Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Phil wakes up, the greater half of his bed is empty. For a moment he’s struck with a dull pang of fear, surprise coloring his insides blue when he stretches a hand out, meets rough canvas where his son should be. Then, it hits him. 

It’s Reaping Day, isn’t it? There’s no way to forget that. His panic subsides, his arm recoiling to lie straight across his forehead. Sweaty yellow strands meet his fingers, dust that never quite scrubs out crushed into his knuckles and beneath his nails. There’s just enough light flickering in through his one window, sickly yellow illuminating Wilbur’s silhouette, just outside. 

Phil props himself up on his elbow, cracking his neck with a soft gasp. Swinging his legs off his bed, he slides his feet into heavy leather boots, the steel-toed ends long since carved away. There’s no need to change otherwise, his tunic and slacks enough to sustain him until he’s forced into more formal clothes for The Reaping. On the table beside his bed sits a small package, cheese and something sweet-smelling wrapped in goat leaves, hidden beneath a bowl to conceal it from rats. 

Wilbur doesn’t speak — head tipped against their shack, sunken eyes shut, a low tune mumbled through pursed lips — as Phil passes by, quietly creeping out of their home. The streets, normally bustling by this time, are empty, shutters slammed shut and doors locked as sturdily as they can be. Families gather in silence and in sorrow, taking this one day to have rest from their constant work, even as frightening as the events to come may be. 

It’s an easy feat of dodging through alleyways and slipping under bridges as he makes his way to the field bordering District 12. It’s barely any more than a meadow, torn up and golden with sun, bordered on every side by a chainlink fence. It’s meant to be electrified at all times, but Phil only takes a moment to listen for any hum. It’s silent. And so he slowly leans forward, tucks his stomach to the ground, pulls himself under a small gap he knows all too well.

He’s small enough to fit. The moment he’s on the other side, Phil fetches his bow — expertly carved wood, with a small quiver to match — from where it sits, shoved into a hollow log and very slowly accumulating moss. The fence, for all its quiet, keeps the game out of District 12. Phil knows he plays a dangerous game in traveling across the meadow daily, but it’s one of the only ways for him to get food. 

Distant memories flicker through his mind. A hand against his back, steady footfalls following him deep into the forest. An explosion in the coal mines below District 12 claimed both of his parents when he was only twelve, leaving him alone with an adopted son and not a single cent to his name to sustain the two of them. 

Nightmares still follow him, even nine years later, twisting their sooty hands through his mind and forcing him into tight spaces, into fire, into visions of torn bodies and bloody screams.

But here he is, listening to only the whistling of wind and the far-off sounds of animals that have still not learned fear. They know, though, not to travel towards District 12, just as he knows that he should not be outside of it now. He plays a dangerous game here, looking for animals to hunt. If it weren’t for the unanimous love for fresh meat within the District, Phil is sure he would have been executed by peacekeepers long ago.

Bushes protect him from view as he enters the greater forest, pushing past thickets of nettles and kicking away stones. There’s no need for silence yet as he slips down onto a familiar boulder, kicking his heels onto the sun-warmed surface. 

He leans back on it and he stares up into the trees, expression as impassive as ever. District 12 and the land around it are not a place you learn to be comfortable in. Even now, far away from any visible cameras, Phil has learned caution. 

“Thank you, Wilbur,” he murmurs, remembering to pull out the small basil-wrapped package from within his pockets. It’s slightly squished, but the cheese and blackberries he finds within are refreshing, enough to settle the shaking of his hands and the energetic jittering of his bones. 

The day is an awkward shade of beautiful. Green grass, shimmering creeks, roots and animals  and wild herbs to be harvested. The soft blue sky is only gently touched by the sunrise now, but its majesty is overshadowed by the dark shadow of The Reaping sitting upon it.

A bitter chuckle falls out of his mouth before he can bother to stop it. His accent drifts high and lofty, and he shrugs his body up onto his elbows, surveying the world around him. 

“Hm. May the odds ever be in your favor.”

The Capitol accent is funny to mock, if it is nothing else. In his voice is a warning though, only there to be understood by himself. Phil slides himself off of his boulder and shifts, automatically falling into step with all of the training his parents had been able to give him before they’d died. The animals here don’t know what he intends to do, but they will learn soon enough. He notches an arrow and gets to work.

Game falls into his hands by the pound. Three squirrels, a dozen fish, a rabbit. They string upon his shoulders by early morning, his collection growing with every silent twist of a wrist, release of a finger. Phil’s hair is just dirty enough that it retains the braid he’d twisted into it the night before, kept out of his face and trailing down the side of his head, onto his chest.

The forest is like an old friend if Phil can call anyone that. He has known it since long before his parents were killed or he met his son or even before he learned to shoot, and it treats him well for his troubles, letting him hunt well until the sun is up and clear in the sky. From then it’s only a matter of wrapping his bow and arrows back up within its original home and crawling back out from the fence.

The Hob — or, as the Peacekeepers call it, The Black Market — is well into its daytime rush. No one has time to pause this sort of selling and shopping. The Reaping is a normal enough occasion that the sort of people who work here don’t care much. Phil has no trouble passing off his food, though several people try to downpay him. They give up quickly. He’s a regular. There’s no point in trying to trick someone who has been buying from you for years.

Phil walks back home in silence. There’s no one to greet or to worry about. There’s just him, his wares, and the fact that his name is sitting on twenty-seven separate sheets of paper just at the edge of the town square. 

One for him and every year since he turned twelve. That makes nine. Eighteen more come from tesserae. Meager rations of grain and oil for one person, the food he’s been forced to sell his life off for since he was a child. Both Wilbur and Phil qualify for tesserae now, his son twelve, the age that condemns you to the reaping. But if Phil can help it, Wilbur’s name will never have extra spots in that drawing. 

It is his last year, after all. He can get a job. Now that he is twenty-one — the age that separates “child” and “adult” to the people who pit kids against each other in a deathmatch — he hasn’t got long to go until he no longer qualifies at all.

Wilbur is gone from the porch by the time Phil finds his way home again. But there’s the flickering light of a candle inside, and he’s greeted with a smile when he opens the door.

“Hey,” says Wilbur tiredly, shoving the tail end of his shirt into his trousers. He looks lovely — freshly bathed, wearing his nicest button-down — and Phil smiles back, kicking his shoes off at the door. 

Phil scrubs off the dirt and wear from the forest while Wilbur busies himself with sorting and organizing the trades he’s returned with. From there, it’s a simple matter of pulling on his nicest clothes, something his father once would have worn to funerals or marriages. There isn’t much to be done in the ways of beauty and vanity in District 12. Not when coal pervades every inch of the earth, and when you are more likely to smell of soot and ash than perfume at any given time.

But he motions Wilbur over anyways, and his son helps him brush through his hair in silence. There’s no need to speak. This is a familiar routine, with the two of them combing each other’s long strands into a state neat enough to braid. Phil braids his own across the back of his head and onto his shoulder, letting it sit upon his back. Wilbur’s hair, much shorter, earns one neat braid on the side and nothing else.

“Tuck your tail in, little sparrow,” Phil murmurs, pulling the back of Wilbur’s shirt back into a smoothed position. It calms his anxiety. 

Wilbur just laughs, batting Phil’s hands away and tucking the fabric in by himself. “Chirp chirp.”

“Pfft.” A light laugh. Phil leans over and presses a soft kiss to Wilbur’s forehead. “Chirp yourself.”

Neither of them has much appetite. They forgo an afternoon meal, promising to eat something big for dinner — because neither of them are willing to face the idea that they might not be home for that. At one they head towards the town square, only just before the usual Reaping-rush begins. Most families chose to spend as much time at home as they can. Wilbur and Phil prefer to get it over with.

Camera crews herald the arrival of The Capitol’s nonsense like buzzards. Banners span down rooftops and encompass windows. Despite the sunshine, the town square is filled with an aura of grimness, people silently filing into lines and waiting to be cataloged. 

Wilbur doesn’t have to be convinced to join the growing group of twelve-year-olds at the front of the line. Not like some children — clawing at their parent’s arms, begging, whimpering. Phil’s heart clenches at the idea that his son is already so desensitized to this. But he joins his own group readily, not willing to be late.

There’s a sense of grim understanding in the rest of the 21-year-olds he joins. They’ve spent years putting their name in that cup, the huge glass bowl sitting on the podium above them. They’ve spent years doubling their chances for their families, tesserae the only reason some of them are still alive. This year brings their final chance to participate in the games. It does not make them any less anxious. 

The stage only has three seats. One for the mayor. One for the escort from The Capitol, Quackity, with his bright blue suit, his feather-adorned hair. The two of them glance nervously at the final chair, where the only victor District 12 has born in decades should be sitting. Phil almost snorts. He can’t smell alcohol anywhere around, so Jschlatt has probably not arrived yet.

They are filed into neat rows of children. Peacekeepers border them on every side, white outfits stormy and jagged. Phil cannot see his son amongst the crowd, but there’s no point in looking. Wilbur is safe. His name is one slip in a bowl out of thousands, and Phil has taken the brunt of their tesserae.

The mayor steps onto the podium above them and starts to read with a squeal of a cheap microphone. It’s the same story as it always is, monotonous droll about traitors and rebellion and then the love that The Capitol brought in the wake of war. Panem, born of war, with The Hunger Games as a reminder of what came before.

The tributes are gift to a past that no one left alive ever had a hand in orchestrating, a rebellion with long-dead leaders. They show the fullest families and the weakest orphans both that resisting The Capitol is futile. Nothing more. 

Next, the mayor reads off the names of all the past tributes. The only one left alive is Jschlatt, a sallow-looking drunk in his early thirties, staggering up onto the stage and settling into his chair. He smells violently of liquor. Good, Phil thinks. This is all being televised. Let District 12 embarrass itself. It’ll be funny to watch the tapes later on.

Clearly scuffed by Jschlatt’s ridiculous performance, the mayor moves on to call up the escort. Quackity gives the whole world a bubbly grin — up at the cameras, not the people — and traipses across the stage, bright blue suit painful to behold. 

“Happy Hunger Games,” he says to start with. Phil can mouth along to every bit of this part. “And may the odds be ever in your favor!”

Phil tunes out the rest of his speech. Finally, though, he spots Wilbur through the crowd, giving his father a wry grin. They know better than the make a spectacle by laughing at Quackity, but sharing a small thing like this rarely means any harm.

But then Quackity starts walking towards the bowl, and Wilbur’s expression turns stormy. Phil knows it’s on his behalf. His son had tried to convince him to not take as much tesserae for years, afterall. He doesn’t understand — Phil has no choice. 

“Who’s first?” says Quackity mystersiously, and he sweeps a gloved hand into the bowl, brushing his fingers across the slips of paper within it like the crowd isn’t holding its breath, like Phil’s stomach doesn’t roll with knots and feverish worry right now. 

Quackity plucks a slip out of the thousands and unfolds it, nodding when the name becomes clear. Phil begs the world for a miracle. Don’t let it be him. 

“Wilbur Soot.”

Wind whistles through the square. People are whispering, murmuring unhappily like they always do when some poor twelve year old gets chosen on their first year. Someone grips Phil’s arm tightly beside him. 

It’s a mistake.

Wilbur’s name is one out of tens of thousands. It is a single slip of paper within that stupid glass bowl, the light reflecting off it so bright that it’s blinding. Wilbur is safe. Phil did everything right. He took the tesserae, he protected his son, he did everything right. 

But there he is. White-faced, jaw clenched. His braids have begun to come undone like they always do when he picks at them in anxiety. Wilbur steps out from the crowd on jerky, stumbling steps, hands made into fists at his sides.

His shirt is untucked. It hangs behind him like a little sparrow’s tail, and everything comes crashing back. 

“Wilbur,” Phil says, breaking the frozen silence around him. The name comes out strangled and butchered. But then Phil is rushing forward, past the other spectators, past the peacekeepers, before anyone can blink or try to stop him. “Wilbur!”

He reaches his son just before the boy makes it to the edge of the platform, shoving him roughly behind his back. Phil gasps, staring up into Quackity’s expressionless eyes with a silent plea. 

There is no mercy, though. Wilbur has been selected as tribute. There is only one thing to be done.

“I volunteer,” Phil says, and he feels the whole world swim to a stop. “I volunteer as tribute!”

For a moment the entire district is struck with silence. Quackity starts to say something about protocol, but then the mayor is speaking, and Phil, too stunned to move, is gestured forward with a lazy hand. 

“No,” comes from behind him, and noise returns to color the world purple. Phil turns to the feeling of a hand catching on his arm, small and shaking violently. “No, dad. No- you- you can’t go. No.”

“Let go, Wil,” Phil says, though his voice is dry and cracked and he feels a bit like vomiting as Wilbur pulls closer to his back. He feels his son dig his head into his back, pull at his arms, trying desperately to hold him close. Phil’s voice breaks as he turns, breaking Wilbur’s hold on his arms. “Let go!”

He can’t cry because of this. He can’t. But Wilbur sits there at the bottom of the steps, staring, one arm still held out to reach for Phil. His expression isn’t one of fear. He doesn’t cry. But his eyes are huge, his face utterly lost. 

Phil leaves his son on the ground and ascends the podium. He will not cry. 

“Well bravo,” Quackity squeals, looking as if he’s more excited to finally be in a district with some action than he is worried about Wilbur. Of course he is. It still makes Phil want to shove his fist through the asshole’s teeth. “That is the spirit of the Games! What’s your name?”

“Philza,” he says on instinct, though he is still unable to tear his eyes away from Wilbur. He’s returned to the lines now, dragged back by some pitying woman, who looks anywhere but Phil. He doesn’t recognize her. But he recognizes Wilbur, who is pale as paper, who is shaking with silent sobs. “Philza Craft.”

“And I’ll bet that was your kiddo, wasn’t he? How cute. Don’t want him to steal all the glory.” Quackity steps forward and places a hand on Phil’s shoulder. It grounds him, but he still wishes he could tear it away. “Alright, everyone. Let’s give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!”

Phil is filled with dull relief when not a single person claps. Perhaps it’s because they knew his parents. Perhaps they’ve seen him at the Hob. Perhaps District 12 is simply too frozen to act, standing there and staring up at the first volunteer tribute they have ever seen. Perhaps they just know Wilbur, the charismatic son of a hunter. The greatest form of rebellion Phil’s hometown can muster is silence, and he thanks them for it.

But Phil should know to expect the unexpected, shouldn’t he? Especially on this morning where the odds have broken down and now he stands in their place. District 12 lifts the three middle fingers of their hands and presses their lips to them in silence. They are thanking him. They are saying goodbye. 

Phil is not well-liked. But he sees this gesture of solidarity as a thousand hands swim into the sky, a three-fingered salute to a man they all know has just been condemned to death. Wilbur stands amongst it all and stares, his expression one of anguish, his hand held high.

He’s really about to cry by the time Jschlatt breaks through it all. The drunk comes staggering across the podium to congratulate Phil, half-dressed in a shitty suit that smells strongly of liquor and all the worst bits of humanity. 

“Look’a you,” he slurs, throwing an arm across Phil’s shoulders. “You’ve- you’ve got fire. You’re a… fuckin’ spunky one!”

He makes forward. Phil expects some sort of speech as Jschlatt releases his arm, teeters at the edge of the stage. He glares up at a camera crew, pointing at it, letting out a burp-

And then he plummets to the ground, knocking himself unconscious. It’s disgusting, peacekeepers walking up to retrieve him, but with the cameras trained on Jschlatt, Phil has a split second to release the choked sound in the back of his throat, caught between a sob and a laugh. He has his hysteria back under wraps by the time he’s under scrutiny again, facing off into the midday sun.

Jschlatt is rolled off on a stretcher. Quackity resumes his position beside the bowl in the middle of the podium, regaining his composure eerily quickly. 

“Well, what an exciting day.” A pause. A grin stretches his face. His canines are filed into fangs. “But, more excitingly, time for our second tribute!”

It starts again, though Phil isn’t worried. Wilbur’s name has been drawn already, and he only had one slip. He will be safe. So Quackity drags his hands through the paper in the bowl beneath him and he smiles, snatching out another slip between his thumb and his pointer finger, painted a bright red.

“Technoblade.”

Oh. Of course, it would be him. Phil has never spoken to the boy directly, but the odds are not in his favor today, are they? 

The man in question makes his way to the stage without a flinch. Long, blush-pink hair, tied up in a simple braid down his back. He’s of a large build, muscular and tall. If it were anyone else, Phil would think he was still processing his name being called. But no — Technoblade’s face isn’t one of confusion, it’s of acceptance. As if he knew this was coming, somehow. 

This time the volunteer protocol is not ignored. Quackity asks for someone to come forward, but no one does. Technoblade assumes his spot beside Phil, and neither of them faces each other. No words or pleasantries are shared. 

Phil tries to convince himself Technoblade doesn’t remember the one time they’ve interacted. He listens to Quackity drone on and on and he ignores the memories until he can’t and he thinks, and he returns. 

Phil’s parents died when he was twelve and left him alone with a three-year-old boy who already called him father. He’d been given a small amount of money to cover a month of grieving. After that, he would be expected to get a job.

He didn’t. He couldn’t. Who would take a weakened orphan child with a son, who would give Phil any money at all? No one, he quickly found, not without threatening to report him to the community house. His predicament wasn’t strictly legal, but forging papers was not a hard business. He was left alone with Wilbur and that was fine enough until he realized just how easy it was to starve. 

But the money ran out and the two began to fall apart. Phil had never had any reason to sign up for tesserae before, and so he didn’t, but he found himself quickly regretting that. Wilbur and his father would be long dead by the time that date for signups rolled their way anyways. So they began to starve.

It isn’t at all an uncommon fate in District 12. But Phil had always assumed he would be safe, his parents providing just enough that his stomach never bloated and his cough never grew above a whisper. But then they died, and the grieving money ran out, and Phil couldn’t find a job. And he began to die.

His only encounter with Technoblade had been on a rainy March morning, cutting through the mud and churning up the earth. Phil’s father’s hunting jacket had been useless against the cold, soaked through with all-consuming wet. He’d been trying to sell baby clothes. There had not been any buyers. And then he’d dropped them, and he’d swelled up with hopelessness, and maybe he could rest, if only for a moment?

But he had not bent over to pick up the clothes. Who was Phil to sit here and cry over useless cloth, when Wilbur sat at home, sustained by nothing but boiled water and mint leaves? It’s not that Phil has ever been a perfect father. Wilbur isn’t even his son, left to him only by his own rights. But he’d had a duty to his son, to the only person left alive he cared for. 

So he’d picked himself up from the mud and he’d continued onwards. Phil found himself stumbling through the wealthiest neighborhood of the town, passing through what was essentially the backyards of businesspeople, chancing death in a last-ditch effort to find food.

All forms of stealing are punishable by death in District 12 and many places beyond. But Phil had been desperate, and trashcans were fair game, were they not? So he’d crept behind awnings and he’d trembled as he’d dug through the bags, shaking as the bitter cold of the rain pervaded every inch of his tiny bones. The trash had all been emptied. He was left alone, covered in mud, soaked and coughing.

The baker’s home had exuded a smell so overwhelming Phil had fallen over on top of their bins, bare, weak feet sliding around on the stone beneath them, hands scrambling for purchase on the tiny surface of the cans. He’d opened the lid, eyes wide, hope rising at the scent coming from within-

Only to be utterly disappointed. The bin had been emptied as all the others had been. The door to the bakery had slammed open moments after he’d replaced the lid of the can, bright orange light flooding the ground outside, cascading across the rain.

Phil had startled away with a gasp, skinny legs no longer able to hold him up. The baker’s wife had stood in the doorway and screamed, voice a shrill whistle that pounded through Phil’s head, sent him careening away and falling against a barren apple tree. He’d collapsed, falling down to the ground, legs twisted at odd angles before him, too exhausted to adjust. And, he’d known:

This was where he was going to die.

It wasn’t dramatics. It wasn’t petulance. It wasn’t a child’s wish, calling out for their parents, for mercy, for anyone. It was what Phil had known, deep in his chest. Wilbur would be left alone and Phil would be found in the morning, curled up beneath that tree with sightless eyes, so soaked in rain that his chest would surely begin to rot.

There had been a scream and a shout. The backdoor to the bakery had slammed open, light flooding his eyes and leaving his reeling again. Despite his state, he’d only sat there, hands limp in the dirt and eyelashes brushing up against his sunken cheekbones, ready to accept whatever blows he’d be given, whatever sharp thing would be thrown his way. The baker was screaming, something about pigs and burnt bread and insolence and-

And then something landed at his feet.

Phil’s eyes had taken several moments to open, dragged shut with the force of his exhaustion. Rain had glued his eyelashes shut, pressed his lips together, no longer chattering. When he’d regained his vision a form had stood before him, haloed in the golden light still filtering in through the bakery windows. 

His cheek had been bright purple with a bruise, his crimson red eyes stormy, one of them already swelling shut, wet trickling down his face and plastering his skin with soot. Pink hair had whipped about in the wind, already soaked after only moments standing outside. His apron had driften lightly above his thighs. Phil had remembered comparing the gentle white fabric to that of an Angel’s robes, before Technoblade — utterly human — had registered before him. The boy had been holding a loaf of bread.

The other had been at Phil’s feet in the mud. The boy had tossed the second loaf of bread and then sloshed back through the mud without another word, slamming the door to the bakery shut with a bang.

For a moment Phil had only been able to stare at the loaves with open-mouthed disbelief. There was no way the boy was giving them to him. They were perfectly fine, save for the burnt bits on the bottom. But- but he must have intended them for Phil, because there they were, sitting at his feet. 

Before the boy could return or the baker’s wife could come out, Phil lurched forward, ripping the loaves off the ground and shoving them into his jacket, shielding them from the freezing rain as best he could. 

He had cut through that bread and split one loaf with Wilbur for dinner that night, pouring them tea with hands that shook both from hunger and excitement. They’d been good and hearty loaves, too, filled with raisins and oats. It had felt like salvation. 

Technoblade had been there the next day at school, though his eye had swollen shut, and he did not acknowledge Phil. 

The first dandelion of the year had been in the schoolyard when Phil entered, and he had remembered the meadow outside of District 12. Something had gone off in his head, and he had realized that perhaps, he had a chance.

Technoblade looks different today, scarred and older, but still just as bulky and imposing. His bright red eyes scan the crowd without a thought out of place or exposed, his hands folded neatly behind his back. Phil can’t shake the feeling that the other man is staring at him, even if his eyes are a million miles away. 

Phil doesn’t want to have to kill Technoblade. Especially because he has never thanked the boy for his good deed years ago, for saving Phil and his son. But there will be 24 of them in the Games, and perhaps one of them will slit their throats before they even speak. 

The odds have not been in his favor today. But he can hope.

Chapter Text

Wilbur stares at Phil with an expression of anger and grief.

And then he climbs up onto Phil’s lap, the two of them silent as the younger slings his arms around Phil’s shoulders, sniffles, buries his face into his father’s neck. The elder just slips his head atop Wilbur’s, chin settling on his crown and hands running gently across his back despite the violent shake they’ve gathered.

“You’re going to have to forage,” Phil murmurs, shivering fingers sliding up and down Wilbur’s spine soothingly. “Sell my clothes. They’ll give you enough money to sustain yourself while I’m gone, but you need to-”

“Shut up,” Wilbur whispers hoarsely. He nudges Phil’s head off his own and unwinds one of his hands, wiping at the wetness in his eyes with the back of his palm and looking up to glare. “I hate you.”

Phil’s silent for a moment, looking down at his son and trying not to cry. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

The two simply stare, alone in the room Phil’s meant to wait it, and on the crushed velvet surface of their bench, far lusher than anything either of them has ever been allowed to touch. Then Wilbur leans forward, sucking in a breath and nuzzling his head into Phil’s shoulder, back shaking with a hiccuping sob. Phil hushes him softly, leaning in and continuing to drag a soothing hand down his back. 

“You- you’re a good shot. You’re fast and- and - you’re smart. You have a shot.” Wilbur shudders. It’s clear to both of them that he’s trying to convince himself more than he is trying to reassure Phil. “You’re- you’ll be ok, Phil. You’re gonna win and- and you’re gonna be ok. You’re ok.”

Phil will not come home on that train back to District 12 in a few month’s time. Phil will be one of those canons that announces a death in the arena, and he will leave Wilbur to be taken by a community home. It’s not merciful in the slightest, but it’s better than Wilbur being in the Games at all, and so Phil accepts his fate. 

“Maybe,” he says, because he doesn’t want Wilbur to know death has already marked him. “Then we’ll be as rich as Jschlatt, hm?”

“Jschlatt’s a prick. I don’t care. You will try, though, won’t you? You’ll try?”

Phil nods, because it’s Wilbur, and goddamnit, he’s going to try. He won’t win. But the thought of giving up before the end is something he cannot bear. Not when he knows that Wilbur will be forced to watch. 

“You’re allowed to wear something from your district, right?” Wilbur straightens out and stares at Phil, mouth a grim line. He looks far too old for his age, fluffy hair frazzled and eyes wide. But at Phil’s nod, he leans over, reaching into his pocket.

“Remember that time I sang at graduation?” he says, voice hushed as if they’re sharing a secret. “They gave me this.”

It’s a small golden pin in the shape of a bird. Phil squints, something about the figure familiar, but then the door opens, and-

“I love you,” Wilbur warbles, as he’s led away, as a peacekeeper separates them.

“I love you,” Phil repeats desperately, clinging at the pin. “You’ll be ok.”

He’s not sure who he’s speaking to anymore. But the door shuts and Wilbur’s frightened face is burned into his retinas and he curls inward, pressing his head into one of the nearby pillows and squeezing his eyes shut, knees tucked to his chin. There’s nothing left to do. He just waits until he is retrieved.

The drive to the train station is an odd one. He’s never actually driven in a car before, and his stomach twists with knots at every bump, every time dust overtakes his vision. But he’s right to not have cried on his way here. The station teems with greedy reporters, screaming at him the instant he steps from his car, trying to steady himself. The place itself is wide arches and the open sky, a hill tumbling down on the other side of the train. Much of it is glass, reflecting the sun and burning into Phil’s eyes.

Technoblade joins him at the edge of the train’s doors a few moments later. He has not cried either, though Phil doesn’t think he has much to cry for anyways. He looks stoic, bored. In the cameras, Phil realizes his own face looks angry.

Good. Let them wonder what he is. Let them ask why he doesn’t cry, and why he glares instead.

After a few minutes of reporters scanning them head to toe, the train doors open. People wave and shout their praises as Phil and Technoblade are escorted within, the front room breathtakingly beautiful. They are greeted immediately by polished wooden floors, walls the color of cream, chairs and tables all carved with intricate patterns and laid out with velvet fabric. It’s far too elaborate to bear, lit up with a soft white light from above, nothing like the off-yellow and flickering LEDs District 12 is used to.

The train starts to move immediately. Both of them stumble, nearly bumping into the walls. Right. This train is nothing like District 12’s transport ones. It’s a high-speed vehicle, and they’ll be at The Capitol within the day. Away from Wilbur. Away from home.

“You don’t think-”

Whatever it is Technoblade had been going to say goes unfinished. Quackity stomps into the room, bright red shoes atrocious beneath his colorful suit. He claps, smiling broadly up at the tributes before him. They are both taller than he is, though his mere presence makes him feel quite a bit larger than the plainly dressed men he stares at.

“He- llo there,”he says  breathlessly, before he rushes forward, grabbing Phil’s hands and shaking them roughly. He flinches away, breaking the handshake before it can finish. Quackity doesn’t seem worried, though, just grinning toothily and turning to Technoblade to do the same. Phil’s fellow tribute seems just as disgruntled by the display as him. “And welcome to the Games, my friends!”

Phil has half a mind to say something about Quackity very much not being his friend. But he’s whisked away by his shoulder a moment later, shoved forward when Quackity starts leading the two of them further in the train.

They’re given an abbreviated tour. It’s clear they’re having the greater area of the train concealed to them, but their living quarters are big enough to compensate. Sprawling, four-room suites, a kitchen, a bathroom, a living room, and a bedroom all pressed together in a space so large Phil feels naked. 

He supposes he should get used to it, seeing as he’s going to be thrown into a many mile-long enclosure with twenty-four other people quite soon. But for now, he only marvels at extravagant wardrobes filled with clothes fit for a king — or seven — a private bathroom with running water, and a kitchen stocked enough to sustain him for years. 

Quackity leaves him alone in his quarters, though he’s sure there are cameras tracking his every move. He is left to do whatever he wants so long as he promises to be ready for dinner. And, already, that sounds daunting.

Phil starts with a shower. He’s never had the fortune of having one before and is hopelessly lost until he spots the small user’s manual slid into a placard on the wall. There are far too many gadgets and add-ons, so he simply heats the water as high as it can go and steps within.

It blasts between his shoulders and bruises his skin. It washes away decades of soot, so much so that the water turns black as it trickles to the ground. It burns, hot and painful, but he does not shy away, simply too numb to care about how red his skin gets and how much he shivers when he leaves the spray.

Folding his original clothes on his bed, he pulls on a simple green shirt that feels so soft he could sleep in it, the fabric a soft shade of moss green. His pants are another matter entirely, the fabric so gentle that he could weep. 

He doesn’t, though. Instead, he turns to his old clothes, digging through the pockets as he remembers the small gift his son had given him. 

It’s a gold circle, thin, hollow, the carved-out inside inlaid with a bird. Upon closer inspection, Phil understands what it is. A crow.

They’re birds he admires, and something of a slap in the face to The Capitol. During the rebellion, before The Hunger Games, The Capitol bred a series of mutated animals, cruelly designated mutts. One had been a special breed of bird called Jabberjays, created with the ability to memorize and repeat any word they’d ever heard. 

Unassuming, black-and-white, they’d been released into known rebel bases, where they would memorize whole conversations of info and then relay them to their handlers in The Capitol. It backfired — in a move Phil can only laugh at internally — and the rebellion leaders began to feed the birds gibberish. 

The jabberjays had been released into the wild, and The Capitol had urged them to die off. Only they hadn’t, and they’d ended up reproducing with the common crow. 

Nowadays, crow’s DNA is so mixed with the jabberjay DNA that no one bothers making the distinction between the common crow and the mutated ones. Phil brushes his fingers across the one on the pin, smiling at the way only the wingtips hit the edges. 

Phil remembers one of the few times he took his son out to the forest edging District 12. Wilbur is known through the district as being oddly musical — especially for someone living in a place like the god-forsaken Seam. He’d seen the crows before. He’d heard his father hum along to their tune. But nothing could have prepared Phil for when his son took to the song, leading the crows in a chorus so lovely it sounded otherworldly. 

He thinks of that now, as he pins it to his shirt. It slides up against his chest and then the cool metal smooths, just over his heart, reminding him of his son.

There’s a knock on the door. Phil startles up from the bed beneath him — his bed? — on impulse, hands falling to his sides. The door slides open a moment later and Quackity is there, wearing a slightly less formal suit, the jacket gone, his pristine white button-down replaced by a black one. 

“Dinnertime,” he says shortly, smiling again. It’s unnerving. Phil does not speak as he follows.

Technoblade is already sitting at the table by the time the two of them arrive. It’s dark wood, matching the color of the floors almost perfectly. Large windows on all sides cast the food in soft, orange light, piles and piles of mouthwatering looking things on china dishes mocking Phil as they sit there and steam.

“Did Jschlatt not accompany you down?” Quackity looks at Technoblade with a sympathetic expression.

“He’s sleeping,” Technoblade says gruffly. He shuffles himself upwards in his chair as Phil and Quackity sit.

“Well. It’s been a long day, ay?”

No one laughs. Technoblade picks up a fork and starts scraping the edge of his plate. Phil waits to be served.

