A/N: I know. It's been way too long. There's a long story behind the wait (well, several actually, but oh well...) but we'll ignore them for now in favor of this one. And for those of you who have seen the Hunger Games recently, you may see parallels, but just remember that this fic was started years before the film was released, and by 2009 I hadn't read the books yet. :)

Many thanks to ChEmMiE and ZivaFan2481 for continuing to poke me and keep me writing.

Enjoy!

The field was silent, but one wouldn't know it from the thunderous cheers from the stands. The stadium shook from it, and Ziva could feel the sound in her bones. She looked to Ethan, who leveled a somber gaze at her in return. He felt it too—the deafening roar wasn't new to either of them. But on this night, it weighed more heavily. The very air was thick with uncertainty and fear. Most of the Herd knew something was different by now. Tonight was the night they all died. Or it would be the night they all lived.

Somewhere over her left shoulder Ziva could hear the squawking of a speaker—Damon had begun his duties as master of ceremonies, but she couldn't make out a single word over the din. It didn't matter. The next moment a cadre of Bloods was forming the Survivors who would fight in the first bout.

Twenty Survivors were shoved onto the field, while the rest were funneled into the chain link enclosure that served as the waiting area. Ziva watched them padlock the fence closed, and resisted the hands shoving her to the field until the Blood with the key saw her. All it took was one challenging lift of her eyebrow before he took the bait.

He rounded on her with a right hook to the jaw. She managed to tilt her head just enough for it to mostly glance off, but wasn't quick enough to avoid the boot that connected with her leg just above the knee. She went down hard, but used the motion to fall against the Blood in question.

He was so bent on teaching her a lesson that he didn't feel her lift the key from the clip on his belt. But someone else saw.

As blows rained down on her from above, she stretched her arms towards the cage as far as she dared. But then fingers touched hers, and she relinquished her prize with a triumphant upturn of her lips, a smile she hid a moment later as Ethan came to her rescue.

"Wait, wait wait!" he cried, bending over her. "Stop! She tripped!" He placed himself between her and the Blood, a human shield. "You think your boss would like it if you killed her before he got to watch her fight?"

That made the Blood pause. His eyes hardened, wide enough to belie his sudden fear, then snarled. "Get her onto the field," he growled.

Ethan obeyed without hesitation. He helped her up, and when they made eye contact, his brow lifted in question. He'd deduced her plan for what it was, but hadn't seen if she'd been successful. She nodded, presumably in thanks, and a gleam sparked in his eye. But he kept his thoughts to himself until they were with the other Survivors on the field.

As always, weapons—rusty and battered, smeared with blood—were dotted around the field, but he ignored them. "They know to wait? Your people?"

"I don't know. Maybe. We may have to take our cue from them..."

She didn't even know if Jethro had reached the Stadium. He could be lying in wait already, or he could be blocks away still, unable to reach them. They would have to assume they were fending for themselves.

"This is it, isn't it?" Ethan's voice cut through her somber thoughts, and she looked up at him to find him gazing around the Stadium almost wistfully. She let her gaze wander as well, but looked for her Residents, not nostalgia. In the end, she nodded with a sigh. "Yes. It is."

This would be the moment they decided their fate. They'd Survive, or they wouldn't. Do or die.

"Then if we're going to die here in the next few minutes," he continued, "there's something I gotta tell you."

Ziva looked up at him again, but he didn't meet her gaze. He continued to stare stoically straight ahead. "Yes?"

He took a deep, solemn breath, steadying himself.

"The two black eyes you got with your broken nose make you look like a raccoon."

Ziva blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I wasn't going to say anything, because it wasn't really fair to you. I mean, you didn't ask to look like a cute little raccoon."

"Cute?"

"But I didn't want to die before telling you that only the overwhelming certainty of death in our futures has kept me from busting a gut when you look up at me from under your hair like that."

Ziva brushed the hair from her eyes with an indignant swipe. But she was grinning. Ethan even chuckled when she stuck her tongue out at him.

"Tell you what," she said drolly, allowing her smirk to linger. "We Survive this, you can laugh at me all you want. You won't be the only one, I'm sure."

"Oh?"

"I have a friend named Tony. You'll like him."

"Can't wait to meet him."

