A big (chaste) kiss to my reviewers. Lurkers just get a hug^^.

After the Capitol's prisoners, let's turn the spotlights on two much underwritten rebels. Like before, good knowledge of Mockingjay is strongly recommended.

Year 75, late September – District Eight.

The sound of shattering glass was met with laughter and childish shouts of triumph.

Paylor slowed to let the playing children pass, kicking balls made of rags and dirt with wild abandon.

For the little kids, this was just another day.

Better still, they'd get in no trouble for smashing windows or making noise. The wounded city and its abandoned buildings was one huge playground.

But despite the pockets of light, the streets were grayer, deader, with each passing day.

Paylor walked, her feet leading her towards the collapsed road where Quipus' body had been buried. Her eyes stuck together every time she blinked, coated with grime and ash.

Peacekeepers, faceless hounds hiding behind opaque helmets, still controlled a quarter of the city. There, the buildings lit up at night, and men, women and children worked their heads bowed in the hope they'd survive to see another day. Paylor and the rebels controlled the rest, three dozen streets of rubble and ruins. After months of violence, a merciless siege had begun. Supplies were plentiful; the deaths of thousands of their people had made rationing unnecessary, but no-one who'd tried to leave had made it through the blockade.

The peacekeepers were keeping them warm and contained, waiting for reinforcements. They knew the Capitol would eventually make them sew shirts and silk scarves themselves if Eight lost too much of its workforce and failed to meet the quotas.

A week ago, Katniss Everdeen had come to her, flanked by Thirteen's soldiers and a renegade Capitol camera crew. Paylor hadn't known what to expect, and she'd seen a soldier's nightmares trapped in a girl's body. Katniss had had no questions, just purpose, and she'd tried to live to others' expectations of her her head high.

Katniss had wanted to see the war, so Paylor had lead her to one of their three 'hospitals'. Four hundred wounded and twice as many loved ones, all in one gray warehouse, one of the very few which still had running water. Medicine was little more than rationed morphling, bandages, stitches and kind words, but those kind words, the love and dignity provided by a tight knit community, was what kept people fighting.

Strategically the hospital was indefensible, but it was safe under siege law.

When Katniss entered the hospital, something changed. People carrying the weight of the war on their shoulders straightened, the air, thick with pain and death was suddenly electric. Everyone focused on the Mockinjay, that beautiful teenager with her bow and solemn face.

"You fighting Katniss? Are you here to fight with us?" Damask, barely fifteen, three times shot, dragged half-dead out of an explosion, and yet ready to go fight once more.

"What about the baby?" Rosario, a woman of fifty, sitting with her sisters, one living child among the four of them.

Katniss had met their eyes, and they'd saluted, filled with renewed hope and awe.

Instead of a thousand brave but battered civilians, Paylor saw an army. It was beautiful.

Boggs, the high-ranking officer from Thirteen, had pulled Paylor back to reality. "There's a problem, incoming bombers from the North."

"There's a bunker in there," Paylor had said as the price Eight was about to pay had begun to sink in.

The Capitol had stopped caring about the status quo the moment they'd got wind of Katniss' presence.

They'd run, but Katniss had run back outside. The girl had had to see. Those people she'd just met, whose suffering she'd just shared, who'd made her discover the extent of the war and who had sworn their allegiance… None survived.

Paylor saw Katniss run towards the victims, she heard her scream, restrained by her partner, Gale. Paylor saw Katniss Everdeen change from victor to soldier in front of a wall of fire and death.

"Katniss!" That Capitol woman in charge of the cameras, Cressida, had urged. "Katniss can you tell everybody what you're seeing right now?"

The Capitol had crafted the Mockingjay. Peeta Mellark and the rebel victors had only helped her walk the path dug by the masters. Paylor wasn't surprised that a Capitol rebel would be the one to reveal the Mockingjay in all her glory to the world.

Paylor's hands clenched. A Capitol rebel, yes, but also a thousand dead civilians buried under a hospital's ruins.

Katniss and her team had left, leaving Paylor in a District swallowed whole by the rebellion. Would anyone she'd ever known be buried under these stones?

Was this the price of hope, a thousand lives gambling that a video would turn the tides of war? Eight had been the first to rebel. They hadn't needed the Mockingjay's propaganda movies to rise and fight for freedom.

But other Districts did. And Paylor had decided the price was acceptable the moment she had allowed the Mockingjay to land in her city.