The food is sickeningly rich. It comes in courses, starting with a thick potato soup, salad with a rainbow of colors, meat that Phil has never even heard of, cheese and fruit and cake. Quackity continues to remind both Technoblade and Phil to save space for more as the food comes, but the two of them are both too busy shoving themselves with more food than they’ve ever eaten in their entire lives.

Phil knows it’s foolish to eat so much right now. But he’s skinny and he’s short from years of malnourishment, so putting on a few extra pounds before the games can’t hurt him. Technoblade seems to be of a similar mind — though he isn’t a small man by any means. 

“At least you’ve got good manners,” Quackity says distastefully. “The pair I had last year ate with their hands. It was so gross I just about lost my lunch.”

Phil remembers the two kids that came before him. They’d been Seam residents that had been so malnourished they’d regularly missed school due to weakness. Technoblade is a baker’s son, and Phil’s parents — former residents of the business sector in District 12 — had taught him his manners. They’ve had the luxury of forks and knives and napkins.

Technoblade sets his fork down with an obvious clatter. Phil is surprised as he watches the other man do exactly as he does. They both move back to their plates and brush their napkins away, picking up the lamb chops in front of them with their fingers. Quackity splutters — but does not comment — as the two of them eat with their hands.

“S’ good,” Technoblade says dryly before he wipes his greasy fingers off on the table. Quackity looks away in what Phil hopes is shame.

Phil soon regrets his decision to eat so much food. Technoblade looks just as green as he feels, but they stoically keep the food down, walking with Quackity down to another train compartment. 

Here, they watch the other reapings. Phil is careful to examine all the faces of his competitors. Only a few stand out as interesting. A fox-faced young adult with fiery red hair in District 11. A mute boy from District 10. A kind-looking girl who leaps at her chance to volunteer — leaving behind all facade of mercy — from District 1. 

Phil has to look away when a boy of only twelve is selected from District 11. He’s tiny, far too reminiscent of Wil. His parents are two former tributes. Tubbo, the charismatic Capitol favorite who won a game not long ago. Ranboo, who suffered from a mental break after his own game — and moved from District 4 to District 11 in order to live with his husband. They look both parts numb and devastated as their son steps onto the podium, wide eyes blinking back tears, overalls oversized and swamping him as he steps, light pink hair flickering in the evening wind.

The commentators don’t know what to say when Phil calls out to volunteer, voice rough and fearful. Every bit of his panic is starkly displayed on the tv screen as he rushes forward, as Wilbur’s dawning horror becomes clear, as he begs for Phil to come back. They’re silent for a moment when the salute plays, though they make some lame remark about charming local traditions.

The two of them fall into a fit of poised giggles when Jschlatt tumbles off the stage. Quackity, sitting in a chair off to the side, just purses his lips.

“That idiot has a lot to learning about presentation. And being sober.”

Technoblade lets out an unexpected laugh, uncrossing his arms and sneering. “He’s a drunk. He’s always doing that. Might as well let it run its course.”

“Let the blood poisoning set in,” Phil remarks, laughing a little beside himself. Quackity kicks a leg out petulantly as if Jschlatt’s crippling alcoholism is some little manner problem that can be straightened out.

“Yeah. Great to see that you two are taking your lifeline in the games seriously,” Quackity says, grin sharpening. He waves a vague hand in their direction. “Jschlatt might be the difference between your life and your death.”

The door slams open a moment later. No one has a chance to speak when the man in question staggers in, shirt hanging off his chest loosely, hands shaking in the white-knuckled grip they hold on the door.

“I miss food?” 

Jschlatt burps. Then he doubles over, hand fisting into his stomach as he expells chunks of disgusting-smelling pink goop. He falls over in his own sick and groans. Quackity lets out a sharp bark of a laugh and exits the room, kicking Jschlatt’s ankle as he goes.

Phil and Technoblade are left alone in the room as their mentor struggles weakly in a miserable effort to stand. The scent of vomit and spirits rises, and soon enough — and with some unspoken agreement — Technoblade and Phil walk over, lifting the man by his legs and his armpits and tugging him off the ground.

“I f’ll over?” Jschlatt slurs, head lolling backward and red-rimmed eyes staring up at Technoblade. 

The man grunts, leaving the question unanswered.

“You got sick, mate,” Phil says, even if it doesn’t really matter. Jschlatt will surely have forgotten all of this by morning. 

The two of them carry Jschlatt back to his compartment, ignoring his rambles and babbles as they drag him. They toss him into the bathtub of his shower and turn on a warm spray of water, though he only tips his head back and starts trying to drink it, giggling.

“I’ll take it from here,” Phil says, eyeing the vomit on the man’s shirt and the soap bottles on the wall with thinly veiled disgust. Technoblade, rinsing puke off his hands in the sink, looks over and cocks his head confusedly. 

“You’re not just gonna call someone?” 

Phil shrugs. He hadn’t thought of that, though he purses his lips, smiles in a “what-can-you-do?” manner. “I’ve got two perfectly good hands. And I need something to do.”

Technoblade eyes him for a moment longer. They’re both twenty-one. It’s their last year to join the games. They should be at home, celebrating with their families. Instead, they’re here, washing vomit off of the man that is supposed to be training them.

Technoblade shakes his head and rolls his sleeves up. A moment later, Phil is surprised, as he watches the other man lean over the tub, unbuttoning Jschlatt’s shirt and tugging the sodden fabric off of him without a word. 

They work in silence. There’s no need for conversation. They leave Jschlatt in his underwear and manage a few of the shower settings, soaking the man in so much soap his skin turns a shade of neon pink before it’s rinsed. They can’t figure out the drying system, though, so they just pull him back up off the ground, soaking themselves and their new clothes in the process.

Phil deposits Jschlatt on his bed while he’s still soaking, as Technoblade slides a towel beneath him. The man curls up in a ball and moans pitifully to himself, fingers grasping for an invisible bottle. They part ways after that, walking down opposite ends of the hallway after finishing their oddly domestic task.

Phil is no stranger to survival. He’s lived and breathed instincts for well over two decades, forced to scavenge, to hunt, to cheat, to survive. He can still remember the first time he remembered that he knew how to live — staring at a dandelion on the school lot, Technoblade’s back advancing farther off the land. 

He’d gone to the meadow that night, leaving Wilbur at home and scavenging the whole field free of dandelions. They’d gorged themselves on salad and they’d very nearly gotten sick. 

Ever since then, it had been a process of relearning old skills, things his parents had once taught him. Phil is no stranger to surviving, but tonight he sits, cheek pressed to the lid of his toilet, and he throws up food he might have once killed to eat.

It comes up and burns his throat. It smells acrid and disgusting, but he only moans, holding his hair out of the constant stream and holding back tears. It’s funny- he’s unable to cry over his imminent death, but he can cry over throwing up. 

Phil strips out of his soaked clothes and throws them on the floor, barely managing to press his pin into the dressed beside his bed with how badly his hands are shaking. It reminds him once again that he has left Wilbur alone. But he just slides into the bed in this foreign room, foregoing nightclothes and wearing only his boxers. The sheets and blankets above him are far too heavy, and he kicks them away, clutching at his shoulders, tucking his knees to his chin.

The train shifts, ever so slightly, when you really focus on it. He’s cold without any blankets, but he’s used to it. So Phil allows himself to be slid into darkness, choking down all of his tears until he can process them better. This, still, is no place to cry. (Where is?)

---

He wakes up to a sharp knock on his door and to grey light flickering in through the open windows against his wall, warming him just enough that his chronically aching joints don’t send him immediately into a fit of snaps and groans. 

“Morning, sleepyhead!” Cries Quackity through the door, his rapping neverending. Phil picks up a bible from the table beside him and chucks it at the door. The noise stops.

“Fuck,” he hisses, twisting around and massaging at the small of his back. Falling off of trees and taking too many hits doesn’t leave him thanking himself. But he stands, because there’s no time for petulance, kicking his clothes from yesterday out of the way. Phil pulls on a dark blue tunic and a pair of slacks because he refuses to lean into The Capitol’s ridiculous fashion standards.

They’re surely almost there anyways. Then, his stylist will take over, and he’ll be remade regardless. 

Quackity brushes past him and downs a handful of white pills when Phil enters the dining car. Jschlatt is giggling to himself and staring at a basket of rolls that would have fed Phil and Wilbur for a month. Technoblade is holding a mug of some thick brown liquid and quietly avoiding everyone else.

Phil slides into his seat and is immediately served a massive plate of food. Eggs, sausages, potatoes, fruit. There’s a glass of something shocking and yellow-orange in front of him. He tries it and finds that it tastes like oranges, too. He’s only had the luxury to try them once — he’d bought one for Wilbur on New Years, long ago, and the boy had given him half — but there are six or seven sitting at this table alone.

He halves the platter and finds himself utterly stuffed. Observing his fellow inhabitants of the dining car is a boring affair. Technoblade sips from a cup of coffee that smells heavenly. Quackity mutters over the tv screen in the back as the daily news of The Capitol plays. Jschlatt thins a bright red liquid with something from a flask, humming to himself drunkenly.

Phil realizes quite suddenly why no one ever wins the Hunger Games in District 12. They’re underfed and undertrained, but some past tributes have been meaty enough to have a go at it. No, it isn’t those that are chosen. It’s Jschlatt. Slimy, drunken, Jschlatt, who spends more time sipping whiskey than he does trying to help the children he’s been charged with saving. Sponsors and donators expect someone classier than this watered-down and brainless idiot.

Phil says as much, though in far fewer words, and in a way that might have been polite if not for his tone. “So you’re supposed to be helping us, eh?”

The elder man pauses in his drinking to let out a snort, leveling Phil with one narrowed eye. “Here’s some advice. Stay alive.”

And then he bellows out a laugh, leaning back in his seat. It’s a shriek of a thing, and Phil’s eye twitches, and-

And then, before anyone can react, there’s red liquid spreading all across the tablecloth, and Jschlatt’s hand jerks back when a knife narrowly misses it. Phil flexes his fingers as the weapon flies out from between them, landing in the glass of Jschlatt’s crystal cup and shattering it entirely.

“Real fuckin’ funny,” he snarks, leaning in. 

Jschlatt leans back in retaliation. But he doesn’t return for another drink, lifting his hands up placatingly. Phil slides back into his seat, trying to regulate the way his chest pounds, the adrenaline rushing through him. He presses a hand to the pin against his heart. Not yet. 

“Seems like I’ve caught myself some fighters this year then, eh?”

“You’ve caught something,” says Technoblade, in a tone that suggests he’s mildly impressed. 

Jschlatt nods, expression wavering. It settles on curiosity, and he leans over, plucking the steak knife Phil had thrown off the ground and setting it on the table in front of him. 

“Can y’ hit anything other than cups with that throw?”

Phil picks up the knife. The bow and arrow is his primary weapon, but he’s good with a blade in a pinch. Jschlatt is looking to be impressed, so Phil tosses the knife, surprised to see it lodged between two wall panels when he looks up. 

“That’s something then.” Jschlatt turns back to the table and plunks an elbow against it, pointing at Technoblade. “You. Have you got any talent?”

The man in question shrugs. He leans over when prompted, though, plucking another knife — a butter knife, actually, and at first, Phil thinks it won’t even sink into anything — off the table and throwing it almost lazily.

It slides into the panel Phil had hit, only a few inches above. It wavers, but remains there, three inches deep into the wall. 

Jschlatt lets out a low whistle and gestures to the middle of the room. “Stand over there.”

They obey without comment, though Phil does mourn the loss of his orange juice. Jschlatt circles them and pokes and prods as they stand, side by side, letting out little hums and unintelligible comments every so often.

“You’re both pretty enough,” he remarks lamely, and Phil shivers as the man brushes fingers through his hair. “Once the stylists get to you, you’ll be popular.”

There’s a moment's pause. Jschlatt steps back. His whole demeanor changes and he worries his brow as if they’re the ones ruining things with their alcoholism. “Fine. I’ll make a deal with you two sweethearts. I’ll stay sober enough to help you, and in return, you do everything I say.”

It’s a shit deal and both of the tributes know it. But they nod regardless, silently assenting to signing their lives away just a little bit more. 

“Right-o. In a few minutes we’ll pull up to The Capitol and your stylists will get a hold of you. First bit of advice: Do whatever they want.” Jschlatt waves a hand about and selects a bottle off the table behind him, sniffing it and then nodding at what he finds inside. “Don’t argue. Don’t even blink.”

And with that, the man exits and the lights in the room flicker off, plunging them into darkness.

Phil realizes quite suddenly that they must be in the mountain splitting The Capitol from the greater Districts. He shivers, moving towards the windows and ignoring how his heart clenches, his throat seizes. He hates being enclosed like this. It reminds him far too much of downed birds and coal mines.

Technoblade and he stand in the middle of the room, transfixed, as the tunnel continues onwards. Then, light starts to flicker up ahead, and they rush to the windows with wide eyes.

Golden-blue color cascades across the world reflected off of the buildings of The Capitol. They vary in size and come in a whole rainbow of hues, flickering so brightly that the people below — dressed in much the same colors — seem to blend in. People in huge wigs and bright clothes mill about as if completely normal, neon and painful and striking. 

People begin to gawk and point as the train rolls into the station, waving at Technoblade and Phil both as they move onto the platform. Neither of them reacts, both frozen, staring at the elaborate and practically mythological city that waits just outside their train car.

Phil is reminded once again as they start to make their way off the train that Technoblade is here to kill him — the same as everyone else around. So he simply goes where he is told and follows Quackity along, allowing himself to be lead without another thought.

Chapter Text

Phil doesn’t bother learning the names of the people torturing him. He thinks he’s perhaps a bit too dissociated to remember them, anyway, as hair is ripped from his legs and every inch of his body is scoured a bright red. 

They wash him. They clean and round his nails. They stand there and circle him with tweezers, picking and fussing and murmuring their confusion at every odd scar he has accrued over the years. They unwind his braid and then tell him to tie it back up again and they pull his pin from his shirt, and he’s left feeling utterly naked. 

Which, for a bit, he is, until they allow him to pull on a soft creme-colored robe and leave him alone in the room. Apparently, his stylist has no interest in meeting him until he has been completely plucked down to the barest bones of his body. 

A woman with bright colored orange hair claps brightly and squeals, observing Phil from all angles. “Well, you look almost human!”

The rest of the stylist team giggles and titters like a bunch of brightly colored birds. Phil can’t even be mad at them. They’re so painfully ignorant they remind him of a bunch of newborns. And so he smiles, letting out a strained chuckle of his own and nervously running his fingers through his hair. 

“Eh- yeah. Thank you. We don’t have much time for dressing up in District 12.”

“Oh- but of course not!” Replies a man with skin tattooed with small squares all across his face. He croons, leaning over and opening the door out of the room. “But it’s alright. Foolish will have you looking golden in no time, dearest!”

They say it like it’s some sort of inside joke, laughing again as they exit the room. Phil is left in the dark — though only figuratively — and alone, sitting on a table and wrapped in a thin robe.

The door swings open and a man enters. 

He’s of a large build, muscular and tall and thin all at once. Phil is taken aback by how normal he looks. Close cropped brown hair, a soft smile, undisguised crow’s feet against his eyes. The only modifications he can see, in fact, are his teeth, filed down into lightly rounded fangs, and the light gold powder that crawls up his eyelids, across his cheekbones.

“Hey there,” he says, in a voice so utterly casual Phil has to do a double-take. “I’m Foolish!”

Oh- so that was his actual name? Phil had thought it had been some sort of friendly insult. But no, this man in front of him — wearing a plain white button-down, slacks so normal they give Phil another case of whiplash — introduces himself with the ridiculous label.

“...Hello,” Phil says, cautious. Foolish steps forward and frowns.

“Mm. You’ve got nice shoulders.”

Well, how is he meant to respond to that? He doesn’t. Before he can, the man is leaning in, pulling the thin robe off Phil’s shoulders, leaving it tied only about his waist. He feels oddly exposed without it, all the odd scars of his past and each of his exposed ribs on plain display. But Foolish doesn’t poke and prod — not like the troupe of circus clowns before him. 

He just looks, humming softly to himself, never touching nor venturing further. Phil resists the urge to speak.

“Who did your braid?”

He’d unwound it before his shower the night before. It’s gone, now, but apparently not forgotten. “I did.”

“You’ve got a good eye then.” Foolish smiles, shark-toothed grin oddly unthreatening. There’s something goofy about his face, too intriguing to be scary in the way so many other Capitol freaks are. Phil shrugs. “No, no, you do! It framed your face well. Did you do your son’s, too?”

He’s hit with a sudden pang of loss. Wilbur’s braid — curving about the side of his head, so unassuming no one ever pays it any mind. He nods past the lump in his throat.

“A good eye and good hands,” muses Foolish, moving forward and taking Phil’s fingers in his own, spreading them out and staring at his knuckles like they’re sprouting spikes. Phil snorts and allows his hands to be maneuvered, the thin joints calloused with years of hunting. 

“You’re new,” Phil cautions to assume as his hand is let go of. Foolish looks up, nodding, shrugging.

“Yup. This is my first Game.” Upon seeing Phil’s raised eyebrow, he laughs, softly. “Yes, I asked for District 12. Why don’t you put the robe back on? Let’s chat.”

Phil does as he’s told and allows himself to be led from the room. The one adjacent is much warmer, with two velvet red couches facing a central table laden with food. Three of the walls are blank save for a door, and the final is completely made of glass, shadowing the city below them. Phil looks out and feels his breath caught in his chest. It’s as if they’re flying, miles above the city, clouds licking at their heels.

He’s invited to sit in one of the plush loveseats. The food before him smells magnificent, but its continued decadence has begun to be more disgusting than inviting. 

How do these people live, he thinks, with so much food? With rich soups and rolls and puddings and drinks that smell more fruitful than anything Phil could ever hope to afford? Again, he is returned to that rainy day almost a decade ago, in which a mushy and burnt loaf of bread had felt like a feast. 

How do these people live in general, he wonders. How do they not pop? How are they not reduced to hulking beasts of fat and flavor? At least, if they got fat, they’d be able to feed the lower districts with their bloated corpses when they died. Perhaps it would make them more useful.

“We must seem pretty evil, huh?”

Phil looks up, realizing a bit too late that he’s been glaring this entire time down at a bowl of soup. Foolish looks at him with an almost sad smile. 

He has absolutely no idea how to respond to that. Before he can, though, Foolish continues. 

“It doesn’t matter anyways. What’s most important right now is your costume for the opening ceremony, not that you seem all that worried. My m- my partner, Puffy, is the stylist for your fellow tribute, Technoblade. We want to put you in matching costumes.”

The opening ceremonies are always meant to tell a story of the tributes districts. Upper districts such as 4 do something about fishing, while lower get the short end of the stick. Phil shivers as he remembers the year in which District 12’s tributes had been sent out in nothing but a thin layer of soot all over their naked bodies, hard hats the only protection they were given. 

“So it’ll be miner’s suits then, right?” Phil says dryly, hoping he doesn’t come off as too visibly sarcastic. 

Foolish, surprisingly, just laughs.

“Ehh… we’d like to lean a bit more towards coal, not the process of getting it. Baggy jumpsuits and hardhats…” He wrinkles his nose. Phil readies himself for being told he’s going out naked. “Not our style. Now: I’d like to ask. What do you do with coal, Philza?”

He wracks his brain. Is this some sort of trick question? Is he gonna be put into a coal-shaped costume? Oh, boy. “Collect it?”

Another laugh, though it isn’t cruel. “Besides that. You burn it.”

---

In another few hours, Phil starts to realize just how insane The Capitol stylists can get. 

He’s pulled into a nearly skintight black bodysuit, simple, uncolorful, covering him from neck to ankle. Huge shining leather boots are yanked all the way up to his knees and laced with silken obsidian ribbon. The showstopper, though, is the cape.

It’s tied around his shoulders and neck, fluttering black, the color of midnight. It’s utterly unassuming — save for the beautiful layers of red and black and yellow beneath it — until, as Foolish tells him, it is set aflame.

That’s the plan. To light Phil and Technoblade on fire with a synthetic flame, licking at their heels and setting them ablaze. Phil just hopes he doesn’t die before the games. That would be a terrible way to abandon his son. 

“I want them to recognize you and Technoblade when you’re in the Games,” Foolish says dreamily, dusting a light gold powder over Phil’s cheeks, pressing a dark black to his upper lid. “Philza Craft. The man who was on fire.”

Yeah. Whatever pleasant and calm and normal facade Foolish had displayed earlier has been replaced by that of an utter madman with far too much gold eyeshadow. Still, Phil allows himself to be painted and maneuvered and adorned in flame.

When Phil sees Technoblade, he’s frozen.

Every inch of his muscle is defined by the deep black bodysuit he wears, just loose enough to highlight what is important and bury what is not. His hair has been brought up in a large, pink, crown, wound about his head and without a strand out of place. His bright crimson eyes are highlighted in black, his face brought out by the golden powdered adorning his cheekbones. His ears are strung with several golden earrings, hanging from and pressed into his skin.

He looks regal. Phil is taken aback for a moment, nearly unable to recognize the baker’s son who had once thrown him bread. It seems Technoblade is just as surprised with Phil, though, because he takes a step back, looking at his stylist with wide eyes.

“Well, go on ahead then,” says the woman in the front of his stylist group, presumably Puffy. She looks just as unassuming as Foolish, with long tresses of bright white curls, a captain’s hat the only visible oddity to her. She presses Technoblade forward with one hand and the man steps up to Phil. 

The two of them are led down to the bottom of the Remake Center. It’s basically just a stable, with rows and rows of awaiting horses and carriages, all a simple black color as to not detract from the tributes. Puffy and Foolish take only a few minutes to help arrange their capes and their clothes into the manner they desire, and then they step back, leaving Technoblade and Phil relatively alone.

“How d’you feel about it?” Phil whispers over to Technoblade. 

He grimaces, letting out a wry snort. “You rip off my cape if I rip off yours?”

“Deal.” Phil laughs despite his hangups, scuffing a hand across his forehead. “I know we promised Jschlatt we’d listen, but I don’t honestly think he thought of this happening.”

“He’s supposed to be here, isn’t he?”

Phil surveys the area. Neither his mentor nor the man meant to escort them are anywhere to be found, the only inhabitants of the sprawling lower floor the other tributes and the stylists that accompany them. “His blood is probably half alcohol. I don’t think he should be around anything flammable.”

“Br- uh,” Technoblade says, before he lets out a stiff wheeze, leaning over with the force of his chuckle. Phil joins in. It isn’t even that funny, but the two of them are so hysterically afraid of the events to come that it seems all they can do is laugh. 

They don’t have long to do so. All of a sudden a symphony of drums rings out, the doors at the end of the room sliding open to reveal the massive walkway they’re about to be walked down. People stand at the edge of the path, slamming mallets down onto large drums, staring stoically forward. 

District 1 rolls out and is immediately greeted with cheers. They are always favorites. They wear flickering white tunics, bejeweled and sparkling, matching the soft silver glow painted upon their skin. The crowd goes wild for them. 

District 2 leaves soon after, and Phil and Technoblade are rolled into space a few feet ahead, mentally preparing for their firey route. It seems like only moments before District 11 heads out just before them, the two young boys on the chariot clutching the bars before them with nervous energy.

Foolish steps up with a small torch full of flame and dips the flickering substance to the fabric of Phil and Technoblade’s cloaks. They brace themselves for the heat, Technoblade’s shoulders visibly tensing, Phil sucking in a harsh breath, and then-

Suddenly, golden light spreads across Phil’s vision. He turns, slowly tilting his head to look.

Red, yellow, white, blue. It flickers across his back and up to his shoulders, licking at his heels as it slowly rises, fluttering in the light wind behind him. It billows upwards and sparks and it tingles, just slightly, when he reaches out a hand and presses it to his shoulderblade.

Behind him, Puffy laughs. “You really thought it would burn you, huh?”

“Remember,” Foolish adds from the side. “You’ve got nice shoulders! Keep them up high and smile. Look proud. They’re gonna love you!”

He jumps off the chariot with Puffy by his side. They stand there, and the horses start to move, and Phil is suddenly jolted forward, pressed up against the bars before him. Behind him, there’s one final shout, and Phil turns to see Puffy and Foolish locking hands, gesturing wildly at the two men on the chariot.

The music swells, the tympany growing in strength. He can’t hear, but he understands what they mean well enough.

“They want us to hold hands,” he says breathlessly, turning to Technoblade. He realizes, suddenly, the man looks inhuman. Phil supposes he must too. They glow with fire and they sparkle with golden makeup and their eyes are deep-set with black, letting the red and the blue of their irises shine respectively. Technoblade tilts his head in confusion, and Phil nods, and reaches down, and laces their hands-

And then they’re out, and the sun does not shine nearly as brightly as they do. 

The crowd rings out with gasps. They see the tributes of District 12, set utterly ablaze, and they scream, horrified for an instant. And then the flame becomes illusion, the men on the chariot the attraction themselves.

Screams ring out on every side, the crowd a roar of adoration. Every single person abandons the chariots ahead and turns to them, immediately enraptured by the flames that lick down their sides, that burn at their backs, turned towards the horizon. 

Phil catches sight of himself in a television screen. Technoblade and he look like young Gods, and he’s suddenly punched free of all the air in his chest. Violent colors billow past him, his expression so fierce it looks as if it could kill. He’s lost in the flames that flicker from Technoblade and he, creating a dazzling effect against their skin, contrasting even the sunset. 

He grins. Christ, they look magnificent. He can admit that to himself, as he raises his shoulders, as he lifts his chin and smiles wide. All of a sudden, he’s lifting Technoblade and his hands into the air, a chorus of drums and chants of their names filling the sky. The man beside him is smiling too, wide and a bit strained with the force of it.

The crowd showers them with flowers and with blown kisses and screams their names. They make their way up to the foot of the City Circle with the attention solely on them — the tributes of District 12, set aflame.

Foolish has had them presented as a team. Phil very nearly breaks his hold on Technoblade’s hand as they make their way to the City Center, but the other man is holding him in a death grip that they both share. 

“I might fall off if you let go, mate,” Phil murmurs, smile never dropping. 

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Technoblade says, his voice uncharacteristically soft. 

The twelve chariots loop around the City Circe, surrounded on all sides by prestigious Capitol residents. The mansion at the edge of it all is simple compared to some of the other buildings in The Capitol, reminiscent of some antique architecture. But it is still not without its flair — swooping archways, extensive gardens, a massive courtyard out front full of furniture and sprawling topiaries, pruned to perfection. A fountain spews water in the front, casting pink and blue colors all across the stone.

But the main attraction is the man who lives inside. President Dream steps upon his balcony and the music crashes to a stop.

President Dream is a tall, thin, man, with short blond hair, wearing a midnight black suit and a cloak, green as the vines he is framed by. His hands are tucked behind his back, his face turning to scan his newest tributes. 

Not that Phil — or anyone — can tell who he is looking at. President Dream’s face is perpetually covered, a porcelain white mask carved into an obsidian smile. It watches, impassive, frozen, staring at everyone at once. Phil can’t quite shake the feeling the man is looking directly at him. 

The President gives his customary welcome speech and the cameras pan to him. They address him and his golden words, his brittle promises. But they share their airtime with the tributes as well, and Phil, along with Techno, receives the brunt of it. As the sun starts to set they easily steal the show, shining figuratively and literally more than the other tributes. 

They’re still dazzling. But as President Dream speaks, Phil feels his adrenaline trampled.

When he returns and is undressed and unmade once again, he will be nothing more than a tribute. There will be no more fire and beauty and holding hands, no comradery with Technoblade.

They’ll have to kill each other, sooner or later. Or, someone else will. As time goes on and Phil sees the small parts of Technoblade he has never seen, he continues to hope it won’t have to be him who commits the deed.

They finally circle around again and head back into the Remake Center. The heavy doors have hardly closed behind them before Puffy, Foolish, and their stylist teams come sprinting up, clapping and laughing their praises. Phil looks around and finds that he and his tribute partner are both receiving quite a few dirty looks. 

It only confirms what he already knew. They’ve outshone every single other tribute. All it does is make Phil grin, giddy and ridiculous. He unwinds his hand from Technoblade’s finally, and the two of them massage their fingers, white and purple from being held for so long. 

“Thanks for that,” he says, as he starts off the carriage, letting Foolish put the fire in his cape out. “I feel like I might’ve blown away if you hadn’t helped me out there, huh?”

“You looked fine,” Technoblade promises with a vague wave of his hands, rolling his eyes. Then, deadpan. “You stole all the glory.”

Phil snorts. Here comes the competition at last. He shrugs and allows himself to be led away, Foolish at his side.

---

The Training Center is a huge, sprawling building, with a tower designed specifically to hold the tributes when they enter. Phil thinks it looks a bit like an over glorified cage — and he certainly feels like a bird trapped in one when he goes up the elevator, though that’s a fun experience. If he were just a bit younger, he would’ve asked to go again. It feels like flying, the crystal walls of the moving room displaying all of the people below on the ground shrinking into ants.

Quackity escorts Phil and Technoblade up to their floor — the top one, and Phil is exhilarated to see how high up they are — with an aura of excitement. He babbles on and on about them being his first successful tributes. Apparently, everyone in The Capitol has been just as noisy about their outfits and conduct as he has.

“Jschlatt hasn’t told me what you two have planned as your strategies yet,” Quackity explains, as he leads them through the first room of their suite, gesturing wildly. “So I just told them you’re both insane! The tributes who set themselves on fire for their first public appearance.” 

He slaps his hands together and cackles as if this is the most quaint thing he has ever heard. Phil just chuckles weakly. Technoblade stays completely silent, though Quackity does not seem to notice or care.

“People’ve got their reservations, of course, but honestly- who gives a fuck. I know you’re from the coal district or whatever- but think about it. If you put enough pressure on coal, it’ll turn to a diamond!”

That’s utterly untrue. Phil opens his mouth to tell the man as such, but he barrels on, sweeping a hand beneath his baby-blue hat — is that a beanie? — to ruffle his hair. 

“Unfortunately, I can’t help seal your sponsor deals. Only Jschlatt can do that.” 

That reminds Phil- “Where is he, anyways?”

The man waves a flippant hand. “Eh. Out and about. Rest assured, though, I’ll have him at that dinner table whether I need to bring in a gun to do it or not.”

He doesn’t phrase it like a joke. For all his dislike of the citizens of The Capitol, Phil has to admire Quackity’s determination. His energy seems to have been renewed now that his tributes have a fighting chance. 

It doesn’t bode well that Quackity’s care for their lives only hinges on how popular they can be. But Phil is quickly swept away and busied with new living quarters, something he’ll need to acquaint himself with for his short stay in The Capitol before the games.

The bedroom alone is larger than two of his homes pressed together. He’s pushed inside into a world of beautifully carved wooden floors, steel decoration outside and lit up with the soft glow of a city beginning to rest. One of his walls is occupied only by windows, his bed pressed not far away from it, larger than any piece of furniture he has ever seen and splayed out with so many plush blankets it almost makes him sick. 

Phil wonders, as he presses a hand to the glass, how Wilbur would feel about this. The boy had always excelled at heights when he was younger, always taking to any climbing exercises his school put him through, always climbing every tree he can reach. Both his father and him are adept when in the air. He wonders, though, if Wilbur could even begin to imagine the scope of this building, so high up in the sky to fall would be an instant death sentence.

Phil showers and finds himself hopelessly lost in a hundred different buttons. His hair and his skin are covered in masks of fragrant soaps and lotions and waters and gels, all leaving him feeling a bit like his stylists have gotten a hold of him again. He squawks as a warm jet of air flies up his back and twists his hair, ridding it of its tangles.

