The recruiting, it turned out, fell mostly to Ethan.

Since their whispered pact that day in the cell, their movement and interaction with the rest of the Herd was restricted to those in their cell and anyone Ethan could come into contact with in the Games. There was more opportunity than either of them had anticipated—with nearly a week's worth of Games to celebrate the hunting party's return, Ethan had ample time to get the word out, subtly.

Ziva had pointed out that the Games were the only way Werth would be able to sate the Bloods' thwarted bloodlust, after the massacre they'd expected had been denied them. She didn't give him much more detail than that, but when he'd seen the Bloods actually participating in the games as well, his doubts vanished. Nearly two dozen Survivors were slaughtered in the arena, but Ethan managed to get away with nothing more serious than a fractured cheekbone and a dislocated shoulder.

In the process, he'd whispered to every Survivor he could get within hearing distance of. Words of rebellion, of Rescue, bolstered both their hope and their dwindling desire to live. The Bloods in Games had been surprised at the unexpected surge in aggression from their prey, and those in the stands had roared in satisfaction at the desperate struggle that played out below them.

At first, Ethan had worried that the Bloods would get wise, grow suspicious of the renewed vigor of the Herd, but in the end, he needn't have. Only he, and the other Survivors, knew the truth—it was merely a prelude to the violence to come. It was not just a fight to Survive this time… It was a fight for freedom.

And it was the right thing to do, to tell the other Survivors of the coming Rescue. For the two dozen that fell, nearly a hundred more returned to their Pens with fire in their eyes, nodding to him that they too would spread the word, and that they would be ready.

Ziva was kept in the Pens during the Games. At least, that's what Ethan had thought, though she was gone by the time he was finally locked in with the others after the fights had concluded for good. When the day's food came, he pocketed a hunk of moldy bread for her. But it was another day and a half before she was dragged back in.

Ethan kept his eyes lowered, keeping in mind that she wasn't supposed to be making friends in the Pens. Neither of them needed to draw further attention on them. But he could not ignore the sharp gasps of air he heard as they chained her once more to the bunk, nor the small grunts of pain that issued from the corner when the Bloods swept back out of the cell.

He waited less than a heartbeat after they slammed the door closed before he looked up, instinctively moving to aid his newest friend.

They'd given her more slack this time, enough chain to let her kneel, propping herself up on her hands in the corner as her stomach heaved. He was glad that he'd saved her some food, because he knew from the brackish bile that spilled to the cement floor that they hadn't fed her in the time she'd been away. He averted his eyes when he saw the lattice of milky-white strands that laced the mess on the floor; he didn't want to dwell on what it meant, on what had been done.

He gently lifted her hair out of the way, but when she flinched so hard she moaned in pain, he pulled away. Instead he waited, until her spasms faded, leaving her exhausted. She nearly collapsed in her own sick, but Ethan was quick enough to catch her, and pull her away. The man in him wanted to cradle her in his arms, to offer her whatever comfort he could.

But the soldier in him knew better. She wouldn't appreciate such empathy.

When she pulled away, curling up as much as she could manage, he let her go. He suspected she would have turned her back to him, if she could, but the tether was barely long enough for her to lie down at all.

Ethan glared at the Pen's other occupants, who were staring at them both with a mixture of resentment and curiosity. Only a few of them had the decency to look away.

His attention was pulled back to his friend when he heard a ragged sob escape her lips. Before her scarred hand came up to hide her face, he caught a glimpse of a blackened eye, a freshly bloodied nose, and a lip split all the way down to the chin. The hand that didn't cover her face braced her ribs, and he figured that a few of them might've been broken too.

He crept as close as he dared, but his voice remained deep in his chest. He'd never been glib, and physicality was easier for him to communicate. But he wasn't an idiot either. Being touched was probably the last thing she wanted.

"We're going to kill him," he told her softly, just loud enough for her to hear. "You just have to hang in there a little longer. Just until your people come for you. The others will be ready." She didn't respond. He didn't expect her to.

"When the time comes, we'll kill them all."

The hand over her face curled into a fist, which came to a rest against the floor with solid, deliberate care. An angry tear trailed over the swollen bridge of her nose, and her voice, while shaky, was hard with hate.

"No."

Ethan blinked, surprised by her answer. "No?"

"No," came the affirmation, dark and vicious. "Not we." Her eyes glittered up at him, though from anger or tears, he couldn't say. "I will kill him. When the time comes, Damon Werth is mine."

Ethan nodded readily. "Okay," he whispered back.

Reaching out, he covered her hand with his. His palm nearly swallowed her small fist, and her skin was like ice. But to his surprise, her fingers unclenched. Her hand tilted, and their palms clasped in a warrior's embrace.

For a long moment, silence reigned, but the tension was just too heavy for Ethan. He had to do something. Remembering the bread he'd pocketed, he offered it to her with his free hand.

When her eyes focused on it, she gave a miserable, mumbling groan and she pushed the offending food away with a nauseated roll of her eyes. If he wasn't mistaken, her bruised features may have even turned a little green at the sight of it.

It shouldn't have been funny. It really wasn't.

But her reaction was just so mundane— so classic it was out of place— that an unbidden laugh bubbled up in his throat. He pressed his lips together, refusing to let it out, but then he saw her eyes glaring up at him, and he knew she knew.

It was too much.

A strangled cough tore from his throat, sounding less like a laugh than a choke. But to his surprise, instead of scolding him, she began to laugh too.

Her whispery laugh quickly turned into a moan of pain, but it was enough. The tension was broken, and the levity of the sound seemed to reaffirm their goal.

As though the mirth they shared was proof that the end of their nightmare was close at hand.

Belatedly, he wondered if they'll still be laughing when the killing began. If they were, would they be the monsters? Or would it be expected of them, Surviving through what they had?

Most importantly, would they still be able to laugh, when all was said and done?

He supposed they would find out one way or the other. Soon, they would all know.

One way, or the other.

A/N: Another chapter down! I know, too long in coming. But it's coming! I promise!