Every message she received from beyond the borders convinced her that she had been right. They were winning, massively, even if Paylor's eyes struggled to believe it. And she had been truly glad, to see that the prisoners in the Capitol had been rescued. Annie especially, for Finnick's sake.

Paylor walked a lot these days, feeling much older than her thirty years. The siege offered them temporary respite, and for the first time in over a year, people had time to grieve.

Quipus had been just a face when she'd been a girl, the boy she brought bales of cotton to after school. One day he'd looked at her and asked her why she didn't move to the city. He said she was too smart for the fields. She got offended and then she got over herself, and they became friends, allies in a foreign land. She talked of change, of power, and later of rebels. The city was full of eager ears. She became their leader, his leader.

She'd asked him to fight and he'd trusted her orders. She'd asked him to kill, and he did without question. She couldn't remember a single time he hadn't come back for her.

He had died on the eve of his thirty-second birthday, buried under a collapsed building.

Paylor stopped before the ruins. Quipus', and eleven others', resting place. She took a shaky breath, allowing herself to reminisce, to shed her Commander's uniform for just one day.

Commander Paylor did not have friends.

She'd had allies, and she let her feet take her to where Sergeant Aleyn rested, an odd monument in half-collapsed sewers, built by peacekeepers and civilians alike. Every week it was torn down by those who refused to honor a peacekeeper. Every week, it was remade.

Aleyn, sent from District Four by Mags. Victor Mags, another ally, a giant who'd left such large shoes to fill. Mags had made Paylor realized they weren't alone. She'd made victory seem possible.

'We were never alone. The Districts fight united.'

Paylor's lips shook, her hands tight on her firearm, as she allowed tears to fall.

District Eight was gone and the winning side would have to rebuild it. The Mockingjay had spoken, she'd been seen, and Paylor prayed that it would be Mags' vision, Grandpa Sylvan's vision, that would triumph.

She stiffened when she heard a noise in the gloom. Steps, soon accompanied by a familiar click of a walking stick, had Paylor let go of her weapon.

"Something's happening with the peacekeepers," Gilly said, her accented words echoing through the tunnel as she jogged towards Paylor. "They're all gathering near their headquarters. Their radio systems got jammed sometime in the last hour."

Four's Victor was wrapped in reds and blues, a one woman army against the grayness that seeped under people's very skins.

Paylor nodded. "Let's get our people." They had to move fast.

"The fields are full of ears waiting for orders," Gilly pointed out. "It's now or never."

She twirled her cane as she spoke, betraying it for the prop it was. Unfortunately, the bullet that had convinced Gilly to use a cane to alert people of her presence had been very real. Gilly had been lucky not to lose her hand.

Paylor signalled a young couple as soon as they were back on streets. A series of answering whistles echoed through the streets, spreading to every hideout.

"Besides, you told me your mother made the best soup," Gilly said as they ran. "I want proof of that."

A smile broke Paylor's lips. Her mother lived in the cotton fields, well beyond the siege line, where people still worked hard and blood had not soaked the ground.

Within the half hour, Paylor stood before a hundred able-bodied men and women, divided into units of eight and armed to the teeth.

"Every shot counts. We gather info before we go in," Paylor ordered. "Use lights, every frequency's jammed."

She narrowed her eyes when Gilly slid on gray camouflage clothing. She didn't want to argue with the woman in public, but Gilly's place wasn't on the frontlines.

Gilly apparently disagreed. "The time for paperwork and codes is over. Thirteen's got all that covered now. Besides, you heard Finnick like I did, his blackmail beats anything of mine," Gilly said, her soft singing voice disturbingly at odds with the unchecked hate flushing her face. "I'm redundant." She giggled, picking a dozen knives off the racks. "Mags is dead, nobody left to tell me what to do. Let me have a bit of fun and kill some of those monsters."

The victor of the 52nd Games wasn't asking. Paylor alone did not flinch at the bloodthirst in Gilly's eyes. She'd worked long enough with the woman to see the very patient hate lurking behind her affected flippant demeanor.

Paylor gave a tight nod. As long as it didn't compromise others, everyone had the right to choose how they fought and died. Even her friends.

"We're out," Paylor announced, zipping up her padded vest.

The different units marched into the ash-filled streets. Behind every dirty window, a loved one watched.

Paylor's strides lengthened. She'd come home too many times with fewer people than she'd set out with.