This last was delivered with an air of finality. They both knew that the chances of getting that far were slim to none. His hand gripped hers in silent reassurance. She squeezed it lightly.

"Let's do this," he said.

They locked gazes for a long moment, until the Stadium fell still. The Survivors instinctively drifted apart on the field, giving themselves distance to work with in the key starting moments of the Game. Together they waited for the rules of their Game.

"This is a Death Game," Damon's voice boomed throughout the Stadium, familiar and sickening. Ziva's stomach turned, but she refused to let it show. "Fight to the death. The Victor will be exempt from Round 2."

They wouldn't know what Round 2 would bring until it was upon them. Before anyone could waste time wondering, a buzzer sounded loudly across the loud system.

"BEGIN!"

Survivors surged into motion as though fired from a cannon. Ethan dove for the nearest weapon, and Ziva struggled to keep her feet as her source of stability tore away from her. But a moment later he was back, a length of 2x4 in his hands. With a stomp of his foot it was snapped into two, and one piece found its way into her hand just as a shout of frenzy alerted her to the attack from behind. She dodged the blow, and her eyes found those of her attacker, hazy and bloodshot with exhaustion while rabid with fear.

"Stop!" she shouted. The man swung again, and she blocked it. "You don't have to do this. We don't have to fight anymore—!"

Her voice shut down when a fist found her gut. He wouldn't listen. He didn't want to die here, and somewhere in her heart Ziva regretted that it would be the only way this could end. But it was drowned out by a roaring in her ears as she sank the splintered point of her weapon into his gut. She wasn't dying here either.

And beyond him there was another, and another both equally deaf to her punctuated pleas for peace. She limpingly maneuvered herself around each fresh corpse, but never lost sight of Ethan, who dutifully remained close to her. She heard his own overtures, but no one listened to him any better. Soon enough, it was just the two of them among a sea of dead.

"They're not listening," he told her breathlessly, his shoulder brushing hers. His hand rested on her arm, offering her a moment of steadiness on her shaky legs. She took it, and nodded.

"I know. But they are are."

She nodded towards the waiting Herd, whose eyes were all glued on them. Some were clearly confused, having never once seen tactics like theirs. Teamwork was rare, and for the stronger fighters to be pleading for peace... it was unheard of. But some eyes were bright with hope, grins of excitement curling the corners of dozens of mouths.

It came as a flood of icy realization to discover that their ragged Herd was a better army than either of them could have hoped for. In being forced to fight for their lives, these Survivors had learned hard and fast how to kill... and it was hard-knock training that was going to take the Bloods by surprise. They wouldn't know what hit them. Because once the Herd was released, they would fight not only for their lives, for their freedom, but for retribution as well.

For all the pain, and every lost shred of humanity, the Herd was going to take it back in blood.

Ethan glanced over his shoulder, and paused just long enough for Ziva to know he was surprised by what he saw. But when he turned back, he nudged her with an ounce of humor—and ounce that was far out of place amidst the bodies around them. But she found herself smiling in spite of herself.

"We have to time this right," he said. Ziva could feel his eyes scanning, waiting for the next threat to come screaming towards them. But for now, they were left alone, as their would-be attackers focused their efforts on lesser fighters.

Their respite wouldn't last long though, and Ziva's thoughts were already racing. She could see the end of the fight—Damon's refusal to allow more than one victor. She and Ethan would have to fight each other, even if all the others fell. Only one winner. Only one Survivor would be allowed to leave the field.

"Here we go," Ethan's voice rumbled in her ear. He looked towards the rear, and Ziva almost looked as well before a flash of movement from ahead caught her attention. "I have three on your six," he reported calmly.

"And two on yours," she returned, eyeing the approaching survivors with a steady regard. They were approaching slowly, with purpose. They didn't seem to be working in tandem, as she and Ethan were, but she knew better than to assume. Such an assumption could kill them both.

Ethan shifted readily beside her as his three spread out around them, encircling them both. They were trapped within the five, and Ziva searched for obvious signs of injury, hoping to find an easy target. But none of the scrapes and lacerations seemed critical. It would be rough, but she would not give up now. Not when she was so close.

"You can get us out of here?"