It’s hopelessly elaborate, and he will certainly not have enough time to enjoy even half of its intricacies. But he spends a good twenty minutes exploring. He programs a wardrobe after taking a personalized quiz at his closet, the outfits whizzing together on an automated rack. He presses a few buttons and his windows change the skyline entirely to places he could never hope to visit. He types in a dish on a small pad and it appears at his door in only a few moments, steaming, hot. 

He walks around his room, bouncing with nervous energy, eating a plate of hot rolls and peaches. Peaches. He’s never had them before. But he resolves to make them the first thing he shows to Wilbur if he manages to win The Games. They’re soft, and they’re multicolored, and covered in a soft layer of fuzz. He thinks Wilbur would like them. He’s always had a taste for sweet things, even if Phil has never been able to afford them much.

He’ll shower his son in all the deserts in the world if he’s given a chance. But for now he’s startled by a knock on his door and a call for dinner. Good. He needs something to take his mind off The Games.

Puffy, Foolish, Jschlatt, and Technoblade are all out on the balcony overlooking the city when Quackity and Phil enter. This dinner is more about planning their strategies than eating, so Phil is happy to see that it isn’t just the alcoholic and the neurotic Capitol freak here to dine with them. 

“You’re looking spiffy,” Foolish says to Jschlatt as they take their seats, as if it’s a friendly joke. Phil is starting to realize that half of the goddamn Capitol talks like they’re spouting some elaborate inside joke. 

The man just rolls his eyes and scoffs. But, Foolish is right. Jschlatt looks as proper as Phil can remember ever seeing him, done up in a stiff-necked black suit, eyes painted with the barest amounts of black liner. They’re ringed with red, yes, and his hand is wrapped around a glass of wine as soon as he’s offered one, but he accepts the food he is given as well.

Phil has never had the luxury of having alcohol before. He accepts the red wine he’s served with a nod to the white-clothed boy who hands it to him, masked in a manner almost like President Dream. 

The dinner is as frighteningly extensive as it always is. There’s a creamy dish called risotto with artichokes and some sort of seafood, though Phil is too enamored by it to ask about the ingredients. A mushroom soup, thin-sliced roast beef that you could hold to a light and see through. There’s unnaturally blue grapes served with cheese so soft it nearly melts in his mouth, leaving him somehow even hungrier for more.

The wine makes him start to feel pleasantly numb. Phil drinks a full glass, then another, throwing away all of his dignity and drinking as he pleases. He’ll probably be dead in a week, so who cares! Technoblade drinks it like it's part of his last meal, to the point that Phil thinks he’s probably had it before.

It makes sense. Especially when they bring out a huge, three-tiered cake, shimmering at the edges, and promptly set it alight. It flickers with color and sparks up, complementing the soft lilac color of the frosting decoration. Phil has an odd urge to clap, but manages to keep his shaky hands down to his knees and stare, transfixed, instead.

Until he looks up. The boy who lit the cake isn’t anything special — dressed in the same simple tunic and sweatpant-like slacks that all the other servants are wearing, face concealed with a mask — but for some odd reason, Phil recognizes him. What’s revealed of his features beneath his mask are intimately familiar in a way that he doesn’t understand.

“I know you, don’t I?” He asks suddenly, twisting in his chair and plunking his shoulders against the side of the table to point. The boy doesn’t move, but the conversation at the table suddenly comes to a stop. 

And, oddly enough, Phil is filled with a rush of what feels like guilt, though he hasn’t the foggiest why. The servant boy shakes his head and rushes from the table before he can ever think to ask.

“You’ve had too much to drink, m’ friend,” Jschlatt says, voice not yet slurring. His tone masks a warning with a smile, and Phil’s stomach plummets as he realizes just how shocked the other adults in the room look. 

“He’s an Avox,” Quackity snaps suddenly, breaking the silence. When Phil whirls around, he sees that the man has his brows raised, his mouth curled into what almost looks like a sneer. “You don’t know him.”

“An… Avox?” Phil ventures, hands itching to reach for more wine. 

“Someone who committed some sorta terrible offense against The Capitol.” Jschlatt gestures at his own mouth and lets out a soft burp. “Eugh. They get their tongues cut out so they can’t speak. You probably don’t know him.” Then, turning to Quackity with a roll of his eyes. “The guy couldn’t’a known, sugartits.”

“Don’t call me that,” hisses the other man, though he doesn’t snap further. “And even if you did know him, Philza, you don’t talk to an Avox unless you’re giving them an order. That’s just how it works.”

Phil suddenly feels a bit as if someone has reached into his chest and stuck their hand through his stomach. He pales, sliding back a bit in his chair, a hot itch rolling up his shoulderblades as shame rushes through him. He does know this boy, and the moment that Jshclatt mentions offenses against The Capitol, he knows exactly from where. Just thinking about it makes his breath catch, his panic barely concealable.

“Fuck- I- I just-”

Technoblade slaps a hand down on the table and shatters the tense air, a lazy grin spreading across his features. He seems utterly unaffected by the five glasses of wine he has downed, eyes as bored as ever, high cheekbones barely flushed. The small beard that had dotted his chin has been shaved away, but Phil is sure it’ll grow back soon.

“Sneegsnag. That’s who he looks like.” Technoblade nods, as if confirming this. Sneegsnag is a man who frequents the hob and wears a bright blue sweatshirt that conceals most of his face. He’s about as far away from the soft, freckled face of the Avox Phil recognizes as one can get.

But he gladly takes the out, forcing his back to straighten and letting a watery smile slip onto his face. “O’course. That must’ve been it- they’ve got the same haircut. Sorry bought that.”

The energy seems to relax as several of the people at the table breathe out. Dinner progresses as if nothing at all has happened. But Phil is shaken, memories of the last time he’d met that man playing on repeat in his mind. He lays off the liquor, already nervous enough for one night. 

They watch a replay of the opening ceremony of The Games that’s being broadcasted. Phil finds it a good enough distraction — seeing as his stomach is turning too much to eat his cake. Especially when Technoblade and he go out, candlelit figures that seem to twist and warp the air around them as they move. 

“Whose idea was the hands?” asks Jschlatt, clasping his own fingers together and squinting at them.

“Foolish’s,” Puffy says, clapping a hand on the back of the aforementioned man. Gold-cheeked and rosy, Foolish smiles. Phil has begun to think they might be related somehow. They’re incredibly close in a way that he almost recognizes in himself.

“Ah.” Jschlatt nods, ripping his hands apart. “Just the perfect amount of rebellion. Everyone’s gonna think they’re hot.”

Phil doesn’t get it for a moment. Then it hits: Him and Technoblade  have been presented not as tributes, but as partners. The rest of the tributes are stiff and separated, never touching, never speaking, never even turning to view the other. Phil and Technoblade have entered the Games not as adversaries, but costumed as friends.

Jschlatt continues before Phil can muse further. “Tomorrow is gonna be your first training session. Meet me at breakfast, a’ight? We’ll… Talk about how you want this to go. What sort of fighting you’ll be doing. What you’ll show the others or whatever else.”

“Presentation is everything,” Quackity adds with a snap. “Now get out. Let the big boys talk.”

Quackity, as far as Phil can tell, is thirty at the very oldest. But he has no interest in remaining in this stuffy room, avoiding the eyes of everyone around and ducking away every time an Avox enters. So he nods, standing and swaying a bit on his feet, vision blackened with spots for a split second before he makes his way out behind Technoblade.

They make their way down the halls outside and locate their quarters, bordering each other. Technoblade turns though, just as they make it to their rooms. For a horrible moment Phil thinks he might call out his lie — there are cameras everywhere, to be caught is to be killed, but he just tilts his head and bluffs.

“So. Sneeg. Imagine findin’ his lookalike in The Capitol, huh?”

He’s asking for an explanation without calling Phil out, which he appreciates. In this darkened hallway, still half-drunk on wine, he’s tempted to give it to him. Phil has been in Technoblade’s debt for far too long, and the man had covered for him, hadn’t he? 

“Cmon. Up to the roof.” Technoblade gestures down the empty hallway, the light at the end a soft blue hue. Phil follows his hand. “The wind’s loud, but we can talk there.”

For a moment he doesn’t get it. Then he realizes — no one will be able to hear them talking. There’s surveillance all over The Capitol and beyond. It’s how they catch dissenters. Phil can’t see any cameras around, but he knows they must be somewhere. 

So he nods, running a hand through his hair and trying to act unbothered. “Mhm. We can just… go up?”

“Yup. Puffy took me up there earlier.”

The idea of Technoblade having any genuine interaction with his stylist is a bit surprising. But Phil doesn’t comment, instead letting himself be led to the end of the hallway. There stands an unassuming metal door, a long flight of stairs waiting on the other side. He climbs up and finds himself in a circular enclosure, glass guarding them against the skies.

They leave the room and step onto the roof. Phil’s breath catches, and he freezes.

The city shines as if illuminated by fire. Cars whiz past far below, electric lighting coating the walls of every building they pass. The sprawling glass skyscrapers that make up The Capitol twinkle like the heavy covering of stars in District 12. Nothing will ever beat true starlight, but it’s beautiful in an odd, artificial way. 

Phil steps further out into the cold evening air and looks around, wishing a bit that he could simply step off the edge and abandon the city for the skies.

“Suicide won’t work,” Technoblade deadpans, and Phil turns, catching the end of a smile on his face. It’s a joke. He steps forward and presses a hand to the space just above the railings at the edge of the building.

A hexagonal shape appears for an instant. Then it snaps and sparks and Technoblade yanks his hand away, tucking it back against the silver railing below him. 

“A forcefield,” he explains. “Apparently they’re a bit too worried people like you’ll just hop right off the edge.”

“I’m not suicidal,” Phil says, and it’s mostly the truth. He sidles up to Technoblade’s side and ignores the brusque snort he’s given for his troubles. “I’m serious, mate. Don’t you ever just wanna go out into the sky?”

Technoblade squints off into the darkness and shrugs. “Ehh. I don’t think I’m built for flyin’, respectfully.”

Phil has to laugh at that. It’s true — he himself is short and thin, while Technoblade is square-shouldered, broad jawed. Years of working as a baker’s assistant and having decent food have left him just big enough to pass as not malnourished, though Phil isn’t sure anyone in District 12 other than the mayor and the peacekeepers ever really get enough to eat.

There’s a small garden at the other side of the roof. It’s populated by rose bushes and one tree, something that looks a bit like a weeping willow, its branches only a bit stiffer. Phil walks towards it, safety found in the noise of the wind chimes that hang within it. Technoblade follows and looks at him expectantly.

“You know I hunt.” A nod. “Yeah. I was hunting in the woods. Hidden, waiting for the game to come out. It was early spring, so some things were just wakin’ up from winter.”

“Just you?”

Phil gives Technoblade a wry grin. “I haven’t hunted with anyone since my parents died. Not even my son, mate. It’s dangerous out there.” A short pause ensues, in which he sighs, dismissing the memories of his son that rise at Wilbur’s mention. 

“It wasn’t… quiet. But all of a sudden, every single bird in the forest stopped singing at once. Only one kept going. It was a crow, and it let out just- just one note. Like a warning bell. And then I saw the boy. The Avox.”

Phil swallows. He’s never told this story before. He busies himself with the soft petals of a rose and continues, dizzy with apprehension. 

“He was with a girl. Their clothes were all torn, and they looked like they’d been traveling for days, all skinny and dark-eyed. Uhm. They were running. Like their life depended on it.”

Regret is omnipresent in Phil’s past. He regrets so many things, but remembering this now, he wonders if perhaps he regrets his actions here the most out of most. He’s a hunter. He’d certainly been proficient then, too, even at 16. Those kids looked around his age. If he’d only crept out and helped them. Concealed them. Perhaps that boy in the room, tongue maimed and masked, could have been saved.

But there’s no time for those regrets. He breathes out, releasing the petal and dragging thin fingers across his face.

“Then came the hovercraft. It came out of nowhere — one of those huge, silent Capitol ones they show on tv sometimes.” And, because he thinks he might not be capturing this image well enough, he turns, catching Technoblade’s eyes with his own, staring into crimson red and hoping he understands. “I mean- God, the entire sky was empty of anything but clouds one minute and then it was there, floating only a meter or two above the trees.”

“A net dropped and grabbed the boy before I could even react to the damn thing. They shot a spear on a hook through the girl. She was dead. I mean- the boy screamed her name and there was- there was blood everywhere. It dripped all the way down to the ground as she went up. The hovercraft disappeared a second later and the birds came back, like nothing even happened.”

He knows his voice has risen by the end. But he stutters off into silence, staring distantly into Technoblade’s eyes. The other man just watches, impassive, processing his words. His selfishness. 

“They would’ve killed you if they saw you,” Technoblade says. He looks away, and it’s as if it breaks a spell, Phil taking a step away and facing the sky so quickly his neck snaps.

He nods. It’s true, and he knows it. 

(But he also remembers that boy. He’d seen Phil, and in that split second after that bird’s call, he’d shouted out for help.)

“You’re shaking.”

Phil laughs, bitter, and runs a hand down his arm. “Yeah. That’ll be the alcohol, m’ afraid.”

It’s not just that, and they know it. Phil does, at the very least. Images of that boy’s mouth stretched wide with a scream repeat in his mind, and he can only do so much to try and blink them back. 

“We should go back in, then,” he says, and his voice rises. Again, Technoblade is covering for him. But know that the man knows Phil’s story, he wonders if this is to protect them both. So he nods, heading towards the glass dome in the middle of the roof. He misses the soft pink of the roses behind him, and the sky being so close.

But it’s warmer in the dome, and so he settles, satisfied to simply stare outside and yearn for flight. 

“You mentioned your son,” he says casually. “He’s not yours by blood, is he?”

Phil shakes his head. “He was… comparable to a pet, I think, at first. He just sort of showed up? I took him in just before my parents died. He learned to call me dad before he ever got a chance to be my brother.”

“A pet.” Technoblade laughs. It sounds a bit like a cough. It’s a soothing sound, because he doesn’t at all sound like he’s just heard Phil admit to leaving someone to be maimed. “I don’t like kids. My parents don’t either.”

“Ah,” Phil says knowingly. “Mhm. They always did give me that- that vibe.”

“Vibes. Bruh.” There it is again. That odd, deadpan sound, caught between a snicker and a cough. Phil can’t help but laugh as well. “Hm. But you’re right, though. I was a- a complete accident. Pretty sure my mom would’ve dropped me on someone’s doorstep if she got the chance.”

Phil snickers again. “Aye, did you know people whose kids were too odd used to drop them off in the forest? People thought they were changelings.”

“And so they thought the fae would return their kid, yup.” Technoblade nods. “Kinda wish my parents would’ve done that. Maybe I’d a’ been picked up by wild boars. Or something.”

“Wild boars.” Phil leans over and nudges Technoblade in the side with his elbow. He’s struck, suddenly, with the realization that everything about this banter feels utterly natural. He’s drawn to Technoblade, for reasons he doesn’t understand. “You’re already meaty enough, aren’t you?”

The man makes a big show of pulling his arm up and flexing his muscles through his shirt, his face utterly blank. He laughs, though, when Phil does, a softer thing than before. 

They’ve made it to Phil’s room. It would be odd to ask for Technoblade to come inside, so he simply nods, ducking into his doorway. “See you in the morning then, mate.”

“So you shall,” he replies, and walks off to his own quarters.

When Phil enters, the Avox boy is standing in the middle of his room, collecting his clothes. It sends him for a turn, and he blinks as the boy stares at him, picking up his boots.

“I’m- I’m sorry,” he stammers abruptly, going utterly cold again. There’s an awkward pause. The boy half-nods, and then Phil realizes that he can’t just leave it at this. “I’m sorry,” he continues, trying to collect himself. “Uhm. I forgot to send those off with Foolish. Would you mind giving them to him, when you have a chance?”

The half nod turns to a full one. The boy tucks Phil’s suit over his arm and hurries from the room in silence, leaving him to stare out his window, breath caught.

His apology goes much farther than inconveniencing a servant. (A slave.) They both know it. But Phil has no right to apologize and risk getting this boy in further trouble, so he hopes his explanation was enough.

Phil kicks his shoes off and doesn’t bother with nightclothes, remaining wrapped in his clothes from the day he’s just had. The golden pin on his shirt is a cool weight against his chest, but he feels it’s an undeserved comfort. Who is he, to have family, to have light? Is it not selfish, when that Avox boy has suffered at his hand, nameless, unknown?

He slips into sleep and wonders if the boy will enjoy watching him die.

Chapter Text

 Wilbur is screaming. There’s a long, cylindrical shape through his chest, though not a single drop of red flows from that, only able to exit through his parted lips. There’s a boy below, and he’s staring, watching impassively. There’s an explosion, and there’s a scream, and Wilbur is screaming, and-

And Phil snaps awake with a hoarse gasp, tasting copper in his mouth when he finally escapes his nightmare. Images of Wilbur’s emaciated form pierced by a spear and being dragged away from him, up into the sky, haunt him as he slides from his bed, very nearly falling and hitting the ground before he catches himself.

The city outside is heavy with fog. Phil takes a moment to breathe, gasping weakly, his hair matted to his forehead with salty sweat. It matches the taste in his mouth, though that’s sharper, colored red. He probes his cheek and finds he’s shredded it with his teeth in the night.

No matter. He makes his way to the shower in the room over once his legs have stopped shaking enough to carry him within. Punching buttons forces him into twin streams of boiling and freezing water, alternating jets filled with soaps and colors. He yelps in pain when he’s doused in actual ice, hopping from the shower when it all gets to be a bit too much.

There’s an outfit set out on his bed when he returns. He pulls on a shirt with dark burgundy short sleeves and a black turtleneck-style top, slit in the middle, just barely exposing the dip of his collarbones. There’s a pair of simple black pants and large — though not heavy — combat boots, black leather and simple laces with a zipper on the side. He pulls his hair into a braid and surveys himself in the bathroom mirror.

It’s the first time he has looked like himself since the day of The Reaping. It’s calming, and he settles. He’s just Philza Craft, a citizen of District 12. He’s just Phil, without flames or weapons or makeup or anything of the sort. 

Jschlatt is there when Phil arrives in the sitting room. He’s wearing the same clothes as last night and splayed out in a chair, and his eyes stare into nothingness. It’s a look Phil has seen on people traumatized by mine explosions. He leaves the man alone and goes to the dining table, finding it full of large trays full of food. 

There’s an Avox sitting nearby, and they nod when Phil asks politely if he can serve himself. He picks up heapings of rolls and some fresh-smelling salad mixed with fruits, picking up a glass of coffee on the way. He’s going to need his energy today if the nightmarish start to it all is any indication.

He eats in the sitting room, glancing towards Jschlatt every so often. It isn’t that he really cares about the man, but there’s something disconcerting — almost pitiful — about his expression, frozen and empty and grieving. The other man slides into a less-slumped position eventually though, groaning and waving stuntedly at Phil when he realizes who else is in the room.

Technoblade joins them only a few minutes after Jschlatt has awoken from his trancelike state and gotten his food, a platter full of sausages and eggs. The man looks significantly better rested than Phil or Jschlatt, but he goes for coffee anyways, grunting a soft greeting to the other inhabitants of the room. He’s dressed in the same outfit as Phil.

“Eugh.” Jschlatt lets out a long groan and takes a deep swig of his coffee, which he has been adding whiskey to for the past ten minutes. “Alright, you two. I can train you separately or you can do this on your own. What’s the plan.”

“Why would we do it separately?” Phil asks.

“If you had- I don’t know, some sorta secret skill you don’t want Mr. Blade knowin’ about.”

Phil exchanges a look with his fellow tribute. “I don’t have any secret talents. My hunting is about as good as it gets.”

“Mhm. I’m good with a sword,” Technoblade says, “But you saw me with that knife the other day. It’ll be fine.”

That’s news to Phil. And, apparently, Jschlatt. Where the hell does someone learn to swordfight in one of the outer districts?

“Alright. Together it is then,” Jschlatt says, clapping his hands. He grins, a wicked-sharp sort of thing that makes him look as if he’s a Capitol native. “Gimme an idea of what you two are good at. You’re too broad.”

“My father worked in The Capitol for a time when he was young. Brought back a bunch of books, and he happened to have a few on sword fighting. I memorized the one about fencing, and then the blacksmith let me do a summer apprenticeship, and…” Technoblade shrugs as if this isn’t absolutely ludicrous. “We sparred when I was younger. I got good at it.”

Jschlatt whistles in surprise, leaning back. “Well, alright. That’s certainly impressive. Philza. What about you?”

“Anything to do with hunting, I’m decent at.” He mimes pulling back a bowstring. “But I’m best at archery.”

“That’s not giving me much. Are you any good?”

Phil has to think about it for a moment. His father had certainly been better when he was younger, but it’s been years. He has no clue whether he’s good or not.

“My father buys his squirrels,” Technoblade says gruffly. There’s nothing kind in his voice. He sounds as if he’s just stating the facts. “He always says that the arrows never pierce the body, no matter how small it is. It’s always the eyes. Same with the deer and the rabbits you bring in.”

Phil has no response to that. It catches him off guard, this odd praise. Technoblade nods at him though, and he nods back, though he’s sure he looks utterly confused. 

“...Right.” Jschlatt clears his throat. “Right, kids. There’s no guarantee that there’ll be a bow in the arena. Or swords, actually. The two’ve you are better off keeping all your fancy tricks down low before you present yourself to the Gamemakers, so work on something else. What are you two… bad at?”

“We could probably both learn a bit about gathering food, right?”

“Right.” Jschlatt nods at him. “Tie a knot. Build a snare.” He waves a flippant hand. “Dick around. But under no circumstances are you to show your true talents until you get into that room with the Gamemakers, alright? Don’t even fuckin’ do it by accident. That’ll be your downfall.”

Phil thinks back to another game he’d watched, years ago. There’d been a boy of only thirteen, blond and skinny as a twig. Thomas. That’s what his name was. He’d spent the entire time before the games coming off as a weak-willed sack of cloth with about zero skills. He’d gone into the games presenting the same.

He’d then proceeded to pick off nearly the entirety of his cohort of tributes, one by one, with an axe. He’d turned out to be a fantastic fighter with a cruel mouth, and had won his games incredibly quickly.

Thinking back to that boy, Phil nods. There’s no chance for him to present as a sissy now that Technoblade and he have done their whole set-me-on-fire, I-won’t-flinch act, but he can certainly hide his talents till they’re needed. It’s not as if two days without his bow has made him rusty.

That thought startles him. Has it really only been two days? Can that be right? It must be. He thinks back to District 12, to Wilbur. What would his son be doing right now? He should be getting up for school, cooking himself a meager bowl of oats for breakfast. Maybe he’s singing softly to himself, as he often does for Phil. Maybe he’s watching a television screen, wondering about what his father is doing, much the same as Phil is doing now.

“And last thing- you two are friends. Got it? Stick together when you’re training.” Jschlatt slams a hand down on the table when Phil starts to question it. “Nope! No- you two are best friends, alright? You do as I say or I start going off the deep end again, alright?”

He’s forced to agree. Technoblade doesn’t react.

Quackity meets the two of them at the elevator and they ride downstairs in silence. Phil’s anxiety from his nightmares has settled in the pit of his stomach and been replaced by a firm resolution to establish himself today. He isn’t nervous at all about meeting his fellow tributes. He’s going to have to kill them eventually. There’s no need to worry about what they think. 

The doors of the elevator open to reveal a massive steel-colored gymnasium. Its walls are plated and smooth, a handful of stations posted about the entire room. There are weights and traps and swords and all manner of things they could go to. 

The other tributes have already arrived. They mill about the different alcoves and show off their skills, though Phil has no idea whether they’ve employed similar strategies to the one he has been prescribed or not. 

Many of them are much larger than him, and some even more than Technoblade. Phil is short for his age. Technoblade is well over 6 feet, but some of the people in this room make up for their height with their muscle, with the way that they have clearly been well trained, well-fed. Phil’s years of hunting have given him an advantage, but he still looks a bit like an easy target against these other tributes. 

Some of them, though, look even frailer than either him or Technoblade. Shorter, or skinnier, or with a haunted glaze to their eyes, their lives already over and their minds well aware of that fact. There’s no time for pity.

There are some, though, that clearly move with brutality. Tributes — typically from districts 1, 2, or 4, end up being bred for battle, even if The Capitol forbids any sort of training for the games. It happens every year. Even Phil and Technoblade are not exempt, but neither of them moves with the same deadly prowess as what District 12 calls the careers.

“How about those knots, heh?” 

Phil looks up at Technoblade. The other man shrugs. 

They head towards an empty station where a man who seems very excited to have a single participant stands. It becomes apparent that the knot-tying station isn’t the hot spot for people who are looking to be trained. The man is enthusiastic enough, though, and teaches Phil and Technoblade an elaborate snare to snatch people up by their ankles once he realizes that they have some knowledge already.

They practice for about an hour until they both have it. Technoblade is surprisingly gentle — his large, calloused hands look more like they should be crushing skulls than twisting rope — with his work. Phil finds the two of them falling into an easy rhythm, tying and untying.

Next they head to a station in which they’re taught how to camouflage. Phil has always found it much easier to simply hide in the trees or behind a rock, so Technoblade is the one who shines here. He weaves his brush up and down his arm and expertly tacks moss to his skin in a way that makes it look like natural foliage.

“You’re great at that,” Phil remarks, raising an eyebrow. 

“I do the cakes,” Technoblade explains. “The iced ones, for the bakery.”

Wilbur has dragged Phil up to the bakery to admire those cakes many a time. They’re for special occasions, painted with flowers and colors and words. Technoblade does not look like he can ice cakes, and Phil’s surprise must show because he snorts.

“I can’t cook for anything. I can paint though, apparently. At least if it’s on a chocolate or angel food canvas, th’ is.”

Phil lets out a chuckle and returns to trying to turn his wrist into a rock. It looks like shit. “Mhm. If only you could burn tributes to death instead of cake, huh?”

Technoblade rolls his eyes and starts wiping paint off his arms, letting out a hopeless, sarcastic sigh. 

For the next three days, this repeats. Camouflage, knots, fires. Despite Jschlatt’s order to appear mediocre, the two of them do decent at most of the things they try. Technoblade excels at hand-to-hand combat, and Phil breezes past the edible foods test like he’s been studying them all his life. (Which, technically, he has.)

The Gamemakers survey them each day, though none of them seem especially intrigued by much. They eye Phil and Technoblade enough it makes him start to suspect they have high expectations, but the two of them continue to follow Jschlatt’s careful instructions. They consult with the trainers while everyone eats, and gather once the tributes have returned.

Breakfast and dinner are served on their individual floors, but all 24 tributes eat lunch together. Food is arranged in carts all over the room, and they serve themselves, sitting with whoever they want. The Careers gather together. It’s as if they’re trying to project just how unafraid of each other they are, but it really doesn’t work all that well. Most of the other tributes sit alone or with the other half of their pair. Phil and Technoblade keep up the facade of friendship between them.

It’s… horribly easy to talk to Technoblade, and Phil hates it. They fall into a gentle rhythm of discussion. It just makes Phil’s gut swim as he thinks of how one of them will have to die soon, if not both, and perhaps at the other’s hand.

“I’m surprised they’ve given us serrated knives,” Phil says one day, letting the edge flicker in the light from ahead. Technoblade looks up from a plate of greens and shrugs.

“They’ve got us in a room with a ton’a deadly weapons, Philza. I don’t think it matters much.”

It strikes him, suddenly, that he doesn’t think he’s heard Technoblade say his name a single time, even after nearly a week in close quarters with him. It’s always been you, or him. There’s something so deeply personal about their names, and Phil realizes he doesn’t think he’s said Technoblade’s aloud either.

“Phil,” he says, shaking his head and setting the knife back down. “No one calls me Philza, mate.”

“Right then, Phil.” He says it like he’s been saying it his whole life. It fits perfectly in his dry tone, and Phil hates it. “Get to callin’ me Techno, then. Technoblade is a mouthful.”

Phil lets out a chuckle, no matter his internal struggle. It’s a good way to present themselves as friends anyways. “That it is. So, Techno. What do you wanna bet someone has tried to kill someone in here before?”

They fill their silences with conversation as often as they can. Jschlatt and Quackity drill them on the specifics of their day every time they get upstairs, and Phil gets the distinctive idea that the two are trying to build a portfolio — or a personality — for their tributes.

Foolish and Puffy are no longer there to add any semblance of sanity to the dinner table, but Jschlatt and Quackity have stopped fighting. It now seems they’re doubling down on directing all of Techno and Phil’s movements, not each other’s.

It’s on the second day that Phil notices their trail.

“I think we’ve got a shadow, mate,” he points out, subtly inclining his head in the direction of the nearby spear-throwing station. 

It’s the little boy from District 11, the one that looks far too much like Wilbur. His hair is fluffy and pink, his skin only barely tanned, his eyes a wide, warm red. His nose, slightly upturned, twitches, when Techno meets his eyes. They stare.

He picks up another spear just as Phil does, and the boy relaxes, watching them from the side. 

“I think his name’s Michael,” Says Techno softly, focused on his work.

Michael looks about as heavy as a small dog. Michael’s arm shakes when he plucks up a spear, and he can barely throw it a few feet.

“What can we do about it?” Phil asks, though he’s sure his voice comes out more sour than he intends. It hurts to watch the boy struggle.

“Not much,” Techno admits. 

Now that he’s noticed the boy it’s hard to not see him wherever Phil goes. He climbs all over every obstacle course like he was born in them. He has a fantastic aim, but what’s a slingshot against a fully grown adult? He’s good with plants and foraging, but he uses his nose far too much when he’s trying to decipher herbs. 

He looks sweet. Determined, though there’s an aura of mourning behind his naivety, as if he already understands his fate. It burns in Phil’s chest, watching the kid as he works.

A fight breaks out. Phil is so absorbed in his task — he’s still learning how to properly throw an axe — that he barely see the origin, hands heavy with the weight of iron. Then there are voices, rising in pitch not far from him, and he sees Techno look up in his peripheral. 

“Where’s-”

A slam. Phil turns just in time to see the young redhead from district 11 get slammed into a weight-stand, hands up and pinned to his chest. His pointed face is pinched in a sneer. The boy in front of him — a career tribute from District one with soft, grey-blonde hair, piercing blue eyes.

“Where the hell is my knife?” He snarls as he advances, shoving the other boy back. There’s a clatter as several of the smaller weights on the rack fall to the ground, the foxfaced boy yipping in pain.

“I didn’t take shit!” he says, voice a bit more panicked than the larger boy in front of him. But then he growls as he’s pushed again, eyebrows turning downward and jaw curling up. “Dude, lay off!”

“You took-” the kid shoves forward again, but then there’s a trainer at his arm, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him back. He wrenches away and advances- “You took my knife, you idiot-”

He’s wrestled away as the other tributes watch. The trainer roughly shoves him to the ground and pins his arm down, her blue hair swinging in front of her impassive face, not even breaking a sweat. The boy stops fighting, though his ice-cold glare stays on the redhead.

Phil almost has to laugh. It’s so dramatic — whatever knife the boy had was not in the other’s possession, clearly, — that it’s funny. But then movement in the corner of his vision catches his eye, and he looks up.

Michael hangs from the straps adorning the rafters of the room where the obstacle course is set up. He swings through them with a smile, elbows pressed through the spaces between, pink hair floating down into his face. Twisted between his fingers is a wicked knife, flickering in the lights above him. 

He grins when he sees that Phil is watching him, slipping the blade into his pocket and rolling away. 

On the third day of training, they end early. Each station is packed and cleaned as the tributes are ushered into a separate room. This is the day they have been waiting for. 

Industrial steel-black walls close in on them from every side, the room cold, airy, dry. Phil sits in the back with Technoblade, the two of them looking anywhere but at themselves. They’re the last to go, as tributes filter out, their group thinning. It makes the weight of the games hit Phil once again. Incredibly soon, this group will shrink in a much more real way. 