The roofs had been made dangerous from many bombings, but they remained the most defensible observing points. What are they playing at? Eight-hundred peacekeepers, more than Paylor had seen in one place, were packed near their headquarters. There were no hovercrafts, but it looked like they were leaving.

Most of them did. Others were standing arms crossed or weapons brandished, arguing fiercely with their helmets on the ground. What's going on?

No other hint of white could be seen anywhere else on the siege line.

"They recalled all patrols," Paylor said. "Go to the factories, get the people out, and send the ready for evacuation."

The peacekeepers had left right before Twelve had been blown off the map. Paylor wouldn't take any chances. She struggled to keep the dread off her face.

Was the Capitol losing so badly it had decided to wipe them all out, and textiles be damned?

"It's kind of odd, don't you think?" Gilly said, biting her lip. "Are those who are refusing to pack-up and waiving their guns in our general direction friends or foe?"

"We need to hear what's been said. We're closing in," Paylor told Big Loomer.

The man flashed the torchlight towards the neighboring units.

Laying low, the eight stopped thirty-yards from the closest peacekeepers. A buffer of ruins stood between the rebel zone and the siege line, and it was quiet as death. The peacekeepers' voices rolled up to them unhindered.

"You are traitors to Panem!" Paylor's lips curled. She knew the man. Lieutenant Otho. He'd gotten more of her people killed than half the other officers.

"The orders come straight from the Colonel. Two's in danger. We're marching home."

"The Capitol will shoot us down like the deserters we are! Those orders are bogus, Major. They're suicide and treason."

Major. Never seen him before. He probably carried a weapon just for show.

"A Capitol envoy is in Silksteel," the Major barked. "The Capitol itself is divided! Until I get other orders, if I'm needed at home, I'm going home!"

Silksteel, where technology and textiles met. The town was small and isolated, they'd had no contact since the winter. It had been secured by peacekeepers before it had even had a chance to rebel.

"Without hovercrafts, we'll have to ride the tanks, and the rest will be on foot," Otho challenged. "We're expected to march for weeks in the wilderness?"

"Yes, Lieutenant," the Major snapped. "We're weeks away from home. Home's guarded by a skeleton guard of rookies. It's surrounded by One and Three, both fallen to rebels. Threes have forcefield technology; they're underground making weapons as we speak. Our lads and gals in One have lined their pockets and don't care that no one's working anymore 'cause they figured being corrupt in a peaceful district is better than this shit. But I can promise you One's rebels are preparing for when all'll break loose. Four isn't far away from home either." The Major's shouts became a furious roar, covering the peacekeepers shouting their support. "Do we need to talk about frigging District Four?"

"I like it when everyone's talking about Four," Gilly whispered with a happy smile.

Paylor shot her a warning glance. These weren't the Hunger Games where distracting quips got you sponsors.

That bastard Otho wasn't backing down. Despite the Major's speech, a good quarter stood behind him.

"If we all go home, Thirteen will bomb it and be rid of peacekeepers once and for all," Otho spat. "They're stalling because they know that if we do, we'll kill every man, woman and child we can get our hands on."

Shit. Now a number of those ready to go were hesitating. Paylor ground her teeth in frustration. Fear of rebels kept the Capitol's dogs docile.

Next to her, Gilly removed her weapons, her expression oddly focused.

"They'll recognize me," Gilly whispered. "I'm worth more alive than dead, I'll get a chance to speak. The Major needs a leg-up." She flashed Paylor a dark smile. "But get ready to shoot."

Paylor grabbed the woman by the sleeve, words forming in her mouth. She swallowed them back, painfully conscious of her responsibilities. It was a risky wager, but the payoff would be huge.

Gilly's expression broke, and suddenly Paylor saw the victor who'd not even allowed herself to mourn Mags. "Maybe it's better," Gilly said thickly, "if I don't kill anyone after all."

Paylor let go of Gilly's arm, sick at heart. "You're one of the bravest people I know," she said, her eyes tight.

"Ma'am? What do I signal?" Loomer asked as Gilly slid deeper into the no man's land, almost crawling in the low ruins.

"Tell them to wait. Assemble me a team of people who can reliably shoot a specific target in a crowded area at forty yards."

She held her breath when Gilly revealed herself to the peacekeepers, hands well up in the air. Paylor hoped that crazy woman had at least a slid a knife in her hair.

You were supposed to stay away from the front, Gilly.