The question slipped past the lips of the Survivor at Ziva's two-o'clock, his glittering eyes dark with an expression she couldn't read. Suspicion, perhaps—there was definitely reluctance in his posture, one that refused to let him hope.

She met his gaze for a long moment before answering, surveying him as she caught her breath. Finally, she nodded. "Or die trying."

"And we'll get to take out the Bloods?"

This question came from someone behind her, someone she couldn't see. Ethan fielded it. "As many as you can get your hands on. Kill them all, and then we're free."

The Survivors around them shared long, questioning looks, as though unwilling to commit until another did. It was the first Survivor who'd spoken who took the first plunge. "I'm in."

Following his lead, the others nodded, though none of them lowered their weapons. Their words had not traveled up the bleachers, or even to the rest of the Herd, but even so, their standoff had lasted too long. The Bloods in the stands roared with impatience, and somewhere far above them Damon's voice issued through the loudspeakers.

"FIGHT!" the tinny voice roared, furious and complacent all at once. But not one of the Survivors moved. They still eyed each other, as though judging each other. Ziva didn't dare hope that they all shared the same principles.

But it was time. This was the moment she'd been waiting for. Do or die.

Slowly, she lowered her weapon with deliberate intent. She straightened, presenting her adversaries with a target they could not miss and lowering her ever present guard. The Survivor directly across from her blinked in surprise, his shock evident. Never, in the history of the Games, had she ever dropped her defenses. Never had she ever stopped fighting.

And suddenly, every eye in the Stadium was on her. The Survivors surrounding them, the Herd still corralled at the sidelines, and each and every Blood slavering in the stands. They watched with hunger and interest, waiting with bated breath for the kill sure to come.

But then, with equal care, the man in front of her rose as well. The point of his pike lowered, almost a half-flag salute. His dark eyes regarded her for a long moment, and when he opened his mouth to speak, his accented voice told Ziva that he was foreign.

"I shall die as a man," he declared, nodding to her. "Not an animal."

One by one, the others stood from their crouches, relaxing their postures as best they could. They were still tense, still all too aware of the killing ground they stood on. But the wordless affirmation was loud and clear. They were ready to be free.

"Fight, dammit!" Damon shouted, his complacency faltering. "Fight, or you will all die!"

Ziva turned, her eyes scanning the stands for his macabre throne. It didn't take long. She met his gaze across the distance, reveling in the fury she found there. Already, she had found victory. A small one, for there was no guarantee any of them would leave the field alive, but nevertheless, she had stopped a Game in its tracks.

Damon's eyes burned, hateful and incendiary. No doubt he saw her triumph, and recognized his loss for what it was. His features screwed up into a scowl, but then his focus strayed to the Bloods clamoring for the kill. Ziva came to the same realization at the same time he did, and read his own triumph as he had hers.

"KILL THEM ALL!"

It was all the cue the Bloods needed. They spilled onto the field, dropping over the railings and sprinting onto the pitch with murder in their sights. But the order was answered in kind by Survivors as well. The fighters surrounding her and Ethan darted into action, spreading out and readying their weapons for a brief moment before launching themselves at the first of the approaching threats.

"Now!" Ziva called, but the Herd was already in motion. The key Ziva had slipped them had been put to use already, and the gate locking them in exploded outward in a flood of bodies, all eager to join the final Game.

They overwhelmed the nearest guards before the Bloods could react, wresting the weapons from their persons before those further back fell on them with vicious brutality. Dozens stomped on the fallen men, kicking and tearing as they passed, drowning each man in a flurry of blows. Ziva didn't watch long enough to see whether or not they were left alive.

In moments the field was swarming with warring bodies; this time, the Bloods were just as terrified as any member of the Herd forced to fight in the Games. Ziva engaged several, but never long enough to land a killing blow herself. Too often her adversary was sucked into another battle, pulled away by hard, bony hands that robbed him of weapons that were soon turned on him. She was not being guarded, no... she was simply forgotten in the frenzy, with only Ethan's solid presence for support.

But even as she watched, the Survivors on the field were being overrun. There were many of them, but more Bloods kept coming, spilling onto the field and surging down the stands. Over a hundred still had yet to touch the grass, and Survivors fell under the onslaught they couldn't hope to stave off on their own.