Michael is the final to go. He does not look at Phil and he does not linger as the door shuts, leaving Technoblade and him alone.

All too soon, they summon Phil’s tribute partner. The man rises, expression steely. If he is anxious at all, it doesn’t show. 

“Play to your strengths.”

He turns and looks at Phil. Technoblade nods at his words, looking almost a bit surprised to have received them. 

“Shoot straight,” he replies simply, before he is escorted into the next room.

Phil is left to his thoughts for the next fifteen minutes. They tick past in silence, his back bowed, his long braid brushing at his knees as he leans into them and tries to steady himself. He’s anxious and he knows it shows now that he’s alone, but he’s also determined. He made Wilbur a promise.

He’s going to try his best, no matter how little his chances of winning may be. And, Phil hopes that should he lose, Technoblade will take his spot on that train back home.

They call his name and the doors open, shattering his concentration no matter how useless it is. But Phil only breathes, shifting his weight upwards and walking into the room with all of his confidence mustered and ready.

Immediately, he knows his focus has been for naught. The Gamemakers have been here for too long, seen too many demonstrations. They’ve also had too much wine, if their rosey-cheeked demeanor and ringing guffaws are any indications. But Phil has no intention to give up now.

The racks in the middle of the room are laden with weapons. A thrill of excitement shoots through him — this is what he’s been waiting for all week. For kids and swords and oh, a beautifully carved metal bow and a large quiver of perfectly made arrows, sitting there and begging for his attention. 

He selects a bow, interest invigorated, focus returning. It weighs heavily in his hands and he takes a moment to get used to the feel of it. Sliding a hand across the metal, he turns, squinting into the distant targets. Bullseyes, dummys, even something like a more advanced dartboard.

Phil breathes out, lips just barely parting as he holds the grip, pulls the string back in one swift movement, feeling it brush against his jaw. He lets an arrow fly.

It hits inches below the bullseye, an utterly pathetic shot. The bow feels leaden and wrong in his hands, nothing like that of what he uses at home. 

Whatever attention he had held before runs away in an instant. The gamemakers, up in their alcove, several yards above the room Phil is currently in, have all refocused on their food. Embarrassment burns hotly in the pit of his stomach, but he only grunts and readjusts, spreading his arms once again and lacing a new arrow into the bow.

This time, heart racing for the outcome, the pointed tip hits its mark. A target far back in the room shaped like a human, heart pierced through with metal.

Phil looks up. He’s been ignored. Not a single person has seen his efforts, no matter how mediocre his first shot had been. His hand squeezes into a fist around his bow. How dare they. He’s been made to fight for their entertainment, hasn’t he? How dare they refuse to watch, refuse to even address him. 

They’ve crowded around in the back of the room, surrounding a newly ordered plate. Gleeful laughter rings out. There’s a roasted pig on a platter, mouth open around an apple.

He’s suddenly furious. He’s being upstaged by a cooked and roasted pig, its death more amusing than his own. Without thinking, he pulls a new arrow from the quiver upon his back, thin fingers shaking with rage until he hooks the bow, steady in his anger and ready, suddenly, to kill.

The arrow goes flying into the Gamemaker’s box. Screams ring out. Someone stumbles back and falls into the punchbowl, red dress soaked immediately with bloody liquor. It pierces the apple in the pig’s mouth and sinks into the wall opposite, stuck inches deep within the surface, goreish white juice seeping from the fruit around it.

“Thank you for your consideration,” Phil says. He gives a slight bow and walks straight to the exit without being dismissed. 

---

As he walks up to the elevator, he throws his bow to one side and his quiver to the other, satisfied by the noise of arrows clattering to the ground and scattering in a mess. Phil brushes past the gaping Avoxes at the door of the elevator and enters, jamming his thumb into the District 12 button with a huff. 

He actually makes it up to his floor before the panic arrives. It hits as the door slides open. His eyes widen with the force of his heartbeat, a soft gasp escaping his lips. Everyone turns to see him at once, though he doesn’t register any of them at all.

“They’re going to have me killed,” he says weakly, frozen as the elevator doors slide shut behind him. 

Jschlatt is the first to stand. He snorts, brushing crumbs off the front of his jacket. “That’s the point of the games, sugarsnaps. You can’t’a hurt yourself too much.”

“No.” Phil shakes his head and repeats himself and steps in and oh god, his legs are shaking, but he still makes it into the sitting room before he collapses in a heap, grabbing his shoulders and steadying himself in front of a window. Technoblade is sitting across from him, staring at the television, leg bouncing anxiously. Phil laughs, but it’s high-pitched and mirthless. “I shot at them.”

Stunned silence. A pin could drop. Then:

“You- You what?”

He turns to Quackity to repeat himself but the man just shakes his head in disbelief, flabbergasted. “No. No, don’t tell me that. What in the world would compel you-”

“I shot an arrow at them,” Phil says more insistently, more to himself than anyone else. Techno is staring at him with wide eyes. “Not- not exactly at them, alright. They were drunk and ignoring me and they’d ordered a pig and I just… I just lost it. So I shot an apple out of their stupid dinner’s mouth.”

Foolish, hands folded under his chin, rises from his seat. “And… did they say anything?” He asks cautiously.

He shakes his head. “No. They just… Looked sort of startled. One of them fell into the punch bowl.”

Phil startles as Jschlatt lets out a whoop, followed by a wild cackle, clapping his hands together. He grins — and it’s oddly contagious, Phil to do so as well, though more with giddy nervousness than genuine happiness. 

“You shot them! What I would give to have seen that, sweetheart.” He whistles. Phil can’t even muster up any hate at the demeaning nickname. Then Jschlatt’s face turns into an exasperated frown, Quackity’s glare still going strong. “Let up. Who’re they gonna hurt?” He gestures to the two tributes in the room. “Technoblade? Phil? I think that’s the whole point of the games. Untighten your corset and have a goddamn drink.”

Thin pursed lips. A twitching brow. Quackity exhales, and the slight tilt of a smile upon his face is unmistakable. He settles down into the couch cushions beside Puffy once again, turning to the woman and nodding slightly, as if he isn’t entirely sure what to do.

“It’s just… never been done. But for what it’s worth, I think it serves them right. It’s their job to watch you, isn’t it? Being from District 12 doesn’t mean they can just ignore you.” For a moment everyone’s a bit surprised. This is the most dissent against The Capitol that Quackity has ever shown. He shrugs, sending them all a bit of a sneer. “What! It’s just what I think.”

Phil pauses and runs a hand down his face. “I’ll get a very bad score.”

“Scores only matter if they’re good,” Puffy suggests, inclining her head, her hat tilting. “No one pays much attention to the bad or mediocre ones. For all they know you could just be hiding your talents, hm? That’s a strategy we’ve seen before.”

Technoblade snorts off to the side. His arms are crossed, his bouncing knee stilled. “I hope that’s how people interpret the four I’ll probably get. They were drunk as hell. Singing some sort of a drinking song. I wish I’d done the same as you, Phil.”

It’s surprisingly kind, in a way Phil can’t quite understand. It’s doesn’t make sense — they’re about to be off and forced to kill each other, why is Technoblade still being so amicable? It doesn’t matter, though. Phil grins anyways, wrapping himself in their reassurances.

Just then, the TV flickers to life. Black marble contrasts the scene from behind and Phil sits up on his armchair, alert and attentive. The two announcers for the games show up in their typical gaudy attire and quickly begin to talk about how the scoring works.

It’s on a 1 to 12 scale. 1 is the worst — only reserved for the sort of people who freeze up and refuse to show anything off. 12 is unheard of. Even Careers only manage an 8 to a 10, a 12 or 11 a score so mythical it has never happened before. The screen flashes with photos of the tributes and the lightly glowing number they’ve earned. 

Most of the Careers do as well as usual, ringing up 10 and only just below. Everyone else is reserved around a 5 or something just below, just above. Michael, surprisingly enough, comes out with a 7. He’s small and young, so whatever he showed the judges, it must’ve been exceptionally impressive. 

Technoblade comes out with a 10. It’s a high number — especially for someone from the poorest district — and the room erupts in congratulations, Phil joining in. He’s happy for his fellow tribute, even if his hands shake, his chest pounds.

He has to force himself into silence and stillness when they move on and start to read out his name. He jitters with nervous energy. But then they’ve said Philza Craft, as if it’s a death sentence, and then they say-

There’s an 11 floating on the screen. It bobs up and down and is echoed by the announcers, grins spreading across their faces.

Quackity lets out a sharp gasp and leans back to look at Phil. Foolish and Puffy let out twin whoops, and Techno is saying something, and Phil is staring distantly into the screen. It simply can’t be real. 

‘There’s- there’s got to

 be a mistake,” he says, turning to Jschlatt, who grins openly at him, excited in a very real way, untainted by liquor. “How… how could that…?”

“Guess they liked your daring, eh? They’ve got a show to put on.” He snorts. “Gotta have some players who can bring some heat.”

“Philza,” Foolish says, leaning out of his chair to nudge Puffy. “The man who was on fire. Oh- oh! Wait until you see your interview dress!”

Phil laughs a little. The idea of him wearing a dress is funny enough already. “More fire, eh?”

“Of a sort,” Foolish says with a wink.

Techno and Phil congratulate each other a bit awkwardly. Their odd familiarity has begun to collapse. They’ve both scored well- what does that mean for the other? 

The stress of the day and the heaping meal he’d eaten at lunch hits him hard. He doesn’t even have the energy to go to dinner, and he falls asleep to the number eleven still throbbing beneath his eyelids.

---

“An eleven?”

Fit shrugs, smiling halfheartedly down at the masked man sitting on the bench below him. The sun shines down on them, but the air is blessedly cool, gentle compared to the overpowering scent of the roses around them. Shades of white and pink waver gently in the air. 

“He earned it.”

A soft scoff comes from below a porcelain mask, arms uncrossing as President Dream wipes a hand across his face. “He shot an arrow at your head.”

“Well,” replies Fit, cocking his head with a grin. “T’was an apple.”

“...Near your head,” comes Dream’s rebuttal, dry and irritated.

FitMC has nothing else to say for a short minute. He looks at the flowers uneasily, his earlier grin starting to slide away. It is clear, to anyone who is or isn’t watching, that the man has crossed a line, and he knows it.

“Sit down.”

He obeys, and President Dream slides down on the bench, long neck tilting backward as his mask peers impassively up at the skies. He sets his hands on the edge of his seat and sighs, leaning back in a mockery of an animal bathing in the sun.

“Fit… Why do you think we have a winner?”

The mentioned man is silent for a moment, a smile coming in place that is only nervous if you look close enough. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Dream continues, bringing his head back up, craning his neck to stare dead into Fit’s eyes despite his mask. “Why do we have a winner?”

“I mean, if we just wanted to intimidate people why don’t we just round up 24 people and execute them all at once?” He continues. Fit’s smile has slid away. Dream is gesturing elaborately with thinly gloved hands, clawlike in nature. “It’d be a lot faster.”

He leans in, and his mouth, just barely visible beneath the mask, turns into a smile. From any other person it would look fond. It’s fanged and sharp upon his crimson-stained skin.

“Hope.”

“Hope?” Fit repeats inquisitively.

“Hope,” Dream says, popping the P. “It is the only thing stronger than fear.”

He plucks a rose off a bush and pulls a thin pair of scissors from his pocket. He scans it, and sighs, and clips a leaf. “A little hope is effective. Too much hope is dangerous. Its existence is fine — even integral, to Panem, — as long as it is contained.”

“So…” Fit swallows and hopes his voice does not waver.

“So…” Dream repeats once again, holding the rose up to the sunlight. Its leaves are bare and its stem stripped. The white petals are veined and thin and look sharp enough to cut. “Contain it.”

---

His features are erased and then stenciled back out by pale concealer and deep black makeup. It crawls up his eyes with wet strokes and dry powder, elaborate carvings deep in his skin. They weave red strands of ribbon through his hair in a pattern that begins at his left ear, wraps around his head, and then drapes down in a braid on his right shoulder, naked collarbones shifting under the weight. 

Phil sits patiently and lets every one of his limbs be maneuvered. They paint his nails a deep shade of black. They run golden powder over his cheekbones and his arms, his limbs shattering starlight into the air as they move. They tilt his chin up and down and side to side and grip his cheeks with thin fingers, gently painting upon his fragile jaw.

When Foolish enters the stylist’s room, he’s holding a long, white bag, hung upon a hanger. He smiles giddily when the door shuts and he catches sight of Phil, dressed only in his underwear but done up so perfectly he feels as if he could go out now and still be beautiful. 

“Close your eyes,” Foolish says gently as Phil stands. He obeys. 

First comes the feeling of silk as it wraps around his skin, achingly cool and soft. Then the weight. The dress must be at least forty pounds, and he finds himself nearly stumbling several times as he is slid into its depths. He steps into his shoes blindly, legs guided by hands on his calves. They’re about three inches high, and he feels much taller even with his eyes shut.

There’s some adjusting and fidgeting with the fabric. Then, silence.

“Can I open my eyes?”

“Yes,” says Foolish, and his voice is gentle. “You can open them.”

The creature standing before Phil in the mirror is something otherworldly. It comes from a place where birdlike limbs are painted constantly in effervescent gold, where clothes are inlaid with the finest jewels and the most beautiful silver tongues. Because his dress…

It hits the floor in layers of soft fabric, draping just below his ankles. It hugs his body and climbs up his chest and lies about his collarbones, sleeveless, dancing at his chest. The skirt is ombre’d with millions of sparkling gems, fractal starlight bouncing off every edge. It goes from red to yellow to white and even blue accenting the edges. Every single movement sets him ablaze, from his breath to his gasp.

Phil is not handsome. He is not beautiful. He is starlight.

For a while, his prep team and Foolish only stare. Then, he turns to his stylist — his friend, even — and finds that his throat is horribly clogged with emotion.

“Thank you,” he manages to choke out, voice gravelly and thick. 

“Twirl for me,” he says casually in response. When he does, the entire prep team explodes into laughter and shrieks of joy. Phil can’t help the smile that crawls up to his lips.

Foolish dismisses the team and has Phil maneuver about in the dress and heels, which are surprisingly easy to move about in. He staggers for an instant and then steadies himself, walking in a way that makes him almost feel as if he is floating. 

“So, all ready for the interview then?” Asks Foolish. His expression — raised eyebrow, half-grin — suggests he’s teasing Phil.

Phil just groans. “Not at all. Jschlatt compared me to a dead rat earlier. Apparently, I’m violent and angry and sardonic.”

Foolish lets out peals of golden laughter. “Ha! I wonder what he thinks of Technoblade!”

“I’m pretty sure he’s fared worse than I have,” Phil says with an exaggerated sigh. “Jschlatt dislikes all of us.”

“Well. He has Puffy to guide him now. I’m sure Technoblade will be alright.”

Phil has to nod at that. Both Foolish and Puffy have proven themselves incredibly wise and self-aware for being Capitol citizens. He thinks, if he lives through this, he might like them to meet his son. 

“Well, anyways. You’re all those things and more in front of Jschlatt. The prep team, Puffy, and I all think you’re alright. The Capitol certainly can’t get enough of you.” Foolish shrugs and readjusts Phil’s braid. “No one can help but admire your spirit.”

That’s an odd thing, he thinks, to admire. His spirit is only there because of his son. If he hadn’t had Wilbur, Phil thinks he would have perhaps just killed himself before he even got to The Capitol. 

He startles when Foolish takes his icy hands in his warm ones and stares at them, thumbs running across Phil’s thin knuckles. 

“Pretend when you’re answering the questions you’re just talking to a friend back home. Who would it be?”

“Wilbur,” he answers immediately. “My son. But that doesn’t work- he already knows all this about me, Foolish.”

“What about me then?” He suggests, looking up and pausing his soothing ministrations. “Could you think of me as a friend?”

Out of all the people Phil has met in his time in The Capitol, Foolish has certainly been one of the finest he could have. “I think so, but-”

“I’ll be sitting on the main platform with the other stylists. You’ll be able to look right at me. When you’re asked something, just look for me and answer as honestly as you would if I were the person asking you.”

“Even if what I think is rude?” He cautions, because most things he think are somewhat unkind.

Foolish snorts. “Especially if it’s rude. You’ll try it?”

Phil nods softly. It’s a plan, no matter how rickety, and it’s safe to have something to focus on. 

Technoblade looks just as stunning as him when they’re both revealed together. He’s wearing a black button-down shirt and a corset to match, laced up in the back with bright red laces. His shoulders are adorned with gold, a cloak flowing down his back and flickering at his ankles. It’s a crimson red, though they haven’t leaned into the fire details as much for him. His long pink hair has been left flowing about his shoulders, a soft gold ringlet nestled in his curls.

They look stunning. It isn’t a surprise.

When the elevator opens, the other tributes are already being lined up on stage. All twenty-four sit in a large arc behind the newscaster and the interviewee going up one by one to be interviewed and put on display. Phil will be second to last. Technoblade will go out behind him. It makes him wish he could just go and get it over with.

They’re outside, evening falling upon their shoulders and the dusk brushing the skies. The city avenues are packed with people, seats erected for the most prestigious. The stylists sit in the front row, where they will be filmed as the crowd reacts to their stunning work. There will be no blackouts throughout the country tonight. Every single citizen, young and old, sick and strong, will be tuned in to watch.

He hopes Wilbur is watching. He wants his son to see that he is still strong.

George Found, the man who has hosted the interviews for almost twenty years, bounces onto the stage and the crowd roars, his arms opening wide to accept the praise. He rarely changes his look. He has the same boyish soft brown hair and grin, the same ridiculous white goggle-sunglasses, hiding his eyes away. He’s dressed in a deep blue suit and a red necktie, and his gloved hands raise to the sky and encourage the clapping below.

He sits in his plush black chair and spins to face them all, grinning again as the cheers start anew. He tells a few jokes and farms a few laughs, but then gets down to business.

For as odd as George is, he does seem to try his best to help the tributes. He’s loud and overpowering but in a way that complements the people he speaks to. He buzzes with energy yet knows how to mellow down. A bland phrase can become memorable if he smiles. A shit joke can become hilarious if he laughs. And, with his odd sense of humor, he often does.

The female tribute from District 1 steps out. She’s blond, blue-eyed, hair wavy and adorned with diamonds. She wears a floor-length white dress that shimmers as she steps, waving shyly down at the crowd. 

Each interview only lasts about three minutes. Then a buzzer goes off, and George dismisses the tribute with a smile, letting the next step up. Phil shivers despite the summer air and hopes the camera doesn’t pick up how bad his hands are shaking. He may not care about what The Capitol thinks of him, but sponsors are his last line of defense in the games. He needs people on his side, whether he wants them there or not. 

1, 2, 3, 4. Everyone plays up some sort of act, of skill. They talk as if they’ve been trained in what words to say, every fidget calculated, every smile carved. The boy from District 1 is cool and collected and wicked sharp. The girl from 2 is bubbly yet sardonic and dark. The silent boy from district ten is quick and charming. Phil’s stomach is a tangled knot of worries.

Michael steps onto the stage in a hauntingly beautiful outfit. It looks like a suit if a suit could possibly become a dress, gossamer wings hanging off the back and shifting with his every step. His eyes are painted a deep green, a similarly colored highlight pressed into his cheeks. He looks like something otherworldly, the fae and the dead in one. 

George presses Michael on his score of seven in training. The boy smiles, facing the camera — and surely his parents — to answer. “I’m very hard to catch,” he says, in that soft, boyish voice of his, pink hair flowing shyly down onto his face. Moonlight casts upon him and turns him into something utterly unrecognizable. “And, if they do catch me, they sure as hell can’t kill me. So don’t count me out.”

His voice wavers by the end of his sentence. Phil’s gut siezes and he runs a hand down his face. Wilbur is at home. Wilbur is safe. But seeing this child being primed for the slaughter doesn’t make him happier in the slightest.

“I wouldn’t,” George says matter of factly, in that tactless, dry way he can always pull off. “I feel like if I were in the games you’d go for my ankles when I least expected it.”

The crowd erupts into raucous laughter. Michael giggles. 

The other tribute from District 11, Fundy, is a fox-faced, spritely boy. He hasn’t scored high but it’s clear he’s inherited some sort of charisma from his parents, as he yips and twitters with jokes and laughter. 

And, all too soon, Phil’s name is called.

He makes it down to the stage with his dress sweeping behind him, trailing fire through the air. He stretches his hand out and shakes George’s and notices that the man’s eyes are completely hidden behind his goggles. Phil sits down in his seat and-

And the crowd has gone utterly silent. The camera crews have stopped filming. The sky is filled with mossy grey fuzz, the world around him gone swimming with little white pinpricks of light. Phil stares blearily at George, and-

He’s said something, hasn’t he? “Hm?”

The crowd laughs at Phil’s misfortune. George does as well, though in an awkward manner, a bit as if he’s making fun of Phil. He takes in stride, straightening out and trying to smile. He finds Foolish in the crowd. Golden eyes meet his, and he’s given a nod.

“I asked, what has impressed you most since you arrived here?”

He wracks his brain for an answer and finds himself unable to come up with anything substantial. But the crowd is hungry, staring up at him, the lights and cameras buzzing noisily and sending him dizzy spell after dizzy spell.

“The lamb stew,” he chokes out, followed by a noise he hopes can be excused as a laugh.

George lets out a wheezy snort and the crowd follows in laughter. He pats his own stomach and moans. “God, me too. Does it show?”

The crowd rings out their ringing endorsement. George moans again and turns back to Phil with a disparaging expression, before he tilts the microphone back to him, grinning. “Alright. Well. You look fine, don’t you? Not filling out too terribly?”

Phil looks down at his waist with a dreamy expression, not quite getting it. Then it registers- this is a joke. He pokes his gut and shrugs with a completely clueless expression that is more real than the crowd understands. But they laugh anyway, and so does George, up until he waves his hands, quelling their noise.

“I mean, of course you still look good. Let me tell you- when you came out on that chariot earlier this week, I think my heart stopped.” He leans in and whispers conspiratorially. “Tell me, what did you really think of your costume?”

Phil looks back out into the crowd once again, his focus wavering. Foolish is there, sending him a thumbs up. So he grins awkwardly. “You mean after I was sure I wasn’t going to go up in flames?”

Then comes real laughter from the crowd. George chuckles and leans back, setting his ankle on his knee. “Sure. Why not. Start with then.”

“I thought Foolish was an absolute madman, to start with,” Phil says dryly. “Brilliant, but absolutely out of it. Then I was on fire, and it was… unbelievable. I mean, I can hardly believe this costume either. Look at it!”

He spreads the skirt of it out and lets the gossamer gems overlap. George mutters some praise that is lost to the crowd below them. Then, from down below, Phil spots Foolish. He’s raised a hand and assumed a self-satisfied expression, moving his finger in a circular motion. Phil gets it in an instant.

He stands, and George encourages him as he spreads the skirt apart, as he lets the many layers of gems billow up. And then he spins.

Fire engulfs his lower legs and spins up his torso and licks at his chest. Flame sends sparks out into the moonlit air as the crowd screams, as he spins, as he twists in the air like a solitary beam of light amongst every single spotlight in the center, all focused directly on him. 

“Ohh -hh!” George exhales, holding out a hand in shock and gesturing. There’s something horrifically bittersweet about the moment. Phil is engulfed in flames. Phil is burning, for all of Panem to see. He is beautiful in every sense of the word. And yet this adornment is only meant to make him palatable for the knife he is about to be placed under. 

“Oh, do that again!” George demands. Phil does, and the crowd screams again when he lets the skirt billow out, scattering red and yellow and white and blue in every direction, shattering the very world. When he becomes too dizzy to continue he grabs George’s arm and lowers himself into his seat. “Oh, no, don’t stop!”

“I have to,” Phil gasps, a laugh bubbling up before he can stop it. “I’m dizzy!”

George laughs boisterously and collapses back into his seat with Phil in the other. “Oh, I’m sure you’re fine. Can’t have you turning out like your mentor though!”

By now Jschlatt is famous for his headfirst dive at The Reaping. The cameras pan to him and he rolls his eyes and scoffs good-naturedly, farming the laughter and clapping with a wave of his hands. Then the cameras return, and Phil is again placed upon a canvas with the attention of every eye in the country. 

“It’s alright,” George continues, shifting the conversation. “But- but wait, how about that training score?” He leans in, going shifty-eyed. “I know you’re not meant to tell us anything, but… Eleven?”

“I… Erm. I think it was a first.”

The crowd bursts into groans at his refusal to admit to anything. Phil grins sheepishly and looks up to The Gamemaker’s box, the inhabitants laughing and nodding at the cameras that beg for their input. 

“You’re killing me. Tell me more.”

“I’m not supposed to talk about it, right?” He says up to the balcony.

“He’s not!” Shouts back the person who fell in the punchbowl. 

George scoffs, though his tone has shifted into something a bit less lighthearted. “A bunch of fun killers, that lot. But anyways… Philza. Let’s go back to that moment at The Reaping. We were all very touched when you volunteered for your son. Can you tell us a bit about him?”

No. Phil’s smile slopes off and shatters. He can’t. Wilbur is his son, not another person for The Capitol to eat up and spit out and swish around. But maybe, to Foolish, he can choke out enough words to pass by.

“His name is Wilbur,” he says. On the cameras, it looks as if he’s staring wistfully into the distance. He looks instead directly at Foolish, ignoring all the other clutter of the night. It’s all he can do to stop his anger from returning. His son is his son, not The Capitol’s to gawk at. But he continues anyways, and the information flows. “He’s only twelve. I’d do anything for him.”

You could hear a pin drop. Gone is the artificial silence of dissociation, replaced by genuine, stunned, quiet. 

“And what did he say to you?” George asks, voice oddly soft. “After the reaping?”

He’s spilling himself on stage right now. “He told me to try as hard as I can to win.”

The audience is frozen. They cling to every word. 

“And what did you say?” Prompts George, leaning in.

The warm moment is swept up in a current of violent cold. A breeze blows past. This is what he has come here to do. To win. “I told him I would.”

“I bet you did,” George says self satisfactorily, leaning back, smiling softly, reassuring. The buzzer goes off and Phil could scream. “Oh- sorry, but we’re out of time. Best of luck, Philza Craft, tribute from District 12.”

It’s oddly sincere. The applause from the crowd continues long after he’s finally seated, back with his fellow tributes, observing in silence, each judging all the others.

Phil’s mind flickers with a replay of his every word as Technoblade’s interview starts. The audience is captivated with his dry wit from the get-go, but all Phil can hear is muffled cheers, quiet discussion, the wind whistling through nearby false foliage. Techno and George go through some sort of bit where they ask if either of them smells too much like bacon.

Phil is only just coming back to his own mind when George asks Technoblade if he has anyone close to him back home. There’s a pause, the audience ready to hear of beautiful girls, of handsome boys, of anything between or outside.

He gives an unconvincing shrug and shake of his head. George scoffs.

“Oh, come off it. Handsome lad like you? There must be someone. A childhood friend? Maybe even a girl?”

Technoblade groans exaggeratedly and shrugs again. “I mean- I guess there is someone. Really, the only someone. The only friend I’ve ever had in my entire life.”

“Oh?” This sparks intrigue, both in the crowd and Phil himself. Who would it be? From what he knows of Techno, the boy is incredibly solitary. Any close childhood friend he has is a mystery, and The Capitol reacts accordingly, excitedly whispering their thoughts.

George raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Well, you can go home and win and live even more of that life with them, eh?”

There’s a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. Technoblade sweeps a hand across his throat nervously and looks down at his shoes. This is unline anything Phil has ever seen. This is soft. It feels false on Techno’s typically dry and uncaring demeanor. But he acts within it all the same.

“That’s the issue, then,” Technoblade replies. “I don’t think I’ll need to win to see him again.”

“Oh?” George raises an eyebrow and looks closer. “Why ever not?”

“Uhm. Because-” Technoblade almost stammers. “Because he came here with me.”

The Capitol loves drama. They love star-crossed lovers, and unlikely duos, and traumatized children. They’re partial to the idea of bonds that last till the end, no matter if platonic or otherwise.

Phil had just never expected to become their will. To be plastered upon those screens — and he bows his head to avoid them, because he can’t handle their force just yet — as Technoblade’s lie registers.

“That’s shit ,” George says, and his voice is suddenly sincere, as if he could ever understand the sheer magnitude of this falsehood.

“It is,” Technoblade agrees, and his voice is rough. 

“Well. I don’t think any of us can blame you,” George admits softly. “You two make quite the powerful pair.”

Phil lets his eyes flicker back up fast enough to see the despair in Technoblade’s eyes. It’s hauntingly genuine. Hauntingly fake.

The other man is dismissed. The tributes are fawned over once more, and the anthem plays, and Phil cannot avoid that nearly every camera is pointed directly at Technoblade and him now that the declaration of trust has been given.

But he knows better. He’s aware of the lies. 

After the anthem, each tribute goes up in lifts to their floors of the tribute center They’re significantly slowed by the flow of the crowd and those begging for their answers, but Phil eventually finds himself observing the sky from above, crystalline windows exposing every empty inch of the city, every facsimile spark of flame in its deadly star lined buildings.

He makes it up to his own floor. Technoblade follows a moment later, and then the doors shut, and then-

Phil turns with a stormy, violent, glare, and he stands his ground as Technoblade’s chillingly impassive eyes meet his. Gone is the sadness that had once occupied them, confirming everything Phil already knows. It had been an act.

“What was that all about, mate?” He demands, striding forward until Technoblade is forced to meet his eyes. The other man doesn’t seem to mind, raising his eyebrows uncaringly.

“It was a calculated choice-”

“It was a fucking lie is what it was,” Phil snarls, and his fingers itch for his bow. He won’t get physical — can’t, not when Quackity and Jschlatt and all the hidden cameras in their rooms are watching — but god, he despises this mask he’s been forced into. “You’ve turned us into- into-”

“Into something desirable,” Jschlatt says, moving forward. Phil stumbles away when the man’s hand pushes him back, same as Technoblade. They’re split apart, but their glares are harsh as ever. “He just gave you your most useful asset, Philza. Be grateful.”

“Built on a lie!”

“Who fucking cares,” Jschlatt slurs, and his voice is tinged with liquor. “It’s all a pretty game, and you’re definitely not winning right now, bud. He says, she says, they said- who gives a damn.”

It’s too much. But Phil has to agree- it makes sense. It doesn’t matter now anyway, because things can’t be changed. They’re friends till the end, apparently. 

“Fine,” he snaps back. He reaches up and massages between his brow. He’s tired, a bone-deep ache that nestles further than his bones and drags his mind from his body. There’s no energy left to argue. “Fine.”

Silence ensues. Quackity stares at him. Technoblade stares at him. Jschlatt-

Well, Jschlatt is already moving past and into the dining room, the smells of a hot banquet of food more tempting than an argument with two surly bastards who will be dead soon anyway. They migrate out of the front room in silence. 

There’s an odd rose petal soup for them, smelling lightly fragrant, white with creme and sugar. There’s roast beef and pork and then a course of fresh summer salad, light as the wind, but Phil is far too jittery to enjoy it. He simply puts his best effort into not ruining his dress and eats what he must to not arouse suspicion. 

After dinner, they watch the replay of the interviews. Phil is charming, his awkwardness coming off as a fresh sort of blunt humor, his dizzying spins exuding confidence. To him, it feels nothing but artificial. Technoblade actually is interesting, though in hindsight, Phil can poke holes in every word, see lies behind it all. It’s an act, as everything in The Capitol is. Technoblade is practically a natural already.

After the anthem finishes and the screen goes dark, a hushed lull in conversation falls over the word. Tomorrow, Technoblade and Phil will be on a plane to the new arena. Tomorrow at dawn, they will be prepared for the slaughter, flown away to the slaughterhouse.