"Victor Gilly from Four, I'm sure some of you Annex kids wanked to my pictures at night."

Paylor shut her eyes and counted to ten. That woman and her had very different conceptions of war.

She breathed again when there was no gunshot. At least, they did seem to recognize her.

"I couldn't help but overhear," Gilly said, chirpy as you please and walking closer and closer to the killers in white. "Two's never getting bombed by Thirteen. They know the Nut is a big solid bunker and that any bombing of Two would just get civilians killed, and piss off the guys with the big weapons. Also, we care about District lives, unlike the Capitol who will rather draft teenagers from Two than send their experienced Homeguard out. Do you know why that is?"

"Shut your –"

"Because it's not the Capitol who's making these poor decisions," Gilly continued merrily. "It's President Snow and a small cluster of very rich, very entitled people. And Snow knows that if he sends the Homeguard, his own officers will turn against him, because they have a much lower tolerance for butchery and being butchered than you guys. He also knows that unlike peacekeepers, Homeguard won't accept to work with almost no intelligence on what's happening in the rest of Panem. Like, knowing why no mutts have been used anywhere. Basically, Homeguard won't accept to be cannon fodder."

Gilly, change tune, damn it! The peacekeepers were listening and Gilly was making them very angry. Gilly had been the one to teach her about psychology and propaganda. The more a man acted against his core beliefs, the more he had to hold on to purpose. Gilly should know better than to call them fools and their actions futile!

Paylor turned when she felt a light hand on her shoulder. Loomer pointed. Nine sharpshooters had spread out in the ruins around her.

"Get ready to shoot Otho and the men closest to him," she whispered.

"A Capitol woman convinced your Colonel to go home," Gilly continued. How could she sound so oblivious to the threat? "I'd listen to her. Capitolites, who have intelligence and who realize how Snow's refusal to compromise is murdering Panem's industries, are already rebels themselves. How do you even think most Districts are winning? They had Capitol help to prepare for years." She chuckled. "There's a Capitol man and a Capitol camera crew behind the Mockingjay propos."

The peacekeepers exploded in shouts. "You bloody liar!"

The shots left before Paylor could react. A peacekeeper screamed, clutching his leg.

"They'll kill you just like they killed Brutus, you pawns," Gilly screamed, panting on the ground.

She'd been shot. Those bastards!

"Shoot our targets," Paylor ordered, her jaw set. She turned to Loomer. "Make sure the other units stay put." No bloodbath. Not today.

Otho and six of his men fell almost immediately. Silence instantly spread from the bleeding peacekeepers. The chaos subsided withing seconds as they hit the ground and took cover, ready to retaliate.

It all came to a standstill when they realized the rebels weren't shooting anyone else.

Paylor thought she heard Gilly's voice, but it was too low to make out the words. She swallowed when she saw a peacekeeper crawl next to her, putting his (her?) hand on the victor's arm and exchange words. They did know Gilly, her media persona at least. Maybe giving a face to the other side had been what was needed to tilt the balance.

Could they dare to hope for empathy?

"Is there an officer we can speak to?" The Major called.

Paylor inhaled slowly. The peacekeepers were at a disadvantage, all clustered on lower ground, they'd lose ten for each on of hers if she ordered to throw the grenades. She could afford this.

"Get away from me, they could have rockets," she told her unit.

"I'm listening, Major," Paylor called back, her voice cracking over in the still air. "You don't want to die here, there's no meaning to it. We'll not interfere with your march to Silksteel."

The pause stretched out into a painful silence. Better than shots.

"Hold," Paylor warned. If stress had one of her people pull the trigger…

Finally, the Major stepped out in the open and Paylor allowed him that much respect.

"The victor's dead," he called gravely. "We'll leave her body here, for you to honor. We're leaving now."

Paylor's shoulders slumped. Suddenly her eyes stung from more than grit. She was the Commander. She needed to answer.

She took a deep breath. "As long as you stay grouped while the city is in sight, no one will attack you." They couldn't afford it.

The last hovercraft bombers had come from Silksteel. Would they finally be left alone? She had to rally her people, all her people. Then, she'd go to Silksteel too.

She swallowed painfully, her eyes on the fallen woman twenty yards away. No peacekeepers protested against the Major's orders.

Stopping Gilly would have been a mistake.

