed back the lurch of nausea in his throat and gripped Shion's hand tighter.

They ran.