Ziva suddenly pitched to the right, countering a strike from a knife-wielding Blood that would have gored Ethan through the ribs. She stumbled, and though her 2x4 found a target in his gut, she couldn't recover in time to face the battle cry of another Blood coming at her from behind. Her head turned to see the man barreling towards her, but her weapon remained firmly planted in her previous victim. She was defenseless.

Just as she felt the calm of certain death creep over her, she heard the crack of a gunshot cut through the din of the massacre, and the charging Blood dropped in a burst of red mist. Stunned shock gripped her for but a moment, before she recognized the sound and pinpoint precision of the bullet wound that was stamped into the man's brow. The Bloods had guns, and Damon had used them to massacre a Game before, but this... somehow, she knew who had fired this shot.

As if they heard her thoughts, a cacophony of sound exploded across the arena. But it was not the Survivors who screamed. It was the Bloods. They howled, in pain, rage, and disbelief, as more than a dozen of their number fell in the first volley. Ziva scanned the stands, and a moment later she saw the flash of gunfire, sending another slew of bullets into the midst of the attacking Bloods.

Many were hit from behind, and they fell like ragdolls, crumpling to join those already dead and broken on the green. When not a single member of the Herd was hit, Ziva knew that it was the Angels on the other end of those rifles, and her suspicions were confirmed when she saw other Survivors joining the fight. These were not members of the Herd. No, these were strong and well-fed, and they were armed to the teeth. Handguns and blades flashed in their hands, and even those wielding chains and pipes were intimidating enough to make the Bloods give pause.

Ziva could see the shock in their dark eyes, the hesitation in their tattooed limbs, and knew exactly where it came from. In all their battles, in all their fights for turf and resources—even for pride alone—they had never been faced with an opponent such as this. Never had the Bloods faced an enemy so determined, never so cohesive in their attack. And for the first time since the Incident, the Bloods were the ones running. For the first time, they were the ones fighting for their lives.

But those Bloods already in the thick of the massacre were far from cowed. Ziva whirled stiltedly as the roar of another Blood sounded from her three o'clock. She bent to pull a pipe from the previous, now dead Blood's fingers, and brought it to bear just as another gunshot sounded. The Blood dropped feet from his comrade, his face a mask of crimson rage.

She had a Guardian Angel, it seemed. No doubt on Jethro's orders, if not Jethro himself. But she couldn't afford to let her guard down. She turned to join Ethan, and took the opportunity to slam her newly acquired weapon into the kidney of his current opponent. The Blood dropped, and Ethan—now armed with a re-appropriated knife—finished him with a vicious slice to the neck, severing his jugular and carotid both. Blood erupted from the wound in a wide arcing spray, dousing both of them before they moved on.

"We need to get you out of here!" Ethan shouted. Ziva nodded, putting aside her knee-jerk reaction to protest. She was a warrior, yes, and this was her fight. But she was injured, and a liability. Her ankles were likely to give way at any moment, and thus far her feet had remained planted—not preferable in a battle where speed and strength decided the outcome. With the new Survivors—and the Residents she recognized among them—still flooding in from beneath the bleachers, her presence was no longer a lynchpin. There were plenty to fight the Bloods now. If they could reach the bleachers, they would find shelter. She would find Jethro.

"The bleachers!" she acknowledged. He nodded, but before they could move the world exploded into chaos around them. Ethan turned to engage a Blood coming at them from his right, and two more charged from his six- her eleven o'clock. They both fell in a shower of coppery clouds as her Guardian brought them down. But then arms swallowed her, trapping her arms to her sides from behind and pulling her away from Ethan.

She saw the tattooed arms that gripped her, already spattered with fresh blood, and knew them with a deadly certainty that made her blood run cold. Damon.

"Ethan!" Her cry passed her lips before she could think not to, her fear instinctive and desperate as her efforts to free herself went unnoticed. Damon only hoisted her up further against him, dragging her away with such hurry that she knew, without a doubt, that he had one purpose on his mind.

But her concern for herself halted in its tracks when her shout pulled Ethan's attention away from his own battle. It was only for a moment, but it was one instant that pulled his eyes from his opponent, his focus shattered for the one second the Blood needed.

The knife in Ethan's hand was knocked away, his guard batted aside as the head of a hatchet buried itself between his ribs.

"ETHAN!"