Paylor mustered a smile as she turned to Big Loomer. "Go spread the word that the peacekeepers are leaving and that we don't want them to change their minds." Her smile broadened at the awe on the large man's face. This was a victory, maybe their greatest yet. "Don't cheer until they can't hear you, they're proud bastards."

Year 75, early October – District Two.

"Why did you even bother to inform me if you won't listen to reason?" Glynn said.

She clearly had shed her fear of Lyme sometime during the last weeks. Lyme's jaw clenched. Maybe she should punch the woman to remind her that only two people had earned the right to take that tone with her.

But she'd probably knock Glynn out, and where would that leave her?

Damn it, Brutus, they made me fucking 'Commander'.

"If it goes badly," Lyme said with forced calm, "you'll think of something."

Glynn stared at her as if she had never heard anything so stupid. "Lyme, the quarry people, these villages, the Colonel from Silksteel and every peacekeeper on our side, they're following you. We need these people united and our best arguments are worth nothing to them without you."

"That's not my fault," Lyme snapped. "You need more figureheads to establish a legitimate chain of command."

"Look at me in the eyes and tell me that if Bahamut and Wolfe refuse to join our fight, you'll leave your boys behind and make sure they cannot betray us."

Lyme stiffened, stepping away from that infuriating woman, with her words that cut deep and left no place for privacy and that unshakable passion that kept Lyme listening even when she wanted to strangle her.

« So ? » Glynn said after a tense pause. « The Capitol's caught on, they know the battle for the control of the Districts will happen here, and soon. Peacekeepers are pouring in from every district to regroup and protect the Nut.»

« That's wonderful, » Lyme cut in with a strained smile. «Ten Districts are finally free.»

« The Mockingjay is here, » Glynn pursued, her eyes flashing at the interruption. « They've started filming propos! She needs to stay safe and you should go meet her instead of stalling. »

Lyme exhaled, her hands balled into fists. She'd not needed words in the Village. They'd understood, they'd all come from the same place. She'd not needed words among sponsors, they'd only been means to an end and she'd never shown them the parts of her that had cracks.

They're dying, Brutus. Our people are killing each other. The city fights the villages. The city fights itself. Compared to Eight, the casualties were few, the property damage minor, but Lyme watched Two burn in her nightmares, helpless to stop it.

She'd not needed words with Mags, Even without revealing the detail of her plans, Mags had trusted her for some reason. With every passing day, Lyme understood how much. Mags understood mentoring. Unlike her, Glynn had no idea.

Lyme needed to change. Nothing had prepared her for command unsanctioned by the Capitol. With Glynn, she needed words.

"I can't leave them behind," Lyme said, a voice inside her screaming to shut up, to keep her feelings hidden and protected. "You made me Commander but I can't stop being a Victor. They deserve my loyalty, more than anything."

"Not more than anything," Glynn countered coldly. "But you're right, you are who you are, and you must go." Her smile was sad and true. "You all deserve happiness. I hope they will follow you."

In the end, that was why Lyme let Glynn give her orders. The old woman didn't make Lyme feel like a tool.

Lyme groaned, pushing herself over the cliff where Mordred's grandiose tomb faced the mountains.

Her eyes flashed to her left, where either Brutus or Bahamut usually smirked, red and panting like dying dogs, but smug like they'd grown a second manhood for having beat her to the top.

No one ever beat Enobaria on the way down.

Lyme ripped her helmet off. Victor's Village shone bright in the night, as if nothing had changed. Both her and Brutus' lights were on. Was that meant as an honor, even if she'd deserted?

She kicked off the stifling peacekeeper uniform. There were so few patrols that she'd probably not need it on the way back. She took a deep breath. She was maybe making the worst mistake of her life.

A smile blooming on her lips, she broke into a run. She was home.

She caught herself inhaling deeply, hungrily tasting the clear mountain air. In Silksteel she'd squared her shoulders and slammed her boots on the gray streets in an irrational attempt to chase the choking oppressiveness of the town away; but here she felt light and free. She knew every tree casting dark shadows under the moon, chestnut, oak, cherry, how far they stretched and which branches could support her weight.

It was apple she stealthily walked towards. The lone apple tree, a monstrosity that probably was half-mutt, had been planted by Domitia, back when Lyme had loathed her mentor and all she'd stood for –the Annex's cruelty, the gladiators that made a spectacle of themselves in the Games-, and yet had needed her so badly.

The tree had been an excuse to come to Domitia's house, a way to preserve Lyme's pride.