Quackity and Jschlatt won’t be coming with them. So they say their goodbyes here.

“I wish you both the best of luck,” Quackity says sincerely, taking one of Phil’s hands, one of Technoblades, looking up at them with a smile that seems almost anxious. “I know you can do this. I know you can win.”

It seems like an odd thing to say to two opposing sides, but Phil isn’t going to question it. He nods past the lump in his throat and thanks his escort for all the odd man has done.

Jschlatt smells a bit less like liquor now that he’s eaten, which Phil is surprised about. He supposes the man might go right back to drinking soon, with Phil and Technoblade in the arena, not around to push him to help them get sponsors. He crosses his arms and regards them with an unreadable expression, his scrutiny kept under wraps. 

(There’s something sorrowful hidden in the depths of his eyes. He’s mourning them already. But there’s hope, too.)

“And last words of advice?” Phil asks dryly.

“When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there. Neither of you are gonna want to get in the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. Just clear out, get as much distance between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water.” He raises an eyebrow. “Got it.”

“And after that?” Technoblade inquires.

Jschlatt snorts. “Stay alive.”

It’s the same as that first piece of advice on the train, what feels like months ago. But there’s no laughter in his eyes, no humor in his words. It’s a serious demand. Jschlatt nods. What else is there to say?

Phil showers. He scrubs every inch of makeup and red adornment off his skin until it aches, until his pores feel a mile stretched, his skin burnt and raw. All that remains are his nails, a deep, jet black. He decides to keep them. Perhaps he can pick at them when he’s anxious.

He pulls on a thick, fleece pair of pajamas. They feel silken and soft against his skin, but they’re a luxury he’s about to lose. 

He very quickly realizes sleep is going to elude him anyways. An hour passes as he tosses and turns fitfully, begging for rest to come, because every moment he sleeps in the days to come will be an invitation for someone to put a knife through his chest. Phil’s mind spins restlessly. What terrain will he be thrown into? Trees? Swampland? What traps will there be? Will the weapons be sparse? Will the water be concealed?

It’s too much. He races out of his room and slams his door shut, marching angrily to the roof. It’s unfair. This whole game is utterly unfair. But no God ever said anything about fairness on earth, and Phil is only a human, and the games will drag him about, and-

The roof is unlit at night, but Phil sees the silhouette the moment he steps out. Tall, large, shadowed, wavering slightly in the evening moonlight. For a moment Phil considers leaving. The city is loud now that he’s outside, cars honking and parties raging. But the night air is sweet, and this will perhaps be his last time to look up to the stars while not being hunted beneath them. 

So he remains, climbing further onto the roof and leaving the glass dome that encases the door. His feet move soundlessly. He’s only a yard behind Technoblade when he speaks. “You should be getting some sleep.”

The man doesn’t start, hands poised on the railing. His fingers are long and thick, and calloused. There’s an odd gentleness to them anyways, as they curl around the silver bar. They twitch to move when Phil slides up beside him. He shakes his head. “I didn’t want to miss the party. It’s for us, isn’t it?”

Phil leans over the railing and squints, making out tiny people, neon pinpricks of light, lime green wigs and colorful flamingo pink dresses and all other colors between. “Are they in costumes?”

Technoblade snorts. “Heh. Who can tell, with them?”

“Fair enough.”

They drift into silence for another moment. Then Technoblade turns to Phil, humming. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

“Couldn’t turn my mind off,” Phil replies, looking back. Gone is the animosity from earlier. It’s just them. Two death row inmates, prepared for the chair at last. There’s nothing worthwhile to fight about. 

“Thinking about your family?” He asks, and Phil lets out a chuckle.

“No,” he admits, a bit guilty about it. “All I can do is think about the games, which is pointless. And you?”

“Wondering if our deaths will make the repeat reel,” he replies, and Phil has to laugh. It would be a little hilarious — even if he’d rather Wilbur never had to see it — if every year, Technoblade and he were plastered upon the screens again, but only their deaths. 

“Or our victories,” Phil quips. 

Technoblade chuckles as if he’s never heard a more preposterous possible outcome. 

“I’m serious,” Phil says genuinely. “If anyone else had to win the games other than me, I’d hope it would be you.”

This seems to throw the other man for a turn. He looks over, eyes piercingly red. His fingers shiver upon the rail. His fingers jump, just a bit, as if it’s a nervous twitch.

“And the same to you,” he replies, voice slow. Techno sounds incredibly sincere. It makes Phil’s breath catch. 

They stand there in silence for another ten minutes until Phil can finally feel that his body’s exhaustion is winning over his mind’s rabid energy. He leaves Technoblade on the roof, making his way back down the stairs, feeling a bit as if he’s walking into the games already. 

Chapter Text

Foolish comes before dawn. Soft golden rays seep in through the windows of Phil’s extravagant room and he realizes, as he’s being awoken, that he will miss this. After resenting the Capitol for so long, it’s odd to suddenly become accustomed to its frivolity.

He’s dressed in a thick brown jumpsuit. He’ll be done up properly in the catacombs beneath the games later. Foolish leads him to the roof, the forcefield receded and a large space cleared out. The sky splits and a large black hovercraft hovers down to collect them, just as sudden and silent as that day in the woods years ago. A ladder unfurls. Foolish nods at him to take it.

Phil places his hands and feet on the lower rungs and immediately panics. He’s frozen. Every muscle is taught, every inch of his body stuck to the off-white material. For a moment he wonders if he’s suddenly about to die — but then the ladder starts to lift, and he’s dragged up into the hovercraft.

He expects to be released. Instead, a small woman steps up, rolls his sleeve back, and gently runs two fingers across his arm. “This is a tracker,” she says, gesturing to a massive needle. It looks as thick as two of Phil’s fingers. “The stiller you are, the more efficiently I can place it.

Phil is as still as a statue . Not that he has a choice, every inch of his body utterly paralyzed. That does not, apparently, dull the pain of an inch-long tracker being injected into his arm, sharp and bruising at once. Now the Gamemakers will have no trouble tracking him through the games, unable to lose him in the thicket. 

The ladder releases him a moment later. He hisses, reaching down to prod at the swollen spot in his arm. Another hand covers his own and pulls it away. Foolish is there, preventing him from fiddling. They’re led into an adjacent room. It’s adorned with many luscious meals, but Phil can barely taste anything other than ash. 

He’s being led off to the games. The sky is a warm, golden cream, the birds below the hovercraft catching drifts of wind and fluttering all about. The leaves whisper with the gossip of a hundred graves. Phil yearns to be below, in the forests. With the birds, their wings dragging them away from the clutter of the ground, giving them true freedom.

Thirty minutes into their flight the windows black out. Ten minutes later, they’ve arrived. The sterile white atmosphere of the tunnels beneath the game isn’t comforting in the slightest, even with Foolish’s hand pressed gently to the small of his back. 

Phil is led into the room that the Capitol calls the Launch Room. Those in the districts prefer a more literal name. The stockyard — the place animals are taken before they’re slaughtered. 

Here he is undressed and redone, pulled into a thick, tawny brown shirt, black cargo pants, a poncho-jacket that Foolish tells him will reflect his body heat. He tucks his feet into stiff leather boots, high quality and good for running. The soles aren’t worn at all, completely unlike his own at home.

At first, he thinks he’s finished once his shoes are on, his shirt straightened. Then Foolish’s lips have curled, a narrow, soft, smile, accompanied by a tilt of his head. It’s vaguely sorrowful. It holds all of the words that will fail them.

“Your token,” he says, reaching into his pocket. There it is again — the crow pin. It glints, a warmth in the endless cool hallways of the catacombs. Phil had forgotten about it. He lets Foolish press it into his shirt. “They almost didn’t let you bring it. They thought it could be used as a weapon. They ended up eliminating this one girl’s ring because a spike popped up when you unscrewed the gem.”

“Everyone’s trying to win the games somehow.”

Foolish nods at this, releasing Phil’s shirt and stepping back to observe. “One last twirl, then? Tell me how it fits.”

Phil steps in a circle and lets the boots fit his legs, feels the poncho rustling quietly against his skin. He’s not sweating. He’s not anxious. He’s numb, trying to avoid any further conversation about the games. 

“One minute until launch.”

The pleasant female voice speaks to them from above. Foolish looks up, then back at Phil, smiling once more. He extends his hands. Phil takes them. 

“Remember what Jschlatt said,” he reminds Phil, nodding. “Run. Find water. The rest will follow. And remember- I can’t bet, but if I could, my money would be on you.”

Phil’s struck by this. Foolish is, after all, still from The Capitol. He is not district born nor of Phil’s blood, used to riches and luxury. He has no obligation to be so kind, but he does anyways. Phil might be dead within the hour. He accepts Foolish’s soft squeeze of his hands regardless.

“Truly?” He asks, because he needs confirmation.

His stylist nods. Their hands pull apart. Phil steps backward, onto the loading platform. “Truly.”

There’s no time for anything loving, for any last goodbyes. There’s just glass, sliding over his view, and a soft, feminine voice, counting down the seconds. The metal beneath Phil’s feet starts to rise. Foolish puts a hand to his chin and nods encouragingly. Head high. The message is clear.

His friend and the launch room disappear from view and are replaced by sterile white metal. He feels no vertigo as he is lifted, shifting from foot to foot as he restlessly awaits his trial, the jurors the executioners, holding their blades only inches from his chest.

The glass disappears. Sunlight dazzles him. He can’t see. 

Then, from above. Sapnap — legendary announcer of the games — rings out. He’s speaking. What is he saying? Phil recognizes his surroundings as if they’re within a dream. Pine trees, a flat plateau of land behind and in front of him, all leading up to the metal cornucopia in the middle of them. The tributes stand in a circular formation and their eyes do not meet. If they step away too soon, bombs beneath them will blow their bodies apart. Phil looks around. Someone is speaking.

“Let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!”

Oh.

That’s what is being said. An announcement. Phil steadies himself. He can do this. He can- do this. His feet are flat against the ground as the sixty-second timer starts to tick, and his knees bend, his body poised to spring. This will be his final rest before mayhem. Before death.

The Cornucopia is filled to the brim with supplies. This is where weapons lie, resources tempt. Jschlatt’s words come rushing back — “Just clear out and put as much distance as you can between yourselves and the others. Find water.” — but the wealth of items in the large, metallic structure glint tantalizingly. 

Blanket rolls. Backpacks. Swords. Spears. There- beneath a basket heaping with small packs is a bow. Its metallic sheen nearly blends in with the many-paneled surface of the cornucopia, blinding in the mid-morning light. 

Phil realizes, suddenly, that the bow is his. It has been put here for him. He’s fast — faster than most boys had been in school, small and quick. Jschlatt has never seen him run. His warning is ill-advised, isn’t it? Surely, he should go for the bow, shouldn’t he? Before the Careers usher in the bloodbath and divvy up all the worthwhile supplies between themselves?

Phil’s leg twists deeper against the platform until every muscle is straining for him to run. Forty. Thirty-nine. Thirty-eight.

He is small. He is not the only target. Twenty-four people stand gathered together to break bread and to spread blood for better or worse, and Phil has not yet revealed his strengths. He has only moments to devise a strategy. He’s ready. He’s going to be ok. That bow is-

The gong sounds. The land is quiet. The thrum of the earth’s heartbeat stutters into Phil’s vision. He tilts. He runs. His feet dive into the ground. A thousand bodies push past him. The wind whistles. Someone falls. A knife is thrown. Crimson sprays against grass. A loud, wet snap. Bone shards against the ground. 

His arm loops around a bright orange backpack and he skids to a stop. The bow — the bow — he looks, and it’s gone, and his chance has slipped and he stutters to a stop and oh, he’s going to die, and it’s still completely silent-

A sword swings around and lands in his backpack, ripping the fabric. He spins on delicate steps and maneuvers away from its wide arc. Pink hair falls across a bloodstained face. Technoblade’s calloused hands drip with sunset-red liquid. It bubbles from his nose. Phil dodges another hit. Technoblade is panting. He’s smiling. Phil runs. 

Phil runs. Phil runs. Phil runs.

A knife is thrown into his pack. He raises it on instinct. He falls, tumbling down a hill, all of his fear collecting and returning and filling him with the adrenaline to roll and then to stand again, to yank the already bloodied blade from his bag and to continue sprinting. Technoblade is long behind. The hand which threw the knife is nowhere in sight. Phil hears clashing swords and screams and laughter and he-

And he runs, because what else can he do? He sprints through underbrush and scatters beneath bushes and dives under tree branches. He rips through leaves and lush vinery and plants of a million different colors, the air cool, the dirt beneath his feet crunching noisily with every step. He can barely hear it. All he can hear anymore is the pounding in his chest, and the sound of a sword whistling down to carve into his chest, and perhaps, if he listens close enough, a gasp-

For the next few hours, he alternates between running and walking through the woods, putting as much distance between himself and his competitors as he can. There’s no time to stop and examine the contents of his pack, but he crouches down when the wood is silent enough that he can trust it, smears dirt and leaves and berries across it in a flimsy camouflage.

Water. That’s his next step. He can survive for a long time without food — longer than most — but water is another beast entirely. In District 12, there had always at least been a steady supply of water, even if it had to be boiled more often or not. Here, he has ignored Jschlatt’s instructions. He has no clue where water is.

Well- it seems that Phil isn’t the only one not in the mood to listen to his mentor. Technoblade’s sword hadn’t materialized out of nowhere, had it? Nor had his sudden bloodlust. Phil supposes he must have gotten his love for each at some point before the games, even if everyone else was too foolish to notice. 

His overeating in the past few days has paid off. He has enough energy to travel quite far — given his circumstances — and he even dares to say he feels good. Phil is familiar with the forest and the deep, unending green of nature. It feels ok to be back, even if he’s not so optimistic as to presume he will be here for long.

He keeps his chin up anyways. He’s likely being broadcasted off and on to The Capitol, and betting rates are always highest right after the first deaths. If he can get any donors, he’ll try his best to please them. He’ll surely need the help. 

But that line of thinking will get him nowhere. He’s been lucky anyways — it’s late in the afternoon when the cannons finally sound, signifying that the dead at the bloodbath have been collected. The Gamemakers always wait to collect the bodies until all of the fighting has completed. 

He pauses as the cannons sound, taking a moment to scrape dried blood off his cheek as he counts the beats. One, two, three… all the way to eleven. Thirteen left still wander these woods, same as him. He wonders- has Technoblade survived the day? Phil doesn’t doubt it. If his bloodthirst earlier was any indication, Technoblade will probably do quite well for himself.

He’ll find out for sure later. The casualties are displayed upon the ceiling of their enclosure come nightime, splayed out to be mourned or to be celebrated.

What will he do if Technoblade is dead? He stutters to a stop again. If Technoblade is already bled white and thin, collected by a silent hovercraft, departure swift and silent? Will he mourn the man who had gifted him bread, or will he celebrate one more lost competitor?

It doesn’t matter. Phil carries on.

After about an hour longer of running, Phil has to stop. He slumps up against a tree, exhausted, and tips his head back against the unidentifiable wood. After a moment of resting he moves, twisting around to unzip his pack. He needs to go through it before the night ends.

He carefully lies out the provisions on the dirt beneath him. A thin black sleeping bag made of the same material as his poncho. A pack of crackers. Dried strips of beef. A bottle of water purifier, though there’s no water to accompany it. A small coil of wire. A pair of sunglasses. A box of matches. There’s a half-gallon water bottle, though it’s as bone dry as his throat.

An awful thought hits him and he startles. There had been a lake at the cornucopia — what if that’s the only water? It would guarantee that the tributes would have to fight eventually, unless Phil was simply unlucky and the other packs actually included water. If that’s the only source of water, then Phil has another long day’s trip ahead of him — and this time, he will be even more dehydrated than he was in the day before.

But no- that doesn’t make sense. He’s seen rabbits and squirrels in these woods, as far out as yards away from where he is now. They have to get their water from somewhere, and they’re far too small to return to the lake every day. Phil will just have to follow their trail. 

Phil refills his pack and stands, cracking his knuckles as he takes his newly acquired knife and starts scraping the bark from a tree. He chews the soft inner bark as he heads deeper into the forest. He seems to be heading downhill into an endless valley. It puts him ill at ease — his domain is the high trees and large mountains of District 12. This declining track doesn’t bode well for if he ever needs to climb back up.

In another hour, Phil is forced to come to a stop. He needs to make camp. There are surely natural predators for the animals here, and he won’t be caught dead by a wolf or a coyote if he can help it. Dusk starts to flicker in through the trees above and around him, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow when the sunset begins. 

Before he settles, he takes his wire out and sets two twitch-up snares in the brush. It’s risky to set traps, so he moves several minutes away to set up camp, but food will go quickly out here. He needs all the help he can get.

He’s been trapped in the forests of District 12 overnight before. He can remember one particularly frightening occasion when a bear had chased him so far out he couldn’t find his way home, and he was forced to sleep in a tree. Now, he selects his sleeping quarters carefully. There’s a clump of willows not far from his snares that catch his eyes, and he heads to one not far from the middle. Thick branches, lush covering.

He plants his boots on the sturdiest branches near the trunk of the tree and he climbs, stretching his aching limbs out and finding a decent fork in the foliage. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough to tuck his sleeping bag onto. Next, he slides his backpack into the bag, following it quickly afterward. As an afterthought, he pulls his belt off, wraps it around himself and the bag. Now, if he tosses and turns, he won’t go careening straight to the ground.

The backpack seems like a good choice now as night starts to fall. The chill sets in quick, his poncho and sleeping bag only barely enough to keep him warm. It’s certainly much better than how most of the other tributes must be doing — there’s a fair chance he’ll actually get some sleep.

The black of night has finally settled across the land when the Capitol’s anthem rings out, starting the recap of the night. Through the heavy branches, Phil can see the seal of the Capitol, stark against the dark sky, a flickering white-blue. 

The headshots of the dead tributes start to fade across the screen. This time, though, their district numbers are beneath them, not their training scores. The first casualty is the girl from District 3 — so that means all the career tributes have survived. Then the boy from 4. A girl from 5. They slide past. Some are young. Some are old. Some look as if they had a fighting chance, but they clearly didn’t make it through the night either way.

Technoblade doesn’t appear in the faces tonight. Phil feels an uncomfortable mix of relief and disappointment roll about within him.

He works out who has been left alive. The Careers, obviously, which does nothing but make him endlessly annoyed. Michael and Fundy — the foxfaced boy — are both alive. Technoblade, obviously. Phil wonders if he’s joined the Careers. They’ve almost certainly got their eyes on him.

After two days with nearly no sleep, Phil finally finds himself exhausted. It’s as if his body has been holding out till the games. He allows his muscles to relax, his eyes to flutter shut. 

Snap.

Phil jerks upward in his sleeping bag and cold sweat drenches his frozen cheeks. Snap. How long has he been asleep? It’s been a while — there’s the moon, starting to descend in the sky, a perfect circle. Snap. Crunch. The noise is several hundred yards away. This isn’t someone walking across the ground, it’s someone breaking branches off a tree. Phil watches in complete silence and turns, ever so slowly, to look.

There’s no sign of life for several minutes. Then a soft glow erupts, and Phil has to stop himself from immediately cursing. Hands shiver out into shape and curl over the flame, warming themselves. Maybe when the Careers had still been in the middle of their bloodbath this would be ok, but now, after hours they’ve had to comb the land, whoever this person is is practically committing suicide. 

Several hours pass and Phil has no choice but to stay awake. The fire continues on, smoke curling up into the night sky. Dawn is only beginning to peak through the sky when Phil starts to think the fire starter and he have gone unnoticed. 

Then- from the north, a pack of pounding footfalls. The fire starter must have dozed off. A feminine voice breaks the silence when she starts pleading with an invisible enemy. There’s a scream.

Phil has been planning this girl’s death for hours. Stupid people make stupid decisions such as attracting packs of killers and leaving her alive — especially so close to him — has been dangerous. But he can’t help but wince at the laughter that follows her death, the pack of Careers cheering on the bloodshed like wild, uncontrollable dogs. 

Oftentimes, alliances are created in the games. It always leads to infighting and death, but initially, it gives a huge advantage to anyone who can get into a group. This’ll be the remaining careers. They shove through the girl’s supplies for a few minutes. From their disdainful voices, Phil gathers that they find nothing of worth. 

“Better clear out so they can get the body before it starts stinking,” remarks a boy, blase. There are murmurs of assent, the sound of people standing. Then, Phil freezes. They’re heading to him. They don’t know he’s here — surely not, they’d have started sniffing out their new kill soon before — but he can’t help but slowly start to shimmy from his sleeping bag.

But, the Careers stop in a clearing, about ten yards from Phil. They have flashlights and torches wrapped in torn fabric. Phil wonders if it’s stolen off of bodies. Arms, legs, hair — they peak through the foliage. Have they truly found him? He freezes, turning to stone, catching his breath and staring, not daring to close his eyes.

“Shouldn’t we have heard a cannon by now?” Asks one, and Phil takes a split second to catch his breath before the world is silent again.

“I’d say yes. Nothing to prevent them from going in immediately.”

“Unless she isn’t dead.”

A grunt. “She’s dead. I stuck her myself.”

“Then where’s the cannon?” Argues the first boy.

“Someone should go back,” adds a new voice. “Make sure the job’s done.”

“Yeah. We don’t want to have to track her down twice.”

“I said she’s dead!” 

An argument breaks out. There’s shouting, the sound of metal against metal against trees. Then, one tribute silences them all.

“We’re wasting time,” they say in a matter-of-fact, monotone voice. “I’ll go finish her and then we can move on.”

There’s nothing about the voice that’s out of the ordinary. Phil sucks in a breath and recoils regardless. It’s Technoblade.

---

Phil hangs with his face to the ground. He sings his praises to past-him for belting him into the tree. The startling fact that Technoblade has joined the Careers has made him fall from his perch, and he hopes no one else has noticed.

“Go on then, you sap,” says the boy that Phil recognizes now is another one of the Careers — the one from District 2, with huge, bulky fists. 

Phil gets only an instant of a glimpse of Technoblade. He seems to be faring ok, other than the purple bruise swelling one of his eyes, the awkward way he holds one of his arms. He remembers, suddenly, the adrenaline rush of a sword slipping through his bag, aimed for his chest. Technoblade will be fine, whether Phil cares or not.

Plus- the idea of Technoblade working with the careers makes it far easier to hate him. They’re known as arrogant and cruel throughout all of the Districts, to the point that no one other than the Capitol elite can stand them. Phil can’t help but start wishing Technoblade’s face had appeared in the sky the night before. He can’t imagine what those back home think of this pitiful betrayal.

The Career tributes are silent until Technoblade is fully out of earshot. Then:

“Why don’t we just kill him now?” Asks one.

“He’s valuable,” another reminds them chidingly. “Strong. You saw him with that sword.”

“That makes him dangerous.”

“True. But you know who else is dangerous?”

A long pause. They’re not thinking — they’re agreeing. 

“Yes he is,” says the first smugly. “And blade is going to lead us straight to him.”

It takes Phil a moment to realize that they’re talking about him, not Technoblade. What do they want with him? What could he possibly present as threatening to them, bulky, overprepared?

“Do you think he really bought into all that friendship crap?”

“Could’ve. He seemed the type. Every time I see that clip of him in that dress I want to puke.”

“Wish we knew how he got that eleven if he’s so pathetic,” chimes a new voice. Phil’s eyes narrow. What do they take him for? 

The sound of Technoblade returning silences them. 

“Was she dead?”

“No,” Technoblade grunts. A cannon sounds in the distance and the group startles. Phil is still, as is Technoblade. “But she is now.”

The veritable wolf pack of tributes leaves just as dawn begins, the birds chirping in the trees. Phil stays in his awkward position for a half-hour longer, muscles trembling violently at the exertion. Then, he hauls himself up onto his branch, properly sitting upright, and he processes.

Technoblade is not only working with the Careers, he’s helping them find Phil. The clumsy man from District 12 who somehow pulled himself an 11, nearly unheard of. It’s all because he can use a bow — and Technoblade is also one of the only people who knows that.

The Careers don’t seem to, though. Is Technoblade hiding this information? To what end? Is he still pretending they’re friends to the audience? No- that can’t be it. They already watched him try to maul Phil to death with a sword. Is he saving the information, simply because he knows it’s one of the only reasons the Careers don’t kill him outright?

Suddenly, Phil realizes that every single bird in the forest seems to have gone silent. Not a single wing flutters, not a single chirp claps through the air. Then- strikingly loud against a backdrop of near silence, a single bird call. 

High above the dying campfire from earlier, a hovercraft materializes. Phil has no time to process that there are crows in this arena when great, metal teeth drop down, slowly closing around the girl’s prone form and lifting her gently from the ground.

The wind whistles. The forest is frozen in silence. Phil watches with wide eyes. The corpse and the hovercraft disappear into the open sky.

The birds resume their tweeting-cawing-singing-flapping. Phil lets out a single breath and mutters a soft curse. He starts to wriggle out of his sleeping back. He needs to get moving.

Phil packs his bag back up in silence. Cataloging his thoughts come easily as he works. He needs to check his snares — see if anything has triggered them, even if he didn’t hear them overnight. Being up in this tree perch has offered him a modicum of concealment. As soon as he jumps down, the cameras will probably offer up a close shot of him. 

He braces himself, breathes in, and leaps down.

His feet hit the ground nearly soundlessly, a thick layer of pine needles covering his tracks. The Capitol is likely losing their minds over the fact that he was up in that tree, so he freezes his expressions, sighs. It’s best to act one step ahead of the game, as if he completely understood Technoblade’s actions. He can’t risk confusion — or god forbid, fear.

It’s as if he can hear the Capitol’s heavy gazes. Phil tilts his head in a soft nod, and he smiles knowingly.

Let them guess what that means.

Next, he checks the snares. Perhaps it’s a bad idea with so many people perhaps still around, but he does so anyways, rewarded for his troubles by one plump rabbit. In no time, he’s skinned it, the serrated edge of his knife coming in handy. He leaves the head, feet, tail, skin, and innards under a pile of leaves.

Then, thinking suddenly of Wilbur, he reaches under the pile and retrieves a leg.

Rabbit’s feet don’t bring luck. Money, and power, and skill, bring luck. But he still remembers his son begging him for a token such as this. He’d wanted to bring it into school the day before a test. Phil had obliged, spending a night cleaning and drying out the shoddy taxidermy job. Now, he tucks the blunted end of the leg into his pocket with a soft smile, wrapped in a leaf.

The Capitol will have no clue what his edge is in doing this. But he does it anyway, because he knows Wilbur will see it.

Then he thinks of rabbit fever, which is far less pleasant than a token to his son. So he rushes to the dead girl’s camp with his catch, grinning when he finds that the hot coals have yet to smolder entirely into darkness. He cups the rabbit, fashions a spit out of branches, and sets it over the embers.

Phil is glad for the camera now that he’s begun to display his skills. If they know he can hunt, they know he can survive. It gives him a better chance of gaining sponsors — if Jschlatt has kept his promise, stayed sober enough to help them. 

He pulls a branch out of the fire and finishes camaflouging his bag. The black helps immensely, but he can’t help but think some mud would help. But, to have mud, he needs water. Which he does not have.

He kicks some dirt over the hot coals beneath him and sets out in the opposite direction of the Careers. Eating half of the rabbit as he goes helps the rumbling in his stomach, but does nothing to quench the dryness upon his tongue. He wraps the leftovers of the meat in plastic. Water is his top priority now that he has food.

As he hikes along, it comes to him that he’s likely still being displayed across the screens in the Capitol. It isn’t hard to hide his emotions as he treks, letting them dissociate into a muddled pile of problems for him to deal with later — if there is a later for him. Sapnap must be having a great time dissecting Technoblade’s actions, Phil’s subsequent reactions. 

What does it mean? What game are they playing? How will this affect betters, support? Has Technoblade destroyed their lifelong friend’s mirage? He must have, surely, with his attack on Phil. Perhaps if he pretends that he feels betrayed sponsors will pity him enough to send water his way. He chuckles dryly at the thought of mercy.

The sun rises in the sky and despite the long canopy of trees above him, Phil finds it terribly bright. He coats his lips with some grease from the rabbit and tries to keep from panting as he finds himself thirstier and thirstier, but to no avail. It’s only been a day, but he has been running and moving so quickly that he’s dehydrating fast.

Water runs downhill. Perhaps this downward valley won’t be too bad. If he can find game tracks, maybe a particularly lush spot of vegetation, he could be ok.

It’s no help to imagine. Nothing crops up, and he finds himself heading straight for trouble. Whatever urine he passes is a dark brown, and he curses the sun in the sky, a headache building quickly in his temples. There’s a stark white patch on his tongue that refuses to moisten even as he runs it across his teeth, the roof of his mouth. The sunglasses in his pack actually worsen his headache.

Late in the afternoon, he finds a large bush of lush blackberries. He immediately rejoices — it’s not water, but it’s hydrating nonetheless — and picks several off the branches. But, just as he’s holding them up to taste them, he gets a closer look. 

They’ve got a different shape than typical blackberries. When he splits one open, it’s blood red. It takes all of his willpower to discard them now that he isn’t sure if they’re toxic or not, and double the effort to stand and keep moving as it had in the morning. He’s so thirsty. His stomach feels as if it has begun to eat itself, his throat wet and slick with phantom moisture. His joints are agony.

Phil can feel exhaustion settle into his bones like an unfamiliar vice, for this is not the quiet tiredness after a long hike or a full night. This is different, fuzzy, buzzing through his head like the static of a broken radio, of rain just beginning to pound up against a window. He’s forced to stop and take breaks more and more often, though his goal requires more searching. He climbs up into a tree and loses himself to the repetitive sensation as his limbs shake, a groan falling from his lips when he finally manages to stand upon a branch.

No water reveals itself, not even from above. There’s just a sprawling forest. Phil belts himself down to the tree with fingers that slip and shake as they maneuver the strap of leather, with eyes that can barely hold themselves open. He’s not hungry. He waits instead for the anthem.

It plays as night starts to hit. There has only been one casualty today — the young girl from District 8 that Technoblade had gone off and killed. Perhaps he shall be next.

Morning burns.

Phil’s vision takes several minutes to function, black as it is. His hearing has gone funny, ringing, pounding up against his skull, a migraine well underway and shoving his eyes from their sockets. Every one of his joints ache, every minor movement eliciting a terrible pain. He falls, rather than climbs, from his tree. He can’t even bother with being quiet any longer. He simply slumps against the bark and rests.

Sleep has not helped him in the slightest. He isn’t hungry. His chest burns. Assessing his options takes willpower he barely has. He could try to return to the lake — but he’d never make it before dehydration won out. He could hope for rain — but the sky is endless and blue, not a cloud in sight. He has to keep looking. 

Jschlatt could give him water.

The thought strikes him and he sits back up, eyes that have been hazily staring into nothingness returning to the world and its lushness. Jschlatt can get him water. He knows he must have at least one or two sponsors at his back. Quackity surely must be pressing the man to help. Right? Right?

Phil surges to his knees as anger overtakes him. Jschlatt could help. But he isn’t — and for what? Is this a punishment for disobeying the man? Is he simply too drunk to get Phil any sponsors? Does he truly not care at all, or is he redirecting the sponsors back to Technoblade? None of those could be true — Jschlatt would be ostracized by all of District 12 if he managed to kill his tributes over water. Where would he get his liquor then?

He runs a hand across his face. His strength fails him, exhaustion overtaking anything else, and he buries his face in his palms. There’s no danger of crying and embarrassing himself on-screen anymore — Phil couldn’t cry if he wanted to.

Then- he thinks. For a single moment of lucidity he wonders — could Jschlatt be telling him something? Purposefully leading him onwards? Perhaps water isn’t far, or the answer is right ahead of him. 

Phil grits his teeth against his hands and shoves his fingers into the dirt beneath him. Leveraging himself up off the ground is an intense struggle, and his backpack seems to have tripled in weight. He yanks a branch off the ground and uses it as a walking stick, stumbling through the woods.

He’s easy prey right now. Anyone — even tiny Michael, with his 9 year difference in age, could simply push him over and impale him with his own knife. He’d hardly be able to fight back, panting in the hot sun, unable to sweat or to breathe or hear past the ever-present ringing in his ears. But, he walks forward.

He made a promise to his son. For Wilbur’s sake, Phil tries.

The cameras are surely turned in his direction now. Phil remembers all the times he’s seen slow deaths on replay, dehydration and bleeding out and starvation. Wilbur will probably be in school right now if he judges the sun’s height well, but they’ll show recaps of the day at lunch and after school. Phil tries to force his stance into something less desperate. He needs his son’s hope, if he can’t find any in himself.

Phil stumbles. He slides through the dirt and he falls, softly, limp, against trees. His body shakes endlessly. His heart is so quick it burns, his mind so fuzzy and scattered that he can’t remember what he’s doing. Water — he’s looking for water, isn’t he? He’s dehydrated, and he’s- he’s tired.

The afternoon is ending. Phil’s hand slips from his walking stick and he falls, groaning at the painful impact as he slams onto his side on the ground, as he curls inwards, knees tucked to his chest. It’s over. He’s done.

But it’s ok, isn’t it? Even if he’s failing Wilbur, leaving his son behind, breaking his promise. Phil has nothing left to give, but the air has finally begun to cool, scented slightly of lilies. His hands twitch with exhaustion, the dirt beneath him sliding about gently against his skin. He feels frostbitten and warm, feverish and sick and numb all at once.

His fingertips trail small, swirling patterns in the cool earth beneath him. There’s something so beautiful about the damp earth, almost electric against his dying form, mossy and brown and lively. His eyes blink unseeingly up at a tree, his mouth slightly relaxed. What a beautiful place to die, with the scent of lilies in the air, the cool clay beneath him. Golden sunlight trickles down out of the trees.

Mud.

Phil’s eyes snap all the way open and he lets out a gurgle of a gasp, fingers spasming to clench at the dirt. Mud. With mud comes water and with water comes an end to his thirst and oh, oh god, he has a chance.

Leveraging himself up onto his arms and knees is a struggle now, made even worse with the slippery earth beneath him. But it’s a good sign, and he can’t stifle a grin as he crawls through the mud, searching for the origin of that water. 

There- about five yards from where he’d initially fallen is a pond. He crawls through the dense tangle of plants around it and finds it covered in beautiful yellow lilies, water shining as light as a clear sky. He crawls the last few feet there and collapses back down to his stomach, trembling as he reaches for his bag.

It’s a special sort of agony, waiting for his water to purify after he pours the right number of iodine droplets into his flask. It takes a full thirty minutes. Or — he hopes it does, because he’s not sure he can wait any longer. Then, with measured sips, he drinks.

The first taste is heavenly. He can’t help out the embarrassing half-groan that falls from his lips as the water trickles down his throat, as he finally feels his thirst start to let up. He finishes the entire half-gallon in a manner of minutes. Then another, and another more. 

He prepares one last one and moves shakily over to a nearby tree, finally with the strength to stand once again. With his thirst waning, his hunger flares, and he eats a bit of his leftover rabbit, even dares to try one of his crackers. They’re dry and hard but they’re new, and he stares mournfully at them when he puts them back in his bag. 

There’s nothing else to do. Phil pastes mud across his pack and covers the remaining orange patterning. With the remaining hours of the day, he digs up some roots from the pond, making a mental note to catch some of the small fish he sees flickering past when the sun rises. By the time the anthem plays he feels significantly better. No tributes have died today, and Phil rests easily, tied up in his sleeping bag and hanging onto his water bottle for dear life.

He falls asleep to the gentle whistle of wind flowing through his hair and the soft gurgle of a creek in the background. 

He wakes up to an eruption of the ground and the forest around him overtaken by flames.

Chapter Text

Phil is up and scrambling from his spot as quickly as he can, but his belt stops him, still tied to his tree. He rips it off with nimble fingers, diving feet-first toward the ground and catching himself on the side of the tree, yanking his backpack with him. There’s no time for any sort of packing — but he’s lucky to have tucked his water bottle back into his bag before sleep, saving him from leaving that behind.

All he can do as the world descends into chaos is run.

The sky has quickly been transformed into a dizzying mirage of flame and smoke. It warps the trees and bends the ground until hills and mountains erupt, false water sliding about between the orange colors. Phil is at the mercy of the animals around him, forced to chase the many packs of squirrels, birds, and even wild dogs that he sees fleeing the fire.

He does as he is directed to do. He follows the whims of the Capitol, for this fire is too tall, too uniform and too guiding for it to be anything other than manmade. Gamemaker made. It chases after him as he trips over roots and dives beneath branches, catching himself on brambles and tearing through the underbrush like a man gone mad.

Phil tugs his shirt over his mouth as the smoke nears, the dirt and sweat amassed within it enough to provide a small barrier between his lungs and the acrid grey in the air. 

This fire has been devised to push him back to the Careers. He’s certain that with the few deaths yesterday, the sparse drama from today, the Capitol must be bored. That’s one thing the games must always avoid — and so this wall of flame, sparking up and shrinking the forest — must be specifically devised to kick up the ratings. 

His poncho catches on the edge of a stump and he shrieks as it immediately goes up in flames. He’s forced to pause and wrench it off, beating out the twisting, awful, shapes as best he can with his boots. He doesn’t dare slip it back on now, smoldering and black as it is, but he shoves it into his backpack anyways. This is all he has — what is hung against his back. He can’t lose anything else, no matter how much use it has left within it. 

In barely more than a minute, it becomes clear that the fire will not let up no matter what he does. Orange-gold-yellow-red twists nebulously closer, but every breath brings a stab of agony through his lungs, every exhale a wheezy shriek against his lips. 

He manages to just barely dive under a nearby outcropping of stone before he vomits. Phil vaults over the side and hunches in on his knees, searing heat passing overhead as he hides. His head lurches downward and his stomach twists and-

He loses his meager meal from the night before and all the water left in his body in a disgusting pile of acrid-smelling pink bile. It floods out of his stomach with an awful noise, and he gags, body still trying to expel what is no longer there. 

When the gagging has finally let up again, he breathes.

It’s painful and sharp, stabbing up against his ribs with every movement of his chest. But Phil grits his teeth and takes a slow swig of water regardless, refusing to lose himself to the heat and darkness around him. He takes only a moment to reorganize his supplies, shoving his water bottle away once again, moving his valuable food and flammable objects away from the still smoking fabric in his bag.

His arms and chest feel incredibly exposed now that he’s left the safety of his poncho, despite the only small layer of comfort it afforded him. There’s no time to return it to his shoulders, though, and he dives out from his outcropping without another thought.

Boom.

Phil is sent sprawling to his hands and knees as a massive ball of fire lands right where his ledge has just sat. The ground around it is immediately caught up in flames, blistering heat searing ever closer to him.

It doesn’t seem to matter that the wall of fire has dissipated. Phil yanks himself up off the ground and digs his heels into the dirt and he runs, cursing the Gamemaker’s and their inability to give him a single second of peace. 

He’s barely a few feet away — hand resting against a tree and pushing in a futile grasp for leverage — when the next fireball lands on a tree only a few feet away, immediately sending the twisting limbs and waving leaves of the foliage up into flames. Phil is forced to swerve away and run faster.

Time loses all meaning, seconds marked by the whistle of a bomb being fired, minutes only quantified by the moments he remains alive. He runs, and he runs a little harder, and perhaps he is chased only by pure adrenaline but he runs anyways. He isn’t entirely sure how he finds the motivation to keep going when every step stabs at his ribs, cuts jagged stripes of pain through his limbs.

They can’t keep this up forever. He just keeps repeating that thought, running past effortlessly fired plumes of flame, going high up beyond the trees. They won’t continue this for all of the games. If he can just keep going a little longer…

But he’s retching again, a disgusting slime that crawls up his throat on spider’s legs and slithers from his nose onto the dirt, the only moisture around. He’s forced to stop and bear it, lucky to find himself in a moment where the attacks have begun to slow. His body twitches and jerks as it attempts to rid itself of the smoke he has inhaled. 

He waits for the next fireball, hands on his knees, eyes to the ground. It doesn’t come.

His retching has forced tears out of his eyes and sweat from every pore in his body. Through all of the scents around — bile and smoke and burning wood and even flesh, far off in the distance — he manages to find burnt hair in the mix. Phil lifts a hand to his braid, soaked in sweat and matted against his back, and finds that around six inches of it have been singed away.

He mourns the loss for reasons he doesn’t understand. It’s just hair — who is he to care that some of it is gone, when he’s been blessed with continuing to live? Who is he to complain over something so trivial as hair, when the others around him have begun to lose their very lives?

There’s a hiss before he can react. This new fireball hits the ground even as he moves, muscles pushing him up and away on instinct. It’s not fast enough, though, and the mass of rock and flame skids across his calf before he can even think of dodging it properly.

Phil can barely bite back an agonized scream as his leg erupts into flame. He falls to the ground and smashes his limb into the dirt, desperately trying to escape the dazzling starlight of colors as they chase his arms, climbing up his leg and setting each of his nerves into agony. Without thinking, he dips his hands into the fire, ignoring the burn and ripping what’s left of his lower pant leg away, the smoldering fabric falling against the ground with one final vindictive crackle.

His calf is cleared of all hair and covered in red welts. His hands shake and waver furiously, already erupting with boils. What sweet, pathetic irony. Philza Craft — the man on fire, set aflame. If the gamemaker’s want to take him out now, it would take barely anything at all. 

But, not another flame ball graces the air. Phil is left in silence, gulping in greedy breaths of air, rather than smoke. He’s on the dirt and half hunched around his knees, feeling halfway to simply collapsing on the ground and losing it right there.

Evidently, they don’t want the tributes dead. They want them gathered together and pitted against each other, sure, but deaths by natural — or unnatural, but Gamemaker-devised — means are always met with a poor reception from the Capitol. Phil blesses their love for theatrics, no matter how painful it is to think about anything at all other than his leg.

Though — this is not a true blessing, is it? They’ve stopped firing for a reason. Another tribute must be close at hand, and Phil’s visibility is terrible, peering through the smoke among eyelashes clouded with ash. 

He stands, ignoring the awful pain in his leg so long as he can still move. It’s terrible, shooting up and down from his ankle to his knee. He refuses to look at it until he has a moment to panic — there’s no time for shock to set in now, in the middle of a literal firefight. He barely notices that he’s made it into a small pool of water — not the one from before, this area of the woods is far too foreign — before he’s ankle-deep.

His immediate impulse is to plunge his hands in and relieve the awful pain within them. But he holds back, trying to recall what limited knowledge of first aid he knows of. 

Cold water leaches the heat out of burns, doesn’t it? He slides his hands into the water and holds back a gasp at the sudden relief. That’s for small burns, though. What of his calf?

He slides down onto his knees and then his stomach, letting his fingers soak in the water for a moment. He washes the ash from his face, cleaning his skin off as best he can, given his circumstances. The black paint on his fingernails has been chipped off, and he’s reminded of Foolish’s last warning, standing in the Slaughterhouse.

He’d told Phil exactly what Jschlatt had. Clear out and find water. He supposes, in some backward way, that’s exactly what he just did. 

There’s no time to wait around and let his calf blister even further without attention. Phil drags himself out of the water, shivering slightly with sickness. Feverish warmth envelops him as he leaves the water’s safety, hunching over onto his knees and then moving his legs out before him instead, finally inspecting his burns. 

There’s a huge blister-filled square of his skin there, about the size of his hand. He’s filled with sudden dizziness at the sight, but he doesn’t recoil. It isn’t even particularly horrifying — even with its red and orange ringed surface, the skin and fabric around it melting into a thick paste, the hair all over his leg singed away. Honestly, noting the absence of any bone or blackness, Phil is almost relieved. 

He chances a quick smile, all for himself, though he’s sure the cameras are on him anyways, watching his every move. Perhaps it won’t be so bad to let this wound soak. He scoots forward, fingers digging into the mud beneath him as he ever so slowly settles his calf in the water.

It brings relief, though not much. It at least doesn’t make the pain worse. There are certain herbs that could help him if he had the memory to find them. For now, trapped in a mind of befuddlement and of fire, he’s forced to use what he has to work with. Time and water.

The first time he tries lifting his leg from the pool, pain even more intense than before returns to it. He grits his teeth and shoves the limb back into the water, refusing to show just how much it hurts. Weakness won’t get him anywhere with his sponsors — grinning and bearing it will.

Not that he can grin very much at the present moment. His inability to move from this pool could prove fatal — he can’t see any tributes around, but any number of Careers might be hidden in the smoke. 

He thinks of Wilbur, though. Back at home, watching his father lounge by a pool, probably sharing screen time by whichever other tribute is around. He can’t afford to get lazy.

His sleeping bag is gone. His poncho, though, has managed to survive, singed to the point where he has to cut off several inches from the bottom on all sides. He eats half of a cracker to settle the rolling in his stomach, and washes his mouth out with water from his canteen, finishing it and filling it back up in the pool.  There are small roots in the water, and he pulls them up and stores them with the ones from the original pool. 

He’s exhausted. But he knows, more than anything, that he cannot stay here.

His leg slows him down and makes movement painful, but he walks on anyways. There’s no extra time to conserve. Finding a suitable tree is a bit harder — the flames have burnt down so many — and climbing it is nearly impossible. He picks a wide, tall tree filled with leaves, and he plants his hands against the bark.

It’s awful. Each upward movement scrapes layers of skin from his hands, blisters that have barely formed popping and sending off-colored yellow liquid down the tree. Phil bears it, though, climbing higher and higher until he has reached the middle of the tree.

His sleeping bag is gone, but the branches here are still thick and generous. He belts himself down by his waist, tips his head back, and falls into an uneasy stupor with his back to the tree.

He’s given only a minute of warning before the Careers descend.

It starts with their voices. They’ve been hurt by the smoke just as much as he has — coughing, gagging — but their strength makes up for it, running through the underbrush right in his direction. There’s no time to run at all, so he simply unbelts himself from the tree, pulls his knife from his bag. 

They’re upon him in a matter of seconds. All six of the remaining Careers, and Technoblade too, staring up at him in the tree. They’re hungry. Smiles of those who see an easy kill are upon their faces. But Phil still has one advantage — they’re all bigger than him. There’s a reason he’s been able to find shelter in the trees of District 12 so many times. He weighs around 50 or 60 pounds less than most boys his age.

He smiles, matching the expressions of those below. The fight isn’t over yet.

“How’s the weather down there?” He calls, leaning over. “Smoke clearing out?”

This clearly takes them aback. Technoblade’s expression is inscrutable. Phil knows the audience is probably laughing. 

“Well enough. Yep,” says a boy from District 2. “Yourself?”

Phil tilts his head; shrugs. “It’s a bit warm for my taste. Why don’t you come on up here? The weather’s much nicer.” 

“I think I will.” It’s the same boy.

“Here- Punz, take this,” says a girl from District 4. She pulls a package from her back — and Phil realizes suddenly, it’s his bow. His arrows. She hands them over like they’re nothing, grinning as if she knows the weight of the exchange. It makes Phil so suddenly angry that he drops his smile. He recovers quickly, though, shaking his head free of his wrath.

“No,” replies Punz anyways, shoving her hand away. “I’ll do better with my sword.”

Phil barks out a laugh as the man starts to climb. There’s no contest — as Punz slowly lumbers his way upward, Phil ascends like an animal born within the forest. In a manner of minutes, he’s high up in the foliage, staring down with a smile.

Punz drops from a branch just as Phil gets comfortable, the twig of a thing snapping under his weight. He hits the ground hard and gasps — but still stands a moment later, letting out a string of curses. 

The girl with the arrows — Phil hears her being called Aphmau — gives her best try. She climbs the tree until the branches beneath her start to crack and she has the good sense to stop there. Then, with a smile, she shoots her bow high up into the tree.

Her trust in herself is misplaced. The arrow goes flying into a branch only a few feet from Phil, and he yanks it out, holds it tauntingly above her head. He must be well above 80 feet in the sky now, and if he aimed right, he’s sure he could take one of them out with the newfound weapon.

But there’s no sense in playing his cards this early. Killing one of them would send the rest of them into a fury — and there’s no guarantee that they’d never find a way up this tree. So Phil just waits, high above the Careers as they regroup, growling conspiratorially to each other. Their anger is satisfying. He has to grin.

Their window of attack is closing, though. With the fire and the chase and the pond, Phil can hardly believe everything from this day has only occurred in a small handful of hours. Twilight has begun to fall, creeping across the trees, when Technoblade’s harsh voice rings out.

“Bruh. Just let him stay up there, would you? He’s not going anywhere.”

The Careers, surprisingly enough, agree to relent. Phil is left alone in his tree as they set up camp, their amount of supplies frankly atrocious. They’ve got sleeping bags and canteens full of water and food to spare.

He, on the other hand, is left to realize just how shit he feels now that his adrenaline has faded. All of the relief from the pool has left him, his burns back to prickling and stabbing through his skin. He does his best to prepare for bed, but he’s not hungry. Not tired. Just feverish, and weak, and slowing down.

He hangs his calf over a nearby branch and lets the cool night wind flow over it. He slumps up against his backpack and tucks his hood over his head, belting him down at the waist. No food looks appetizing in the slightest, but he’s weak and nauseous from hunger, his vomiting from earlier a loss of nutrients he can not afford. 

The night sky is beautiful, so high up in the trees. Stars sparkle amongst the darkness. So far out into the wilderness, Phil can see the slightest purple hues of a nebula, mars peaking out behind the shadow of the night. The moon is full and restless in the sky, rising fast. Animals in the forest start to awaken — the hoot of an owl, the scent of a skunk. The smoke has yet to clear, but Phil can see eyes in the tree across from him, a faint shade of brown. Perhaps it’s a possum seeking refuge from the humans below, just the same as him. Perhaps…

No- not, those are not possum eyes. They’re not animal at all, and Phil straightens, hand immediately searching for his knife. The form registers in the darkness.

It’s Michael.

His small form is hunched in the branches, tucked neatly between the tree and the leaves surrounding him. The two tribute’s eyes meet, and they stare, gazes holding each other for a long minute. 

Then, without a sound to accompany it, Michael’s hand crawls out from the leaves and points up.

---

“They’ve successfully been pushed back from the flank.”

FitMC looks down at the man in the chair beneath him. They’re all watching the Games, projected upon a large screen and mapped on several smaller ones. The large sterile-white table in front of him projects every player atop a map, each trap and mutt and camera outlined in different colors. He runs a hand over his chin, thinking.

“And that’s all of them, correct?”

“Correct,” replies the man, leaning over to squint and check his data. “What do you think the odds of 12 surviving are?”

“Well.” Fit leans over, tipping his head down and planting his hands against the central map. There’s the young boy from 11 — high up in a tree, just below a mutt-hive. A few feet across is the marker of 12, and then another below, where the Careers lie. “I’d have a canon ready for anyone at this point. Keep us steady, alright? No more attacks for now.”

A quick nod and a flurry of movement. The assistant below him all type and scurry like mice to relay his orders, to get things in order and to inspect what he hasn’t got the time to care for. 

The one from 12 has just noticed the nest high above him. Fit has a feeling that things are going to go sideways fast.

---

Phil knows better than to react once he realizes what he’s looking at. A wasps nest.

This is the games. There’s no luck at play here, and he’s almost certain that these are mutts. Tracker jackers, if the massive size of the nest is any indication. Many layers of papery fawn honeycomb, eerily swaying, dry and dirty and buzzing. 

Tracker jackers, like crows, are another genetically modified war dog. They’re like ordinary wasps, but larger, colored a bright reflective gold, and their stings make your skin rise in a lump the size of a plum. Their venom is highly poisonous — bringing on hallucinations, pain, and even death. Most people can’t handle more than a few stings. Some die on contact. If you live, you might not fare any better at all. The hallucinations they bring are meant to drive you to madness.

They’d been strategically placed during the rebellion years ago, and the Capitol never bothered with removing them. Not only that, but they’ve been used to tear the rebellion apart in more strategic ways — altering, targeting, destroying people’s memories until they’re violent or deadened or anything else the Capitol might need from someone. Phil is well accustomed to seeing a hive in the forest and immediately turning the other way.

Michael has disappeared, melting back into the trees, by the time Phil looks to him again. But he already knows what the boy has implied.

He needs to set the hive loose.

They’re sleeping now, the smoke keeping them from spreading their wrath across the land. Phil will never get close enough to them to cut down the entire hive, but with his serrated knife, he just might be able to carve through the branch it hangs from. 

Phil takes his chance. He’ll have to do it during the anthem when the night is loudest and his sawing won’t be heard. He climbs up the tree, legs and hands straining with the effort to stay atop the thinner and thinner branches. It’s getting precarious, but he continues, coming to a stop just beside the nest.

From here, the buzzing is much louder. But they’re still subdued, and Phil doesn’t see any on the surface of the nest, no discolored and shadowed lumps to plague him. The music starts, though, and the noise is drowned in the swelling tones of the anthem. He gets to work.

The branch is thick enough that it takes a sizable amount of effort for his knife to catch a groove. But, once it’s started, he continues, gritting his teeth past the searing pain in his palms. The noise is loud in the night, but the anthem covers it up, and Phil looks to the sky to see that there have been no deaths tonight. 

The anthem is through before he gets even halfway through the branch. He’s forced to retreat, half jumping, half falling down to his fork in the branches. There’s no sense in trying to continue now — not if he can’t see. Not if the Careers might wake up and understand his plan. It’s best to wait until morning, when dawn strikes, and send the nest falling down upon them as they sleep.

He’s only managed to sit, massaging the skin just below his calf and shaking, the burn more than he can take, when a soft tone starts to play.

It sounds almost like a bird call upon first notice. Three rhythmic chimes, repeated over and over. But it’s a song that is entirely unfamiliar — until Phil remembers past games. It’s a parachute.

And, sure enough, a moment later a small circular metal package drops neatly against a branch above him and hooks there by the end of its fabric parachute, swaying in the evening wind. Phil shoots up, grinning excitedly. His first gift from a sponsor! Jschlatt must have some hope, then, that Phil will survive. This is a good sign. He reaches up and takes the package, unhooking it from the parachute it’s attached to.

Unscrewing the tin, he’s met with a soft white paste and the smell of herbs. Immediately, it’s clear that it’s medicine. He cautiously dips his fingers into it, and-

And relief.

The pulsing, jagged pain in his hands immediately fades when the substance hits the redness there. Phil is swallowed up by the instant relief, tipping his head back and letting out a shallow, shaky, sigh. Now that this one spot has been treated, just barely touching his fingertips, he knows that his leg will be ok.

“Thanks, mate,” he whispers, voice hoarse, consumed by smoke. He looks up into the skies and imagines the stars as cameras, sending his gratitude all across Panem and right back to the man who has given him a godsend. “Thank you, Jschlatt.”

He can almost imagine the man giving him a drunken, sideways smile. This medicine must have cost so much. Several sponsors have surely pitched in to buy it. To Phil, it’s priceless. 

He spreads the balm across his hands and spends a moment simply rubbing it in, caressing the no longer pulsing surface of his skin. Then, reaching down to his torn pant leg, he slides a thin layer of the medicine over his calf.

It’s almost magical, immediately cooling the one direct spot of his calf and soothing all the rest of it as well. He continues rubbing it in and smiles shakily at the intense relief. This is no herbal blend he could have cooked up with enough time. This is Capitol medicine, engineered to immediately heal what has been damaged. 

He wraps the pot inside of its parachute and nestles it safely with his other supplies in his bag. Now that the pain has subsided, he pulls out the last of his leftover rabbit and chews on the cooled skin. Before he goes to bed, he pulls the rabbit’s foot from his pocket and rubs the soft fur. Luck may not be part of Phil’s equation of life, but it’s a comfort to him anyways. He’ll take what he can get.

Morning comes with the sound of a bird on a branch across from him. It warns him to the approaching daylight, rousing him from a dreamless sleep. In the grey, dull morning light, he can see that his hands have faded to a soft baby pink. His leg is still inflamed, but endlessly better than the day before. He rubs a thin layer of medicine over his wounds again and eats one of his crackers. There’s no telling when he’ll next be able to stop and eat. 

In his position, he can see the Careers and Technoblade on the ground, asleep. Aphmau has slumped against a tree not far away, head nodded to her chest. It looks as if fatigue has overcome her, regardless of her position as lookout. 

Phil swivels his head toward the tree beside him. It’s only fair to alert Michael to the threat about to consume them. And, if he wants anyone to win, it’s that boy. Resourceful, witty, and now revealed to be kind, Phil has no doubt that Michael deserves to come out of the games alive if Phil doesn’t make it.

“Michael,” he whispers through the leaves. The boy is there and alert in an instant, owlish brown eyes wide in the morning light. He points up at the tree again. His hand disappears into the leaves and Phil reaches for his knife, making a sawing motion through the air. Michael’s eyes go up, then down, in a nod, and then he smooths the scenery and disappears into the darkness.

There’s rustling a moment later. Then again, in a nearby tree. Then farther and farther away, and Phil realizes that Michael is swinging from the treetops. He smiles at the ingenuity of the young boy. So that’s how he scored so high in the Gamemaker’s ratings — he should’ve gotten at least a ten.

Rose-gold streaks have begun to break through the grey of dawn. The sun is rising, and Phil can’t afford to waste any more time. He climbs back up the tree and finds it much easier to scale than the night before, the medicine on his hands and leg making it nearly effortless. He makes it to the limb and settles his knife in the grove from the night before. Then-

In the light he catches movement.

A single golden tracker jacker is lazily scaling the side of its nest. Phil freezes. There’s no doubt that it’s still subdued, only just waking up, but that doesn’t make it any less dangerous. He needs to work quickly, lest they all come out of the nest and converge on him.

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and starts to saw.

The noise is electric against the quiet of the morning, animals falling asleep and yet to wake. He bears down upon the knife as hard as he can, sawing monotonously. Back and forth. Back and forth. When he opens his eyes, he finds that another tracker jacker has joined the first.

“Shit,” he mutters dryly, though he continues on. He’s playing a dangerous game as he saws, keeping his face expressionless and his body frozen. He cannot let fear get to him now.

Back and forth. Back and forth. He saws and he grits his teeth and- there. A shooting pain spikes in his knee and he gasps, faltering. There’s no time to stop and inspect it. The other wasps will be honing in. Back and forth. Back and forth.

The knife cuts through. Phil kicks wildly out with his un-stung knee and shoves the hive away from him as quickly as he can, sending the nest careening to the ground.

The world erupts into screams.

Buzzing and humming and shrieking and shouting, bodies roll off the ground and drop their supplies. Some of them have the good sense to dive and run out of the way, the frantic orchestra of the bugs rising louder and louder, tempo blurring into an unidentifiable wave of noise. Phil feels a sting on his cheek, and two more on his neck, and he doubles over in pain, wildly scrambling to yank the stingers out. They come out easily, but immediately make him woozy.

The other bugs have honed their attention on his enemies below. They’ve begun to retreat, orders of “run to the lake!” following them as they sprint away. Not everyone has been lucky enough to be able to run, though. Aphmau and the other girl from District 4 are caught up in the haze of golden bugs, screaming and screaming and sobbing for their allies to return. 

Their noises turn to agonized shouts. Then, gurgles. Then they’re silent, the only noise that of the quickly dissipating cloud of yellow bugs.

The nest is an empty shell. Phil drops down a few branches, then a few more, ungracefully landing on the ground and rolling, climbing to his feet. Aphmau twitches hysterically, long black hair shuddering against the ground. Her mouth is open in a silent scream. Her hands, swollen to look more like weights than anything identifiable as human, still clutch around her bow.

Her bow.

Phil staggers over, body half-folded as dizziness consumes it. The hole in his knee has swollen to the size of an orange, spitting dull grey liquid from the place where he has yanked the stinger out. He can’t help but moan through his teeth as he collapses on his legs beside Aphmau, fingers twitching, neck jerking from side to side. His head won’t stay straight. His body won’t obey the movements he asks it to perform. He feels like a puppet on strings being toted around by an unforgiving hand, wrenching him up and down and off the ground, into the air by his neck. 

He reaches Aphmau just as her cannon sounds. The girl — stunning and long black hair, thin features, fawned over by the Capitol and graceful as a swan — has swollen into a massive, oozing, puddle of flesh. Her body is a gigantic ball of bursting pustules, a stinking green substance pooling beneath her as the spots where she has been stung start to explode. 

Phil’s hands scatters against the ground as he tilts, vomit rising in his stomach. They land on a rock, and he picks it up, smashing it against Aphmau’s distended fingers and ripping the bow from their jaundiced, rigor-mortis riddled grasp. The sheath of arrows is pinned behind her back, already covered in a deep black-green-red ooze. 

She smells of rot and of vomit and of all the things a human should not. Phil paws weakly at her arm and tries to flip her over, only for the appendage to disintegrate in his hands, spewing bloody liquid and mushy piles of melted skin all over his knees. He gags, rolls backwards onto the ground and expelling the meager meal he’d had this morning.

It’s a hallucination. It’s not. It’s real and it’s fake and it doesn’t matter, and he digs his hands into her back and rolls her over and the flesh sinks between his fingers, rotting and putrid-smelling and liquified. A thousand colors and a thousand thousand smells surround him and he falls and his vision does too, and he wraps his hands around the sheath, yanking it off of her. 

It goes through her back and her bones and her skin and the body melts a bloody hole into the ground. Phil wraps his fists around the sheath and around her neck and around his knife and around and around and the sky opens up above him and-

And there’s the sound of footsteps, drawing him back from the nightmarish sequence of hallucinations just quickly enough that he draws his bow. The Careers must be returning. The forest spins and tilts and dances to the soft song of all the laughter in the universe. The wasps buzz inside of Aphmau’s chest and she rises and the sky swallows her whole and great teeth gnash as they rip her body apart.

Technoblade’s shocked face appears among the trees and Phil can’t do it, can’t string the bow because there’s three and he has no hands and the forest is melting into Technoblade’s skin, leaves sinking through his arms and oh, oh God- 

“What are you still doing here?” he says, and his voice burns like fire and his expression curls and he has tusks and he is bone white and he is ensconced in flame. “Are you stupid?” He runs forward and his legs grow and warp and twist and Phil flinches backward, panting. “Go!” He nudges Phil’s leg with his spear but they become one and then-

Technoblade yanks him up by his arm and throws him towards the treeline, eyes catching the sunlight. There’s clarity within them, within their blood, tears of red looping through his eyelashes and running down his cheeks and — and how is he not gagging, as it fills his mouth? How is his voice not distorted?

“Run!” he demands, and Phil pauses, because it sounds like a true demand. What’s happening? Where- “Run!”

Another tribute appears and they’re unrecognizable, dripping with starlight-water and the glaze of their sword like the sun. Phil obeys as Technoblade roars, rearing back, raising his spear. He’s met with the other boy’s weapon and then Phil feels a warm spray of blood on his back and he runs, disappearing into the trees with his bow in his hand. Technoblade is saying something, and he’s drowning in blood, and he’s saving Phil, he’s giving him a chance, and-

The world swallows him and spits him out and erupts in a thousand tiny particles. Orange blisters climb up the trees around him and send them bowing to the ground, decaying in an instant. Mold grows along the underside of his tongue and someone is screaming and it must be him and someone is screaming, sobbing, terrified and covered in blood and puss and boils. 