Lyme pulled herself onto the lower branches and grabbed one of the apples. She bit hard. It was too early, the few hanging fruit were small and wrinkled by the heat, acid enough to make her lips pucker. The apples her Uncle would bring back home on good days had tasted just as bad, but for Lyme, they'd been the best.

Uncle. Lyme's fingers crushed what remained of the fruit. Dead in that train crash, along with Mags' son, her grandchildren and so many of their relatives. He'd never been a rebel. He'd been like Brutus and the Capitol hadn't cared.

Domitia's closed back door was suddenly ajar.

Lyme slipped in, like she'd done a thousand times before, and like a thousand times before, Domitia, now dried and wrinkled by eighty winters, was waiting for her.

"You came back," the woman said with a ghost of a smile.

Commander Lyme. The task felt right, but the title tasted like fraud, another angle she had to wear.

"I had to."

Domitia's expression was inscrutable. "Rumors are the outer villages aren't too happy with the Capitol. That Two's murdering Two."

"It'll soon be over." For ever peacekeeper who obeyed the Capitol's orders, two joined their ranks.

"And you have power to keep that promise, Lyme? Are you finally the hero you always wanted to be?"

Lyme met her mentor's mocking gaze squarely. Lyme had almost shattered when she realized her victory had changed nothing, that the Capitol still craved the children broken and molded by the Annex. Domitia had put Lyme back together, with shouts and sparring matches, warm meals and soft songs, and a stubbornness that had surpassed even her own.

That's what mentors did.

Domitia raised her eyebrows. "You truly believe in rebellion?" She said as if to a dim child. "They'll just change the people, decide on new family laws, invent a new kind of Games, and you'll be forgotten like all rebels past have been."

"It won't be they. It'll be us," Lyme replied.

Domitia raised her eyebrows even higher.

Why did Lyme even bother? "I owed you a visit."

"Bullshit, you're here because you're afraid your kids will smell fear on you. Drink with me," Domitia said, uncorking a bottle of cherry liquor.

Lyme clinked Domitia's glass, letting the sweet strong liquid roll on her tongue.

Home. It was all about to change. Lyme's fingers went to her steel wristband, made from a piece of scrap she'd found in a dumpster as a kid. She'd scratched the initials of every arena ally, every kill, in spidery letters. One name appeared in full, almost unreadable from the shake of Lyme's then bloody hands. Domitia.

Lyme removed her token for the first time in years and put it on the table. "I hated you at first. I never liked you. I daresay it's mutual." Odd how awkward the words were to say, even after thirty years. "But you're family, and I'm a better person for it."

"Oh I'm not done, Moonshine," Domitia said after an eloquent pause. She pushed herself upright and Lyme winced at how her wrinkled hands shook. "I knew you'd be a hassle the moment you walked on that stage, calling yourself better than the Annex's best. It's always been my job to stop you from going too far."

Domitia put down her own glass of liquor, untouched.

Lyme stiffened in alarm, her tongue running over her palate. Sedatives. Fuck.

Domitia shook her head sadly. "Two will kill Two now. The question is how much. I can't let you be part of it, Lyme." Her smile was soft, softer than any Lyme remembered. Her vision began to swim. "I was cursed, and blessed, with two girls that hated me, but you and Seif do trust me to know what's best for you."

Lyme was so tired. Her eyes began to close. So very tired.

Lyme gasped as she awoke. She was lying face down on a bed, a sharp pain in her biceps. She tried to stand and slammed against restraints.

"Stop."

Enobaria.

Lyme stiffened, forcing her reflexes under control. She was still at Domitia's, in the guest room, her room. She still slept there sometimes, after she'd lost a tribute. Cato's eager smile flashed before her eyes, cutting at her heart. She'd lost so many.

The pain was a needle, intravenous sedative reversal. The moon hovered behind the trees, not much lower than when Lyme had last seen it.

She felt like she'd swallowed her weight in sand. She bit back a groan, unable to summon enough fury to curse Domitia. Her mentor was truly the one person that could get away with such shit. "What do you want from me?"

Enobaria untied the restraints. "Domitia's fine, I made her drink the liquor," she said. Her grip on Lyme's arm was strong, and Lyme shakily stood up.

Lyme stared defiantly at the younger victor, adrenaline sharpening her senses. There was no love lost between them. Enobaria had never forgiven Lyme her closeness with Bahamut.