The trees around him turn to great pillars of marble and spindle into the heavens and break through the sky and grow wings and leave the earth entirely and Phil is alone, but then he isn’t, because there are ants, crawling up into his body, and he’s screaming, and every ant is a tiny mirrored particle that bites and rips and eats his skin, and-

And he trips, and he falls, and he’s sent into a large pit lined in bright pink flesh and pustules, bursting as he falls, and his mouth fills with the bloody pus that erupts from them and the ants bore into his eyes and he blacks out.

Chapter Text

Wilbur falls as a rope wraps around his neck and as a spear slides through his forehead and as a mine explodes around him, the world enveloped in dirt and coal and smoke and Wilbur falls as a thousand wasps eat through his limbs and as he falls deep into an ocean and as-

An explosion on repeat sheds dust and ash across the land as the earth regurgitates a thousand corpses and Phil watches his parents die on repeat and he dies with them and his body is turned to pearls-

Technoblade is pushed into a bath of flames and Phil is the one who pushes him but then he is falling as well and they are baptized, christened, holy water lava that awaits them and obsidian crying down atop their smoldering corpses as they fall together and-

And Phil finds lucidity. He’s wrapped in a fetal position, one arm around his knees and one above his head, twitching feebly. After a long moment he must accept that the poison has left his system, his nightmarish hallucinations twisting into nothingness.

His skin is free of ants that never existed, the pit he lies in coated with dead leaves, not fleshy blisters. Every movement takes incredible effort, sliding across the damp leaves and leveraging himself into a sitting position. His limbs still twitch and ache violently, head jerking to the side every so often and throwing his singed hair into the wind. 

Phil drags himself out of the pit with a noise that he refuses to accept as a whimper. He lies there on his side, curled inward slightly, only moving to slowly sip water out of his flask and watch the wildlife dance about around him. 

A beetle crawls up a honeysuckle bush. A crow caws somewhere high above. It’s afternoon. It had been morning when Phil was last conscious. The ache in his joints suggests that he’s been in this pit for over a day, though — perhaps two. A squirrel rushes past him and disappears into the thicket. Who has been left alive? Aphmau and the other District 4 tribute have both surely perished. What of Technoblade? Punz? Has either of them survived, or have they too found a torturous end? 

What about Michael? The thought hits him, and he blinks, unable to do anything else to communicate his worry. But the tracker jackers would’ve had to catch up to the boy, so Phil doesn’t let himself ruminate.

A foul, bloody taste pervades his mouth. He drags his twitching limbs towards the honeysuckle bush nearby and breaks off a flower, pulling a stamen through the blossom and letting the nectar fall on his tongue. It immediately clears the disgusting feeling of two days’ poison from his lips, and he looks down, starting to take stock of how he’s doing.

His right calf is red, but the burn has nearly completely faded. His pant leg dangles precariously off his knee, and he reaches down to his pants, unclips his belt, and instead tucks it around the torn fabric below, keeping it from waving about and snagging on anything. His hands have been almost completely cleared of burns, but his fingers are painfully dirty. Really, every bit of him is. He needs to find a new pool of water — he’s covered in sweat and dirt and vomit and rotting plant matter. He’s disgusting, and it isn’t anything to do with vanity.

There’s no water around, though, so he instead focuses on the positives. He’s got a bow and arrow, still clipped to his back and set upon the ground. He has half a dozen arrows, and none of them bare any trace of the putrid green slime that had oozed from Aphmau’s skin, leading Phil to believe it was just another disgusting hallucination.

He gets a feel for the weapon by shooting a few arrows at a nearby tree, his legs like that of a fawn’s when he stands to retrieve them. It’s more like the bows at the training center than his few stashed away at home, but what does it matter? He finally has the weapon the gamemakers have so generously gifted him. There’s no point in complaining. 

The weapons give him an advantage and a sense of purpose. He no longer is forced to flee or struggle through the land without any sort of protection. If Punz were to burst through the trees right now, Phil would shoot without another thought. He even finds, a little concerningly, that he anticipates the idea with a smile. 

But there’s no time to get his murder on right now. 

He’s lost what little weight he gained gorging himself pre-games, and he doesn’t remember a time after his parent’s death that he was so thin. His ribs poke through and his spine ripples the surface of his shirt, both obnoxiously present. His hips stick out and his pants are at risk of falling, until he finds the elastic within them and cinches them tight around his sunken stomach. His supplies of food and water both are dwindling fast, and his weight and muscle have to. 

Then, there are his wounds to contend with. His four tracker jacker stings, the bruises he’s earned from crashing through the woods, the cuts and burns on his hands and legs. He massages some of his burn cream into the wounds, but it does nothing to help his stings. He knows there’s an herb that’s meant to help with them, but he can’t remember what it looks like. For now, he just sits there, sipping his water and eating a single cracker. 

Movement is slow and arduous, but Phil manages to start walking his way through the forest without too much of an issue. About ten minutes into his hike, he shoots a rabbit, his first prey caught with his bow. After about an hour of walking, he finds a stream. A sharp stab of annoyance goes through him — where was all of this water at the beginning of the games? 

But he strips down to his undershirt and boxers anyways, doing a quick wash of his clothes and then hanging them to dry in a line of bushes nearby. He wades into the deep end of the stream after setting out a bottle of water to purify. Phil is disgusting. At first, he tries scrubbing some of the grime away. It proves barely effective, and he instead just settles in the water, floating and letting the sun soak his bare skin. 

Finally as clean as he can be, Phil settles on the bank and untangles his hair from the mockery of a braid it has been torn into. The singed edges have washed away in the current, leaving his hair down to his shoulder blades, no longer nearly as long as it had once been. He slices off the deadened ends and rebraids it, humming lightly. 

Refreshed, he treats his burns again and tugs his damp clothes on. The sun is warm enough that it’ll surely dry them soon. 

He follows the stream uphill, closer towards the cornucopia again if his estimates are accurate. There’s game and roots and herbs all along with the lush foliage beside him, and he shoots down a wild turkey with his bow, pleased to find a bird he recognizes. By late afternoon he decides to rest, setting up a small fire that he’s sure will be shrouded enough by dusk to not be seen. 

Once the feathers of the wild turkey are plucked, it’s no larger than a large chicken, but it’s plump and firm and the meat is hardy. He sets the first lot of it over the hot coals beneath him when he hears a twig snap.

Phil has his bow to his shoulder and an arrow strung before a single second can go by. He’s alert and staring into the depths of the forest, eyes narrowed as he tries to make anything out. A career? Technoblade?

But then, just below a bush- there’s a child’s boot, peeking out from beneath the leaves. Phil’s shoulders relax, and he has to grin. If this boy can move so silently through the woods, there’s no telling what else he can do. He speaks before he can think.

“They’re not the only ones who can form alliances.”

For a moment, there’s no response.

Then, out from behind a tree. A face covered in pink hair, red eyes bright and sharp in the dusk. “You want me for an ally?”

Phil shrugs carefully. “Why wouldn’t I? You helped me out with the Careers and you’re smart enough that you’re not dead yet. And- you don’t seem all too ready to be alone either, do you?”

Michael blinks behind the tree, seeming to consider the offer. A small hand creeps around the bark and into the light.

“You hungry?” Phil asks, gesturing towards the meat behind him. Michael swallows, and his eyes flicker towards the spit. “Come on, then. I’ve got two kills today.”

He steps out from behind the tree. His long hair has been cut short, jagged and brown with mud. His eyes are bright, his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his poncho. Michael shuffles awkwardly, eyes darting between the meat and the ground. “I can… I can treat your stings,” he offers, pointing at the huge lump on Phil’s cheek, the matching ones on his neck and legs.

“Oh?”

He steps further into the light, silent, reaching into his pack and rummaging around. He pulls out a handful of leaves and Phil watches, silent, as he puts them in his mouth, chewing on them. A moment later he spits them into his hand, a gummy wad of paste. Phil doesn’t move as Michael moves to his side, pushes his hair away from his neck and slides a glob of the wet mixture onto the lump there.

He lets out a sharp gasp. It’s as if the pain is actively being drawn from the sting, and he looks over with wide eyes to see Michael letting out a giggle, hunched over and holding more of those leaves. “Oh- oh fuck. Where did you find those?”

“They’re all over,” replies the boy, spreading his hand out and pasting more of the leaves on Phil’s cheek, letting out another laugh when the older man groans almost comically. “You just have to know where to look. We carry them around in District 11 when we work in the orchards- there are a lot of nests there.”

“That’s right,” Phil says knowingly, massaging his sore and aching jaw. Michael continues to help paste the leaves onto his skin, his small hands kind, gentle. “Agriculture, huh? I bet that’s how you fly around like a little bird then, isn’t it?”

Michael smiles. “You’re good at it too! I saw you up in that tree.”

Phil waves a hand and dismisses the compliment. “This is about you, kid. Thank you. Really.” Then, spotting a long burn along the boy’s arm, he frowns. “I’ve got something for that.”

Michael stretches his arm out curiously, wincing slightly when Phil unscrews his tin of burn ointment, spreads it across the wound. Then he gasps, face lighting up with relief. “You have good sponsors.”

“Haven’t you gotten anything yet?” Michael shakes his head. “Mate.” Phil gives the kid a comically disbelieving raised eyebrow. When he shakes his head again, Phil just shrugs. “Well, you will. Watch. The closer we get to the end, the more people will see just how smart you are.”

He moves away in silence, leaving Michael to sit, curling his knees together and settling his chin upon them. Phil turns the meat over and hums at the nice, even cook.

“You weren’t joking,” Michael says softly. His hair drifts across his cheek, the soft pink fluttering down into his eyes. “About wanting me as your ally?”

“Nope,” Phil says, popping the p. “I meant it.” 

He can almost hear Jschlatt’s groan at the idea that Phil is currently teaming up with a tiny wisp of a child. But Phil wants this kid on his side. Michael is a survivor, in the same way that he is. That Wilbur is.

Michael unwinds a hand from his leg and nods. “Ok. It’s a deal.”

They shake hands and spit on the ground as an act of promise. This partnership can only ever be temporary. Neither of them mentions it, though they both know. 

Michael contributes a large handful of unfamiliar starchy roots to the fire. They smell and taste of parsnips when cooked, soaking up some of the flavors of the meat beside them. The turkey has fatty, delicious meat, the grease dripping down their chins as they chew into it, ravenous.

Michael lets out a soft sigh, looking longingly down at the leg in his hands, nearly finished. “I’ve never had a whole leg to myself before.”

That much is clear. He looks even more malnourished than Phil, and so he holds his own portion out and smiles. “Take the other.”

“Really?”

“Take whatever you want,” Phil urges, insistently pushing the leg forward. Now I’ve got a bow and arrow, I’m set. I’ll even show you how to set some snares.” Michael continues to stare skeptically. “Oh come on, mate. Take it, would you?”

Once the boy has a hold of the meat, hunger weighs out. He takes a huge bite and lets out a childish little laugh when grease goes down his chin, his eyes sparkling with delight. Phil smiles, leaning forward and wiping some of it off with his sleeve.

“You’d think that in District 11 they’d give you more food, seeing as you grow it all.”

Michael’s eyes widen and he pauses at his chewing. “Oh- absolutely not. We don’t get any of the food.”

Phil nods. That does make some sense. “And no one steals it? Do they arrest you or something?”

The boy flinches. He ducks his head, hair falling right back into his face. “Uhm- no. No, they… there are public whippings.”

Public whippings do happen in District 12, but they’re rare. Phil could technically be whipped daily for his hunting — could technically just be killed for his daring — but there have been only one or two in his lifetimes. Besides, the mayor doesn’t care. He’s an uncaring man, preferring to worry about his table more than his citizens. Perhaps, being the most neglected and ridiculed district in all of Panem has its advantages.

“You don’t get all the coal you want, do you?”

“No,” Phil says, laughing a little. He’s glad for the change of subject. If they’d kept going he might’ve started cursing the Capitol entirely. “Just whatever we can afford and what we track in on our boots.”

“They feed us more during harvest, so that people can keep going longer,” Michael says, shuffling closer.

“Shouldn’t you be in school?”

He shakes his head, staring off into the sky. “No. Not during harvest. Everyone works then.” They’re both silent for a moment. It’s not as if the Capitol is listening. They’re surely blocking this out, diverting the district’s attention elsewhere. “Should we sort our stuff out?”

Michael has collected a vast collection of roots, nuts, greens, and berries. Phil has his crackers and beef strips along with the roots from the pools he’s found, the meat he’s shot down today. The young boy seems like a smarter and smarter ally by the minute.

“You’re sure these are safe?” Phil asks, holding up a berry — the same one he’d had to discard all those days ago when he nearly succumbed to thirst.

“Yup!” Michael plucks it out of his hand and eats it, grinning. It leaves his lips a soft red color, making him look even younger. Phil bites into one and finds his mouth flooded with the pleasant taste of a sour blackberry, spreading sweetness across his tongue. It’s refreshing, after so little variety to his diet for so long.

Apart from his food, Michael also has a surprising array of supplies. A small waterskin, an actually handmade slingshot, an extra pair of socks, and a small shard of broken rock, sharpened into an arrowhead shape and used as a knife. “I know it’s not much,” he says, and Phil jerks his head over, confused. This is a lot for a twelve-year-old to get in a televised killing game. “I had to clear outta the Cornucopia fast.”

“No- this is- kinda insane, mate. You have a slingshot that you made? You’ve already gotten farther than most kids your age would.” Phil grins as Michael blushes, shying away and shaking his head.

“My parents taught me a lot,” he explains, taking the makeshift weapon back. “They were always paranoid I’d be reaped. I uh… guess it paid off.”

“Well, they won their games quite young, didn’t they?” Michael nods. “Ranboo and Tubbo, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Tubbo won… two years ago. He’s seventeen now. So he was fifteen then. Ranboo won when he was 13, like…” Phil squints down at their supplies. God- he’s quite a bit older than some of these tributes. “Four years.”

“Yeah,” Michael replies repetitively. “Uhm. It sorta broke Ranboo to see Tubbo get reaped. He… he’s not always ok.”

Phil nods. “I can imagine.”

They continue to catalog through their supplies with minimal chatter. The selfishness of the games comes to him once again. He doesn’t want to think about dying here. Of abandoning his son; breaking his promise. But at the same time, who is he to live, when Michael is so young? So full of life and fresh out of a family that has experienced the unlucky tragedy of not one, not two, but three tributes? 

Michael gasps, pushing his hair back with one hand and picking up Phil’s sunglasses. “How did you get these?”

“In my pack,” Phil replies, grimacing. He thinks back to those hard first days and the uselessness of the glasses. “They’ve been completely scuffed so far. They don’t block the sun out and they’re basically impossible to use.”

“No- they’re not for sun!” Michael exclaims excitedly, pushing the glasses on. They swamp his face and fall down his nose, making his face look extraordinarily small. “They’re for darkness. Sometimes, when harvest goes into the night, we use these and they let you see in the dark. They give them to the people who go up highest in the trees where the torches don’t reach. That’s me- cause I’m so small.”

Phil can easily imagine it. Tiny, skinny Michael, climbing up trees and hidden in the deepest depths of the shivering leaves.

“One time,” he continues. “This boy- Martin- he took a pair and tried to keep them in his pants. They shot him on the spot.”

“They- what, they killed a boy over these?” Phil lifts his pair and looks at them skeptically, slightly horrified. 

“Yeah. And I mean- the kid was… Martin wasn’t right in the head. He still acted like a little little kid, cause his birth was wrong or something but they couldn’t just kill a baby. He just wanted the glasses to play with.”

In the flickering camplight, Phil can’t see any sort of horror on Michael’s face. It’s disturbing, seeing a child already so desensitized to death.

But he supposes he had been the same way. Explosions and burns and parents long consumed and starving bodies in the street have pervaded his life since birth. Phil has seen children the same as Martin before too. There’s a little girl — one of the local’s kids, who they can’t quite afford to keep at home all the time — wanders around the Hob. People toss her little pretty things and give her food if she helps out in their stands. She’s sweet, if a bit simple. 

It seems cruel, to shoot someone simply for wanting to be a child. But that is the way of Panem, isn’t it?

“So,” he says, reaching forward and taking the other pair of glasses. “They let you see in the dark?”

“Complete darkness,” Michael says, nodding. “Just wait till the sun goes down. It’ll be awesome.”

Phil gives the boy a handful of matches. In exchange, Michael supplies him with enough leaves to make sure he can treat all his stings if they start acting up again. They douse the fire and start heading back upstream, watching as the sun starts to fall. 

“Where do you sleep?” Phil asks suddenly, turning to Michael with a tilt of his head. “Up in the trees or something?” When the boy nods, he lets out a soft noise at the impressiveness of that admittance. “In just your jacket?”

Michael holds up his socks. “I have these for my hands.”

Phil curses the fire from earlier. If he could, he would easily share his sleeping bag with the boy, but it’s gone now. “We’ll both fit in my poncho if you squeeze in close. That way we’ll be a bit warmer.”

Michael’s eyes — or, singular eye, seeing as the left one is perpetually covered in his curly pink hair — light up and he grins. 

They pick a fork high up in a tree, just large enough for both of them to settle into. Phil unzips the front of his poncho and pulls one edge over Michael, letting the boy curl up in his side and rest his head on his chest. At this proximity, Phil can feel every single one of Michael’s ribs, the thin jut on his shoulders. He wraps an arm around the boy and allows him to snuggle into his side, burying his head in Phil’s chest.

The anthem plays and they both watch in silence. There have been no deaths today. Phil has been lucky to awaken at all.

“I only woke up today,” Phil murmurs against a yawn. Michael shifts, head lifting to stare upward. “How many days did I miss?”

“Two,” he whispers back. “The girls from District 4 both died. And the guy from 2.”

Phil nods. That’s what he already assumed confirmed — both Punz and Technoblade have lived. “You know the weird thing, though? The other man from my district. Technoblade. I…” He bites his lip, thinking. “It might have been the venom. But I’m pretty damn sure he saved my life.”

“He’s not with them now. I’ve spied on their camp by the lake and he’s not with them. They made it back, but they got as sick as you with the venom. Maybe he did save you.”

He doesn’t answer. If Technoblade really did save him again, then he has yet another debt to pay back. And, if the scent of blood and the screams that Phil heard were any indications, the man is either injured or fought hard against the tribute who found him. 

“We’re both lying to the Capitol,” Phil says carefully. There are surely no cameras on them now — the Gamemakers wouldn’t want to shatter the illusion of trust between Phil and Technoblade. “I’ve only spoken to Technoblade once. We aren’t friends.”

“Oh,” Michael replies, frowning thoughtfully. “But maybe you could be?”

He’s silent for a long moment. There’s nothing to say about that. They can’t ever be friends if one of them is in danger of killing the other. Instead of answering, Phil moves to his pocket and pulls out their pair of glasses, smiling. “Let’s try these out then, eh?”

Phil pulls them out and tries them on. A sharp gasp falls from his lips before he can stifle it. He can see everything. There’s a skunk strolling through the bushes a good fifty feet away, and a bird’s nest high up and concealed in the leaves of a nearby tree. “Holy shit.”

“I know!” Michael agrees, shifting upward and straining to see without the glasses. “They’re awesome. The Careers got two pairs of them. But they’ve got everything down by the lake, and they’re super strong, so I don’t wanna go steal from them.”

“We’re strong too. In a different way.” Phil folds the glasses back up and tucks them into his pocket. He could shoot so much with these. 

“You are,” Michael agrees, nudging Phil’s side and laughing slightly at the man’s grunt of annoyance. “You can shoot. What can I do?”

“You can feed yourself. Can they?”

A soft pfft falls out of Michael’s lips, and he sinks back down, head resting against Phil’s chest. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine that they’re at home. That Phil is safe, and Wilbur is there, and perhaps Michael is too. 

“They don’t need to,” continues the boy, sounding a bit melancholy. “They have all those supplies.”

Then- it comes to him.

Phil smiles to himself in the darkness. “But what if they didn’t? Say their supplies were all gone. They’re stupid and bulky. How long would they last? It’s the Hunger Games, isn’t it?”

“But Phil,” Michael groans. “They’re not hungry. That’s the problem.”

“You’re right,” Phil replies. “You’re right, mate, yep, but- but what if they were?” For the first time since the games have begun, Phil can see a plan, forming in the depths of his mind. It’s shadowed and dark as the night sky but it’s there, building rapidly on a foundation of trust. 

Again, the younger boy huffs in confusion, disappointment. “But they’re not.”

Phil just grins. “I think we’re going to have to fix that, Michael.”

Chapter Text

Phil does not know how much he wants to be alive.

Wilbur has made him promise. To do his best, and to live, and to win. But here is Michael, scarcely a day or two older than his son, whose parents have both been made to suffer for the Capitol’s enjoyment twice before. Michael, who has clearly decided he trusts Phil, snuggling up against the elder man’s chest and sleeping heavily, as if nothing around could harm him.

If Phil has his way, nothing will. There’s no time to think of death now — what good is he to Michael if he’s no longer around?

He settles into a sleep that feels less lonely than it has since the games began. Starlight trickles down in waves and graces them both upon their perch. 

Phil is startling awake by the sound of a cannon, not far away at all. The sky is streaked with daylight, the birds and animals around already awake and aware. Michael is there in a branch not far away, cupping something in his hands and staring in the direction of the cannon.

“Who do you think it was?” Asks Phil, present from the moment he sits up. 

“I don’t know. Could’ve been any of them, I think. We’ll find out tonight, eh?” Michael laughs, and Phil smiles. “Do you have a plan yet?”

“Mhm… The beginnings of one. First I need to know who’s left.”

“The boy from 2. Both of the ones from 1. The boy from three. Fundy and I. You and Technoblade. Oh- and the mute boy,” Michael recites automatically as if he’s memorized the names and simply spitting them back up now. “I wonder how that last one died. Or who it was.”

“There’s really no telling. It’s good for us, though. It’ll keep the Capitol from getting antsy while I plan. I’ve got something fucked ready for the Careers, I’ll tell you that.” Phil frowns and tilts his head, looking in closer. “What’s in your hands?”

“Breakfast!” He replies, whirling around and opening his hands to expose two large eggs. 

“Oh- what kind?”

“I’m not sure.” Michael points North. “There’s a marshy area that way. Some sorta waterbird.”

Neither of them is willing to risk a fire. The latest death was far too close for comfort, and Phil can almost guarantee that it was the Careers who killed whoever the latest victim of the games was. They instead suck out the insides and eat some rabbit, snacking on a handful of berries that Michael has scrounged up on his morning adventure. It’s a good breakfast. It gives Phil’s mind a time to awaken, his brain stirring up the beginnings of a plan.

“Well. Are you ready to do it?” He asks, wrapping the leftover berries up.

Michael cocks his head in confusion. “Do what?”

Philza sends the boy a wicked sharp grin, confident and dark and hungry. It’s time they take the Careers down a notch. “We’re gonna get rid of all their food.”

“Really?” Michael’s eyes spark with excitement and he bounces up, already smiling.

“Really,” Phil promises. “I’m not entirely sure how yet. But we will. I promise.”

They hunt as they discuss what they know of the Career’s stash already. Michael is exceedingly intelligent, perceptive about the smallest of things. He knows that the stash is all beside the lake, about thirty yards away from their actual camp. He knows that during the day, when they hunt for kills, they leave the boy from three to stand guard.

“He’s not very big,” Michael says, squinting up at Phil. “I bet even you could take him.”

Phil snorts, pretending to be wounded by the comment and clapping a hand to his heart. “Eugh. I’m not that short, you little prick.”

A soft giggle. Michael punches his lower arm. “No, that’s not what I mean! He’s still a Career. He just doesn’t look that strong.”

“Well, does he have any weapons?”

“Just a spear,” he answers, kicking a rock. “And he got stung by the tracker jackers too, so he’s probably tired. None of them have antivenom herbs. I checked.”

Phil grins, laughing out loud at the boy’s vicious smile. “Alright, alright, mate. I’ll take your word for it, wow. And the food’s just out in the open?”

A quick nod. Phil considers the facts. “It doesn’t add up. They’ve surely got it guarded somehow.”

“Yeah, I know.” The younger boy scowls at his inability to understand. It’s clear that his intelligence is a great source of pride to him, and Phil feels a swell of protectiveness. It’s endearing, the kid’s passion. “But I dunno how exactly. What do you plan to do, anyway?”

“Ehhh. Burn it. Soak the whole lot in fule and set it on fire. Explode it all. I- I don’t know. Something that just scuffs it all up isn’t gonna work, we’ve gotta get rid of it or steal it all.” He leans over, poking Michael in the side of his head like he might do for Wilbur. “Don’t worry, I’ll think of something good.”

The two speak in hushed voices and forage, devising a plan and recovering information. Phil tells Michael about his parents. His mother a healer, before she moved in with his father in the Seam. His father a hunter. Neither of them could have anticipated being exploded to bits in a mine, but they did, leaving Phil alone with a son to care with and no money at all.

In turn, Michael tells him of his life. He’s an only child. He’s used to a bit more luxury than most children in his District. But, as it turns out, the victors in District 11’s children still have to work until they are of age to take their parent’s money and support. So Michael is a harvester, same as any other child, skinny and agile and quick as a whip. He’s intelligent — inherited from Tubbo, renown for his experimental technology. He’s kind and charismatic — inherited from Ranboo, well known for being a Capitol favorite, despite his mental break and subsequent decline into paranoia. Michael is only a boy, a harvester, an artist, a friend. Michael, who when asked what one of his greatest passions is, replies:

“Music.”

“Music?” Phil replies, curious. He remembers a time when he too enjoyed music. When he sang readily, and when he hummed along to his father’s tunes and whistled to the crows outside the meadows of District 12. His love has been passed down to Wilbur. He has no time for song any longer. “Do you have lots of time for that?”

“Oh, sure. We sing in the fields and at home, too. Dad- er, Ranboo -sings a lot! Actually, it’s one of the reasons I love your pin so much.” He stretches an arm up and points to the glittering golden token longingly. 

“You have crows, back home?”

“Yeah. I have a few that are my special friends.” He gives the ground a wistful smile, reminiscing. As if his words are past tense. Had. “We could sing back and forth for hours. They carry messages for me.”

“Oh? What sorta messages?” Phil asks.

“Well,” Michael begins. “I’m usually up highest since I’m smaller than most people, so I see the flag that signals quitting time. There’s a special little song I do to tell everyone else.”

He opens his mouth and lets out a soft, but strong, melody, sweet and clear in his boyish voice. “And the crows spread it all around the field to help me. That’s how everyone knows they can go home.” Michael smiles, obviously proud of his innovation. “They can be dangerous if you get too close to their nests, though. I can’t blame them.”

Phil nods, eyes distant. Then he stops them, standing still and unclipping his pin from his chest, fumbling the catch. He holds it out to Michael. “Here. Take it. It’s from my son, but I don’t think he would mind you having it. It has a lot of significance for you.” Phil buries the fact that crows used to bow to his tune, used to follow him around in the forest. Those days of nonchalance and kind spring nights are long behind him.

Michael prods Phil’s fingers away with one hand, shaking his head. “No, I like to see it on you! It’s very pretty. It’s how I knew I could trust you. Besides, I have this.”

He reaches into the front of his shirt and pulls out a long thin length of twine. On the end hangs a small, carved wooden eye, the middle painted a soft brown, the rest a mossy green. He tucks it back into his shirt with a careful smile, hand cupping the spot where it rests against his skin. “My dads made it for me. It’s a good luck charm.”

Phil pins his crow back on his shirt and smiles, brushing his fingers against the golden pin, secretly relieved to have it back. Then, something hits him. “Here,” he says, reaching into his pocket and rummaging around until he finds the rabbit’s foot he’s been holding onto. “Here’s another one.”

Michael lets out a light twinkling laugh, taking the paw and rubbing the soft fur. He thanks Phil and they carry on.

By lunch, they have a true plan. They collect several piles of firewood and place them down for the first two campfires they’ll need. The third, Michael will have time to create himself. Phil wants the little boy far away from the action. They decide to meet back up where they shared their first meal, the stream there to guide them. Before he leaves, he gives the boy his backpack.

“It’ll just weigh me down, mate. Take it, just in case we can’t get back together by tonight.”

“What about you?” He argues petulantly. “What if you’re hungry?”

Phil just grins. “Well. stealing sure as shit isn't illegal here. I’ll just take what I want, ok? Don’t worry about me.”

A scrutinizing glare. A huff. “Alright. As long as you promise you’ll be safe, Philza.”

“Of course, Michael,” he promises. He has no intention of abandoning this child just yet. “Now. Teach me the signal, ok?”

They go over the end-of-day tune that Michael uses on the crows several times. Phil nods along and tries it, though his voice is rusty, and singing feels frightening after so long. “It might not work,” Michael admits. “But if you hear the crows singing it, you’ll know I’m ok, even if I can’t get back yet.”

Phil looks up, scouring the trees with his eyes. “There are a lot of ‘em here, then?”

“Haven’t you seen the nests?” Michael smiles. 

“Okay then,” Phil grumbles jokingly. “Anyways: If all goes according to plan, I’ll see you for dinner?”

There’s a pause. Michael doesn’t answer, staring up at Phil with an unreadable expression. Then he shoves forward and throws his arms around the elder man’s waist, ignoring his soft “woah” of concern and hugging his ally close.

Phil feels his chest tense with emotion. His throat bobs as he closes his arms around the boy, eyes fluttering shut as the two fall into a hug. 

“You be careful,” Michael whispers, voice choked. “You have to introduce your son to me.”

Throat spasming with emotion, Phil slowly inclines his head, nodding. He cards a hand — suddenly shaking, for reasons other than hunger or dehydration or anger — through Michael’s hair. 

(He’ll try his hardest for Michael and Wilbur to meet someday. He just won’t be there to witness it. That’s alright with him.)

“You too,” he murmurs, before withdrawing from Michael’s embrace and turning around, not sparing another glance as the boy starts to walk away. 

Phil is worried, and he doesn’t bother with trying to hide it any longer, cameras be damned. Wilbur has his odd jobs and a small group of supporters. Phil has created a small savings account for the boy, and though it isn’t much, it’s enough to sustain him for a short time. Michael is a child. Phil has made a promise to Wilbur. But does that mean he needs to let a boy so similar to his son die in order to deliver it?

He climbs back down the stream’s path towards where he initially dropped the tracker jackers. All around him are signs of things Michael has pointed out. Crows, oil slick feathers flickering in the sun. Bushes of the leaves he treated Phil’s stings with, along with large sprawls of berries that they’ve been eating for days. When he finally makes it to the tree he’d been holed up in during his brush with the Careers, he finds that the broken nest is still there, burst open and disgusting, flaking layers of white and warped honeycomb shedding off onto the ground.

Phil makes it to the bushes on the edge of the Career camp without an issue. His bow is held tight in his hands, his quiver flush to his back as he bows down at his knees, crouching behind the lush foliage and watching. 

There are four tributes there. The girl from District 1 — Alyssa. Her male partner. Punz, from two. Then the boy from three — thin and scrawny and pale despite the sunlight, fiddling with some sort of plastic box. He’s utterly unimpressionable. Phil can’t remember a single thing about him — not even his score in the gamemaker’s ratings. But he must have some use if the Careers are keeping him around. If he can just figure out what…

The Cornucopia sits in its initial position not far away, but all of its insides have been removed. Those supplies which are left are piled high in crates, sacks, and bags, sitting in a questionably sound pile not far from the camp. It’s an odd distance. An odd formation in general, and Phil can’t put his finger on why. There’s also a large canopy of netting surrounding the mountain, but aside from keeping birds out, it looks useless.

While he’s mulling over the perplexing setup, though, Punz shouts out, pointing toward the forest. Without even looking, Phil knows he’s looking deep into the woods toward Michael’s first campsite. He smiles. Let the games begin indeed.