"I'm not sure," Enobaria finally said. "I want Snow gone. I want to be free. I want to be allowed to be proud to have been born here when it's over."

Lyme slowly nodded. How had she missed this? Should she have tried harder to get close to Enobaria?

"Would you come with me?" Commander Lyme… Would Enobaria salute or laugh?

Enobaria's lips curled. "It hurt him, a lot, to have you abandon him, abandon all of us, like that."

Did she have to say it? "I'm back," Lyme said tightly. "I'll talk to him, and Wolfe."

Enobaria crossed her arms. "What of the other eight?"

"They'll be safe here," Lyme muttered. She could see Gunner's house from the window, it was the same it always had been, as if the 12th Games had been just yesterday. "I don't think they'd understand."

An odd noise escaped Enobaria's throat.

Brutus, help. Enobaria just giggled.

"You don't think? There's a wall in their minds, for them it's not possible. They'll follow you because they love you." Lyme flinched. "The others will think you're crazy at best," Enobaria's voice lowered, heavy with anger, "because of Brutus… At worst… Domitia was kind not to call peacekeepers."

How could she have thought Domitia would support her? The others were all products of the Annex, conditioned to serve, to believe the Capitol would be eternal.

She exhaled ruefully. Brutus, even you never noticed the extent of Mags', Finnick's and Beetee's plots. A wall indeed.

"Be nice," Enobaria said, bent on unnerving her with this… unexpected camaraderie. "Don't give them a choice."

As they snuck towards Bahamut's house, Lyme realized it could well be the last time. She shoved the thought away, but the harm was done. She wasn't finished here. Her whole life was here.

But her best friend's lit house reminded her that wasn't true anymore.

Lyme's anger vanished when she found them both inside, half asleep on the couch.

Wolfe, the tribute who hadn't been allowed to lose. The wager Mags has asked for, the boy destined to spur the Districts into action using their hate of Careers. The one Lyme had wagered her own sanity on. Wolfe, too cruel and clever for his own good, too proud to tolerate anyone higher than him in the rankings. The lithe, too-graceful boy who'd survived the Annex despite a hundred enemies, who'd never known when to stop despite losing enough fights to kill a less willful person. The boy who through charisma alone had made Instructors overlook his disregard for the rules.

Lyme had just had to tell him, show him, that he was unique, and he'd given her his loyalty. She'd stood by him after the arena, as he woke up a cripple, his pride shattered day after day as he learned to walk gracefully again, to speak with a hoarse voice he couldn't recognize and hated. By the 68th, barely twenty, Wolfe had been obsessed with leveling the power field. Lyme was to be his confidante, his older sister at worst, but not a mentor who knew all his weaknesses and never shared hers. She'd had to let him, he was too clever for her to fool him, and cutting him off had never been an option.

Bahamut was the opposite. He'd not been part of any rebel plots and Lyme had picked his file among a dozen and met him according to the rules, after the reapings. She'd let him sit on her knees and told him it was alright to care. She gave him permission to like other tributes and to lose his temper. He'd killed as fiercely as he wept and raged for those he'd come to care for. At thirty-eight, he still came to see her just for hot chocolate and a hug. She'd had to learn all the mothering skills on the fly, but she loved the way he looked at her, like someone both invincible and infallible.

She wasn't too surprised that Enobaria couldn't stand her. Lyme had robbed her of the chance of having a mentor all to herself.

She smiled at her beautiful boys, the brightness to her eyes betraying her.

Bahamut and Wolfe stood up as one.

"Lyme –"

"Commander Lyme," she cut in before the naked relief on Bahamut's face could make her feel too guilty. "You two are now enrolled in my army. We'll talk later. Hurry now."

Now it felt right. Now she could be the woman Glynn wanted, the woman Two needed.

"What about you?" She asked Enobaria, realizing the dark-skinned victor had made no move to follow.

"I'll be at the Annex. Victor's Village is too exposed."

Too exposed. Lyme stiffened in sudden dread, but she nodded, impulsively grabbing Enobaria's arm in a tight grip. "I'll send word, stay safe."

« What are we going to do? » Wolfe said, looking morbidly excited.

Lyme took one last long look at Brutus' house. « Help District Thirteen take the Nut as fast as possible, with as few casualties as possible. »

Snow had destroyed her family the day he'd read that Quell slip. He'd never get a chance to do the same to her District.

Next chapter, we'll see more of Thirteen and the Capitol. Which character's POV and events do you care the most to see?

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