An argument breaks out. It’s loud enough that Phil can hear it.

“We need him in the woods. His job is done anyways, there’s nothing left to do here,” Punz says, gesturing to the boy from 3. 

“What about Blade-boy?” Asks Alyssa worriedly. 

“I keep saying we can forget about him, don’t I?” Punz clicks his tongue and sighs. “He may have taken down my partner, but I cut him good. He’s dead, I promise.”

Phil jolts at that — Technoblade killed the other boy from 2? That bulky, bloodthirsty Career? And what has Punz done to him now? Should Phil even care? He has no idea why the man betrayed the Careers in the first place.

“Come on,” Punz says agreeably. He thrusts a spear into the hands of the boy from 3, and they head off into the woods. Just before they pass Phil’s range of earshot: “When I find that man, I’m killing him. None of you interfere. Just catch him and bring him to me.”

Somehow, Phil doesn’t think they’re talking about Michael or Technoblade. Neither of them dropped a nest of tracker jackers on their heads.

But, even as he stays and watches the pile, the sun hot in the sky and the birds twittering around him, Phil cannot decipher the puzzle that is this pyramidic jumble of supplies. He sits there, stumped, growing restless even as the smoke to the side of him, deep in the wood, continues to curl into the sky.

Then there’s a rustle and a flash of movement.

Phil is alert in an instant, watching for any hint that he has been compromised. But there- off in the distance, a shock of red hair and a pointed face, a canine-filled grin that flits briefly across the land and towards the supplies. Fundy races forward on feet lighter than air, zigzagging and hopping towards the pile. Then, as he gets closer, he pauses.

He starts to move his feet slowly in a strategical dance, hands raised and eyes pointed toward the ground at something Phil can’t see. He twists and maneuvers around, little hops and big steps over invisible boundaries. At one point, he falls, and Phil hears a sharp curse as his hands hit the ground.

But nothing happens. Fundy regains his footing and stands, darting back toward the pile and-

And Phil gets it. 

The dirt around the landing platforms has been dug up and tilled and rearranged haphazardly. All around the pile of supplies, the dirt has been disturbed and patted back down, lumpy and odd. 

“It’s mined,” he whispers, startled by the ingenuity. This must be what the boy from District 3 has been useful for. He comes from the factory district, where they make explosives and televisions and cars and all sorts of technology. It explains everything. The Career’s willingness to leave their stache behind, Fundy’s dance across the dirt. 

The boy’s hand digs around in his pack and he reaches for supplies at random. A handful of apples. A small pack of matches. A water bottle, sloshing, already filled. And then he dances right back out and darts back into the trees, unseen. Uncaught. Unsuspected.

Well. That ruins all thought of bringing supplies back to Michael. Phil can’t risk a single step forward without blowing himself sky high. He has no clue how Fundy managed to do it. He can’t just fire an arrow in and ignite them, either. The mines are set off by pressure, not flame. One year a girl dropped her token — a small wooden ball — and they had to pressure wash her off of the platform. There was no body to be recovered.

After years of climbing trees and shooting arrows, Phil’s arm is strong, his aim sure. Perhaps he could throw something into the massive pile? But no- there’s no guarantee that it would trigger all of the mines. Perhaps they spread out just far enough to keep the supplies intact if one person comes and tries to steal things and sets one off. There’s also the net around everything. He bites his knuckle as he thinks, growing increasingly anxious.

The smoke from Michael’s second fire has begun to circle the sun, clawing its way through the trees and into the sky. By now, the Careers are probably getting antsy. There’s no time to wait. He needs to think. 

Then- an in. The bag of applies that Fundy took from has been left slightly open, hints of red fruit exposed from the inside. Perhaps if enough tumble down they could make it through the net and hit a mine. He needs to free the apples, though, not the bag. It won’t be enough if they’re still contained. But he hit a small target like an apple in the training center, didn’t he? Who’s to say he can’t do it again?

Phil rises cautiously from his spot on the ground, knees cramped after so long in their folded position. He strings an arrow, squinting into the sunlight, aim true. He spreads his legs and settles himself on the ground, blocking out everything else. Even if someone sees him and he dies here, Michael will have a chance of winning. 

His first shot strikes through the side of the burlap bag and exposes the ruby red of an apple within. The second increases it to a gaping hole. An apple is just teetering on the edge of falling when Phil lets his third arrow loose. 

Everything is frozen for a single instant. Then the apples all tumble free, and time resumes, and they spill to the ground, and-

Phil is blown backward into the air as the world erupts.

---

The breath is knocked from his lungs. He hits a tree and his head knocks against it and everything swims, vision rapidly darkening. He curls inward just in time for debris to shatter the sky and rain down upon him, bits of food and raining fabric and metal hitting him violently. He breathes heavily and tries not to cry out as flaming lumps of things send the grass around him into pillars of red.

He can’t hear anything. The world is red and black. His head pulses and he swallows silent breaths, unable to let any air out. The ground roars, the ground screams, and it shakes with all the wrath of a thousand little bits of technology blown to bits.

After about a minute, the world stops shaking. Phil drops his arms and slumps down onto the ground, cheek pressed to the earth as he lets himself savor the sight of the burning and exposed lump of wreckage that all of the Career’s supplies have become. They won’t be able to get anything out of that. 

He makes a mental note to get the hell out. Anyone and everyone will surely be making a beeline to his exact position. So Phil stands, building all of his energy up and forcing himself to move. 

He’s dizzy, though, and it isn’t the mundane type. It’s the type that sends the trees up into the skies and the ground pulsing in waves, and Phil’s feet twist at the heels as he wavers, until he finds himself on his hands and knees, raggedly breathing into the dirt. He looks down to see a small spot of red in the earth, and he leans onto his elbow, moving his other hand up and touching his left ear.

It comes away wet with blood, dripping down his cheek and neck. He curses, though he can’t hear it. Has the explosion struck him deaf? The thought hits him and he panics, rubbing furiously at the spot and trying to massage feeling back into it. He breathes in shallow, panicked breaths that are silent to him. 

As a hunter, Phil relies almost as much on his hearing as he does on his sight.  But he can’t let his panic show, even if he’s viscerally fucking terrified. This is perhaps the most scared he’s been since the games begun, but he just closes his eyes and pauses, catching his heavy breaths. 

Phil settles back onto his knees and lets his eyes remain closed as he lifts his hood and tugs it around his head. No blood trails. He ties the cord below his chin with uncooperative fingers, heavy upon his hands. If he’s lucky, that’ll suck up most of the blood. Now for travel. He can’t walk, that much is clear. But can he crawl?

Dignity be damned, he opens his eyes and leans over, planting his hands in the dirt. He takes a tentative shuffle forward, dragging his knees forward and ignoring the swimming of his vision. Yes. He can crawl, slowly but surely across the forest, back to the cover of Michael’s bushes. 

To say that he makes it in the nick of time is an understatement. He’s only just collapsed onto the dirt, barely able to peek through the bottom of the bushes with his body folded upon itself, curled into a half fetal position, when the Careers return, finally finding the remains of everything they own. 

Punz stalks out first, and his eyes are wide, his lips a thin white line and his rage palpable. It’s silent, though, as he runs forward and digs through the wreckage, soft “no” s falling out of lips, growing angrier and angrier. Alyssa looks downright horrified. The boy from 1 stands beside her and steams. The boy from 3 throws a rock into the pile and confirms that all of it has burnt. 

Clearly, he has done his job too well. Everything he worked so hard to protect has been reduced to ash and rubble and one man, coated in dust, hidden beneath the bushes. 

The kid hardly has a chance to escape before Punz steps forward, locks his arms around his head. There’s a violent snap and the bulging of muscles. The boy from District 3 drops to the ground with a soft noise, dead before impact.

That’s how quickly he is ended. Phil could have blinked and missed it. 

The other Careers seem to be trying to pick up the pieces of their broken offerings. They move through and rummage around in their own packs, bickering back and forth as they try to allocate who gets what. Phil just keeps his chest to the ground, his ear bleeding steadily into his hood. They start pointing at the sky, gesturing wildly. It hits him — they think whoever set off the explosion is dead.

He lies there for hours in the hot sun, body barely able to move. His head is in so much pain, his vision still so dizzy, that he can hardly think about leaving his spot from his bushes if he wanted to. Once they’re done gathering the ends of their meager supplies they retire by the lake, clearing off to let the boy of District 3 be collected. 

A cannon must have gone off, though Phil can’t see it. The boy is airlifted upward by a silent hovercraft, head twisted at an awkward angle and neck elongated. Night starts to fall, spreading darkness all around. Phil looks up to see that the seal of the Capitol is in the sky, so he assumes the anthem must be being broadcasted as well. There’s the boy from District 3, and then the one from 10 — Callahan. Then the seal reappears, and it becomes clear that they know. 

The thief is still alive.

Alyssa and Punz both have night vision goggles. The boy from 1 lights a torch on a spare bit of burnt backpack, and they stride off into the woods, determined to find who has destroyed their supplies. 

This leaves Phil alone. His left ear is still completely silent, dripping blood and still hot to the touch, but his right exudes a soft ringing noise, growing stronger every once in a while. There’s no point in leaving his spot curled up beneath the bushes, and so he stays there. The Careers will likely think the bomber is hours ahead of them, already escaped deep into the forest.

It’s a long time before he risks moving at all. He has no idea how loud his movements are, so he’s endlessly cautious as he dips his hand into his pockets and takes out the pair of night vision goggles he’d taken from his pack before he handed it off to Michael. It’s a small comfort against the darkness, illuminating the Career’s empty camp and the bushes surrounding him. He drinks some water and rinses the blood from his ear, careful to bury it beneath a patch of dry dirt. There are not many berries around and he hasn’t planned for dinner, but he eats a handful of blackberries that he finds hanging from the bushes once he’s sure they’re safe.

Michael is alive. Phil is alive. Technoblade is alive. Who else is left? Foxfaced Fundy, of course. Alyssa, and Punz, and that last Career boy, whose name he can’t remember. There are very few of them left to fight against, and he wonders just how intense the betting in the Capitol must be getting. They’re surely scrambling to sponsor those most impressive, and Phil can only hope that Michael and he both have made it to that list.

It’s bitterly cold and growing cooler by the minute. He starts to feel a bit more sympathetic for that girl who lit the fire that first night, but he grits his teeth against the urge, scooting backward and deeper into the bushes. He covers himself in a thick layer of foliage and tucks his poncho tightly around himself, hoping to keep some of the cool out. Somehow, with his ears ringing and head pounding and lungs still not quite right, he sleeps.

Phil wakes up to the sound of distorted laughter. He freezes, even as his eyes open, the world fractured with the sunlight filtering in through his glasses. He shakes them off his head and turns toward the origins of the noise, surprised to see that it isn’t a Career, but Foxface.

He stands in the middle of the destroyed rubble of the supplies, shrouded in light morning mist, and he laughs. He yips and chitters and bends over to search the wreckage, finding far more than the Careers could. It occurs to Phil — with them knocked down a peg, the rest of the tributes actually have a chance. Historically, tributes from outlying districts win the games far less than Careers, save for those odd years that their supplies and camps are destroyed. 

It feels like a good time to inquire about an alliance with Fundy. But something about the boy’s madman grin makes Phil think it would end with him being butchered. 

It’s probably a good time to shoot the boy. But he hears something — not Phil — and darts back into the woods, literally scampering away, disappearing as quick as his laugh had come.

This is the time for Phil to run, too. If Fundy thinks it’s dangerous here, perhaps it is. So he tucks his bow under his arm and slides out from under the bushes, happy to see that his vision has stopped teetering like a child’s plaything, spun around and around and around. He starts by the stream and makes his way back down, resolving to tell Michael all about the supplies (and perhaps get a bite of food) once they have reunited. 

The stream starts to go back uphill, and he follows along. The Careers have been here — evidenced in the day-old footprints dried into the mud — and so Phil strips his shoes and socks off, walking in the riverbank rather than being caught. The cool water feels energizing, and he shoots two fish in the slow-moving stream, eating one raw and saving one for his ally. 

Gradually, the ringing in his right ear subsides until it is gone entirely. He continues to rub at his left in an attempt to clear whatever it is that has deadened it, but to no avail. If there has been any improvement at all, he can’t feel it. It makes him feel off-balance — unprotected, even — by the deafness in one ear which had been just fine the day before. But there’s no use dwelling on it, even if his hope for it to heal continues to dwindle. 

Their rendezvous point has not yet been disturbed. That’s both good and bad — it means no Careers have made it here, but it also means that Michael has been held up. With what, he can’t be sure. The third fire from their site was far away, though, so Phil settles in. He washes the blood out of his jacket and hair and takes stock of his wounds, chewing up some leaves and pasting them onto his deflated tracker stings. His burns are still in need of treatment, but Michael has the ointment. 

There’s no sense in wandering around aimlessly. He scales a tree and rests there lazily, eyeing the ground below. If a Career were to wander upon him, he could easily take them. He’s safe up here.

Is Michael safe, though? While Phil waits here, biding his time. There have been no cannon shots today, but that doesn’t rule out injury. There’s no telling what could have happened between the time that Phil saw the second fire and now. The boy could be hurt, or trapped, or even worse — hunted. 

It’s with that thought that he hops from his tree, landing clumsily on the ground, hearing still not right. It’s late afternoon, the sun only just starting its descent in the sky. He scatters a handful of blackberries around, proof that he has been here. That if Michael makes his way back, Phil has not abandoned him.

Walking to the third campfire takes well over an hour of walking, and is fruitless. Michael is not there. The campfire is unlit. It has been stocked with wood and tinder, but Michael clearly never had a chance to set it ablaze. Phil is suddenly even more alert, hands itching to string an arrow and to protect, protect, protect. 

He must have never made it back to this spot. Something is keeping him trapped, somewhere between the second flame and this one. It feels good to have something to do — someone to help — after so long being idle today, and Phil creeps back through the underbrush, senses honed for a kill. He no longer is looking for meager prey, but something much larger. Much more dangerous. 

Nothing around for many minutes looks suspicious. There’s no sign of a struggle, no blood, no fight. No noise at all, in fact, and it isn’t a simple matter of faulty hearing. Phil stops for a moment to inspect a deliberate trail of pine needles, when he hears it.

Four, short tones, clear as a stream or a midsummer’s day. They ring out, steady and lovely and high. A crow flies overhead and sings downward, Phil’s guide to his friend. He returns the whistle, a huge grin splitting his face. Michael may be trapped or lost, but he is safe. He is ok for now. Another bird confirms the song, and he runs faster, jogging quickly in the direction it originates from. 

He has just begun to let out another note when the scream splits the air.

It’s unmistakable. A young voice, full of fear and pain and Phil freezes, lungs stuttering to a stop as Michael’s tortured voice fills the air. But there’s no time to wait and so Phil runs, sprinting through the woods, faster and faster, desperate to find the boy. 

“Phil!” he hears, the kid’s voice cracking with another mindless cry of fear. “Philza!”

“Michael!” he shouts back, breathless. It’s swallowed up by his dull ear and he runs faster. 

He breaks into a clearing, head swiveling around and searching desperately and — and there. Michael is digging his hands into the dirt and bucking wildly up from beneath a net, tied down and hopelessly entangled. He cries out in frustration and in fear and then he notices Phil; lets out a single sob of relief.

“Phil,” he gasps, as if this arrival means he has found salvation. And, if he has his way, Michael will.

“Hey, hey I’m here,” he replies, running forward, skidding down onto his knees and looping a hand around one edge of the net. He curses, reaching behind his shoulders and into his quiver, pulling an arrow out and cutting through the rope. He discards it beside him and pulls the net away.

Michael lurches up off the ground and lets out a noise uncannily like a whimper, fearful and relieved all at once. He throws his arms around Phil’s shoulders, nuzzling his nose into the man’s neck.

“Shh,” he says, leaning in and immediately wrapping his own arms around the boy, cradling his head in one hand. They’re both shaking. But it’s alright, because Michael is safe. “Shh- you’re ok, mate. I’ve got you. You’ll be alright.”

For half a second, they stay like that. Then, all too soon, Michael pulls himself away. He turns, and he’s holding something in his hand, and he’s about to speak, and then there’s a flicker in Phil’s vision and-

Punz falls before his spear ever hits his target, an arrow through his neck. But the throw rings true, and there is a soft gasp.

---

Crows sing, high in the sky. Their wings swim through the endless blue, taking flight as they are startled by a weapon thrown. The clearing is spotted in clovers, softly covered in a layer of golden light. It flickers, though, with a thousand leaves, shifting and twisting, dancing within the sun, same as the crows above. The forest is broken by only one thing, out of place and discolored.

Blood drips down, down, down. A small hand rests against the head of a spear, impaled through a chest until it isn’t. Michael pulls the weapon from between his ribs and drops it, the sour stench of copper hitting the air.

He’s in Phil’s arms before he can truly fall, lowered into the older man’s lap as they both let out choked cries. He looks up, staring at the wound in his chest, the blood dripping freely from it and staining his shirt a deep obsidian black. It’s as if he hasn’t quite registered that it’s there, eyes open with surprise.

Phil pulls Michael’s poncho away with hands that are suddenly unshakable, strong as steel. He parts the fabric and finds a hopelessly large wound, confirming what he already knows.

Soft pink hair haloes Michael’s pale face as he lies there, head landing in Phil’s lap, legs splayed out, arms spread against the clovers beneath him, saintlike in stature. Phil’s breathing catches with the beginning of a sob as he wills for the wound to rewind, for the broken skin on the child’s chest to seal. Michael makes no sound as a tear rolls out of one of his red eyes, focused intently on Phil, completely lucid.

“It’s ok,” Phil promises, and he shakes, voice warbling. He hunches his shoulders and leans in, a hand falling down to press into Michael’s hair, gently running over the strands against his lap. “You’re ok. You’re gonna be ok. You’re ok.”

Michael’s breathing is a soft, broken wheeze, his mouth gently parted. His chest rises and falls, blood still falling down his pale skin. Phil smiles, grey-blond strands of hair falling down and shielding Michael, just as his arms do, keeping the boy from any further harm. It disappears, though, with nothing left to support it.

“Did you blow up the food?” Michael asks, his voice soft as velvet, no longer shaking. Red, bright as his eyes, wells upon his lips, staining his teeth.

Phil’s head spins as he nods, jaw twitching with the effort to hold in a sob. “Every last bit of it.”

Despite his pinched brow, his eyes flooded with tears, Michael smiles. “Good.”

Phil refuses to let a single tear drop down onto the boy beneath him. He will not allow anything else to harm Michael, no matter how small. He curls inward protectively, unable to hold back a choked sob, his lips parted in agony. He has no right to feel this pain. But Michael looks up at him as if he is owed the world, and so Phil can pretend, for a moment, that he deserves to grieve.

“You have to win,” Michael says, and his voice has fallen to a whisper. His eyes are hopeful now, no longer clouded with any pain at all. They do not stray from Phil.

To guarantee that he will win would have once been a lie. He made a promise to try, to his son, but he made no promise that he could truly carry through and end it all. But he looks up, swallowing his tears, and he sees that Punz has fallen, an arrow speared through his neck, gushing blood. He looks down, and he nods.

Michael nods back, and relief swells within the boy’s eyes. “Will… you sing to me?”

Phil has not sung since his parents died. Swallowed by grief, rather than romantic sorrow, he hardened, unable to breach the silence of a nearly empty home. Wilbur has sung enough for him in the years past. But he knows — in the questioning looks of those who once might have heard from through an open window — that his voice was one that was once well used. 

So of course he will sing. There’s a long-forgotten lullaby that he remembers — part of a dying story, of mountain air and a meadow’s green grass — that he can just barely recall. So Phil lets out a soft cough, and he begins.

“Deep in the meadow,” he whispers, carding shaking fingers through Michael’s hair. “Under the willow. A bed of grass, a soft green pillow.” 

Beauty is unnecessary now. Phil sings though his voice is choked, and he brings his hands together, one lying on Michael’s cheek, the other loosely squeezing the boy’s empty hand. 

“Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes. And when they open again, the sun will rise.”

“Here it’s safe, here it’s warm. Here the daisies guide you from every harm. Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true.” 

“Here is the place where I love you.”

Michael’s eyes have yet to close, but they flutter, long eyelashes twitching against his cheeks. His lips are parted and speckled in blood. His chest rises, but only slightly. Tears finally breach Phil’s eyes, falling down his cheeks, sliding down his jaw and sparing the boy entirely.

“Deep in the meadow, hidden far away. A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray.”

“Forget your woes and let your troubles lay — and when it’s morning, they’ll wash away.”

His voice has shuddered away into something barely audible. But he must finish the song. He continues, and he shakes.

“Here it’s safe, here it’s warm.”

“Here the daisies guide you from every harm.”

“Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true.”

A final exhale.

“Here is the place where I love you.”

Everything is still and quiet. The crows, high above, suddenly slide into song. They mourn more softly than Phil has ever heard, and he bows his head as Michael’s eyes finally slide shut. 

Tears water the grass beneath him as his mouth opens, unable to hold back silent sobs. Phil finally lets go of Michael’s hand, leaning over and pressing a kiss more gentle than starlight to the boy’s forehead. 

Michael’s cannon fires.

Slowly, as if to not wake the boy, Phil slides his head atop the clovers, lying him to rest. In Michael’s other hand sits his rabbit foot, fingers loosely strung about the token. Phil gently takes it from him. That is what he had been trying to hand to Phil. That is what he had been trying to give him. So he slides it into his pocket, chest wracked with pain. 

A soft keen drifts from his lungs. “I’m sorry,” he says, falling upon deaf ears. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, to the boy that he could not save.

They’ll want him to walk away now. Let the hovercraft retrieve his ally. His friend. (His child.) But Phil moves as if within a trance, every noise within the forest a dull lull, his body wading deeper into a stream of unconscious movement. He steps just within the forest and finds himself among a bank of wildflowers, colorful and long and alive. 

There is no thought other than to let Michael live on as he picks an armful of flowers. White, and blue, and pink, and yellow. He slowly kneels down at the child’s side, his body splayed out as if he is only asleep. 

Carefully, painstakingly, and with only one stem at a time, Phil decorates Michael’s prone form with flowers. Within his hair, against his crown, surrounding his vulnerable neck. He covers the gaping wound on the boy’s chest and he lines his legs and arms and hands in flowers, preparing him as if to be martyred, and not collected. 

Phil presses one last kiss to Michael’s forehead and stands, his work completed. He raises his fingers and presses his lips to them, too, a brief touch, and a signal. He lifts his hand to the heavens and he says his farewell.

---

And all across the world, a quiet fire starts to burn. 

Chapter Text

Morning is gentle.

It’s cruel. The sun is only a glimmer in the sky, its golden rays peaking past the mist and coloring each and every leaf around Phil with a beautiful, saturated color. Dew speckles the world and magnifies it all tenfold, the environment cool and utterly gorgeous.

Phil is hardly able to muster up any enthusiasm at the good prospects. He knows it’s foolish — as he runs a hand over the rabbit’s foot in his pocket, remembers his promise to Michael — but at the same time, he’s exhausted. More than just tired — broken down with a heavy, spiraling weight upon his back. 

There’s a soft, dinging trill. Phil looks up and squints into the sky, surprised to be met with a single silver container, a black parachute rocking it down into his open hands. He inspects it disinterestedly — what does he have use for now? He’s nearly all set on supplies. Maybe it’s something for his ear? He doesn’t think Jschlatt is caring enough to send him a get-well package. 

He opens the container attached regardless of his expectations. Inside lies a small loaf of bread. Not the decadent and puffy stuff from the Capitol — but something made of thick, ration grain, shaped in a crescent. It’s sprinkled with seeds and still steaming slightly. There’s a note on the top. 

For Michael.

Phil sucks in a sharp breath. This was clearly initially bought for the boy he could not save. But they’ve given it to him, now. How much could this have cost? How many people would have had to pitch in to help buy this?

Then it occurs to him. Michael’s parents would have had not much trouble with getting this. Their victor’s riches must stretch far enough for a simple roll of bread, no matter how expensive it might be. Phil squeezes his eyes shut and bows his head, letting himself breathe through a wave of despondency. It rolls through him, and, when he looks back up, he nods. 

“Thank you.”

There’s no point in sitting up in his tree and mourning any longer. He can’t bring Michael back, and his promise to the dying boy won’t be honored with inaction. Phil stumbles his way down the tree, trying not to appear too suicidal for the cameras. Michael and Punz’s bags are still waiting in the clearing. He sorts through them sluggishly, trying not to think about how no one but him will ever use these supplies again.

Michael’s borrowed pack holds Phil’s matches, his nearly empty water skin, a handful of foraged nuts and roots, some leftover rabbit, his slingshot, and his extra socks. Punz’s has several knives, two spare spearheads, a flashlight, a small weather pouch, a full water flask, and a small pack of food. When Phil opens it, he finds two strips of fruit jerky and a handful of crackers. He snorts. Only a Career could be ignorant enough to carry their supplies so lightly. They’re ready to kill and to travel fast and to return to their supplies after a successful hunt — not to be resourceful in the way that Phil is. Punz’s soft arrogance annoys him. What Phil wouldn’t have done for this man’s supplies a few days ago…

It has only been a few days, and Phil startled at this revelation, letting out a soft “huh” with the surprise of it all. It’s been what — a little over a week? Only 10 or 11 days at most, though his count is probably off. Keeping track of days starts to be difficult when there’s no reason to — or when you spend several hallucinating violently. He hadn’t, in all honesty, expected it to last this long. But perhaps luck is more on his side than he expected. 

Or just good sponsors, Phil reminds himself, looking down at Michael’s bread. He turns it over in his hands as he starts to walk through the underbrush. When he tries it, it’s thick and heavy, but it tastes like home despite its mealy texture. There’s a sudden nostalgia inside of him for the meager grain his tesserae has always afforded him, but he dismisses it. His goal is to win and then be rich enough to never eat tesserae grain again. Not to leave Wilbur alone enough that the burden of the Games falls upon him. 

He moves on from his spot with heavy legs. He can’t quite shake exhaustion from his veins, even as he gnaws on the fruit jerky and shoots down a few wild turkeys. He roasts them on a small fire. Where is Alyssa? Where is her partner, or Fundy, or even Technoblade?

They probably suspect that Fundy was the one who blew up their supplies. He’s crafty and clearly got some modicum of intelligence, so the assumption might be fair. But it’s better for Phil to stay out of their scrutiny anyways — it makes him less of a target. Who knows where the remaining two Careers are right now? Either too far off to reach him, or maybe even scared of him. They know he has his bow now — do they suspect that he’s strong enough to properly use it as well? Or have they put two and two together and realized Phil was the one at the supplies? 

He doubts they suspect Technoblade had anything to do with it, at the least. Phil knows from experience that his tribute partner knows well enough how to care for himself, but Punz had seemed so sure that Technoblade was dead — or close on his way out. It makes Phil wonder. The Capitol favors swift and gruesome deaths, not people slowly bleeding out. Why is Technoblade still alive? What has he done to earn their favor?

Eventually, his heavy heart wins out. With shaking hands and half-lidded eyes, he climbs a tree and belts himself in, unable to muster up the energy to continue hunting. He has a game to win — but he’s painfully tired, even with his promise to Michael. So he settles in for the night, and he tries to sleep.

But his thoughts continue to fall on Michael. The spear through his chest, his face contorted first in pain, then acceptance. He’d wanted to meet Wilbur someday. He’ll never get that chance. And that’s when Phil realizes-

Punz was his first kill.

He’s likely been credited for Aphmau and that girl from District 4’s deaths. But Punz is the first person he’s had the pleasure of murdering directly — and he wonders, deep in his chest, how different it really is from killing an animal? Punz surely had a family, and friends, and maybe even someone he loved, someone back home who will never see him again. But at the same time, who’s to say that the turkeys and squirrels and wild dogs Phil hunts are not mourned in the small unique ways an animal can mourn? Killing a human had been identical to killing an animal — does it truly matter?

Perhaps it does. Especially if Wilbur has to watch. But Phil has no time for guilt — he has a restless sleep to slip into and tributes to hunt. 

The anthem blares out, but no faces appear on the dome above them tonight. There have been no casualties, much to Phil’s disappointment. Once the song ends he’s about to turn over to sleep when suddenly — trumpets. They trail in after the anthem, and Phil sits up, immediately alert and aware.

Trumpets after the anthem mean something more. They’re not music nor celebratory nor anything else. They usually signal that a feast — when the gamemaker’s restock the cornucopia with things the remaining tributes express need — has commenced and that everyone should head to the middle and grab what they need. Sometimes there’s only a loaf of bread for all the tributes to fight over, but Phil has no need for food anyways. It’ll be a good time to pick off other tributes if he must. 

“Hello again!” Booms Sapnap’s voice from above, irritatingly charismatic. “And congratulations to our 5 final brave tributes! Today the Capitol has a very special announcement for you. There has been a change in the Hunger Games rules!”

Phil frowns, creeping closer as if he can physically see Sapnap if he tries hard enough. What rules could they possibly be aiming to change? There only two he can think of are don’t step off your platform before the time is up and the unspoken rule to not cannibalize people. Are they going to take all the food and start encouraging that they eat each other now? 

But no. Sapnap continues, unfaltering, strong.   

“Under this new rule change, both tributes from the same district will be declared winners if they are the last two alive.”

He pauses as if he knows the tributes won’t understand. That they won’t believe him. He repeats it. The world goes silent.

The news sinks down deep into Phil’s sternum, slamming into his ribs and sending a dull ache through his stomach. He reels back, stunned. Two tributes can win this year if they’re from the same district. Both can live. Both of them can-

“Technoblade!” he shouts out before he can stop himself. 

---

He sees his son be martyred. He sees him decorated as if a saint, colored shades of red and yellow and white that should not appear on human skin. He sees a young man, not much older than he, burying Michael in wildflowers, a grave among fields of thousands of twirling clovers.

Tubbo worked as a harvester once. Same as his son, and his father, and his mother, and many in a long line of harvesters before him. He drove trucks past endless silver fields of grain and he shimmied up trees and he taught his son and his husband how to sing, how to speak to the crows that pervade their land, even now, decades after the war that created them. He learned of the technology that they use and the cars that they drive and the mechanisms of the Capitol and machinery both. He learned to use them.

That is how he won his games. 

That is how he will win this one, with some small victory.

He leaves at the dead of night when shifts are changing. He passes within the ranks of the peacekeepers just until he enters the barracks. From there it’s a short walk to the fields and the warehouses nearby, storing crops and seeds and the things used to harvest them.

No one suspects a victor as the beginning of a game, do they? So Tubbo enters a warehouse through a basement window — one of the few that open, only to let the air out. He climbs through the twisting maze of hallways within the building, avoiding the peacekeepers, whose routes he still has memorized, even after years. 

He lays his trap down and he runs away just as quickly. He has a husband — a friend, a fellow victor — to stay alive for. There’s no reason to die today.

(If Tubbo were more of a coward, he might say that Michael is one.)

And, in the morning, when a door is opened and a wire is tripped and one single car erupts, the world turns to pandemonium. 

Riots. Fire, and shrapnel, and curled, carved out bones of hollow machinery, setting the world alight, replacing early morning fog with smoke.

Tubbo watches, sat next to Ranboo on their loveseat, a cup of coffee held in his hands. He watches, and he smiles.

The world is muttered with smoke and blood and rubble, but it isn’t Tubbo’s fault. How could it be Tubbo’s fault? 17-year-old former tribute Tubbo, with his pitiful and traumatized husband, with his dead son. With Ranboo tucked into his embrace, the two of them watching the explosions outside.

Ranboo is smiling, soft and dizzy, and unaware. There isn’t much behind his multicolored eyes, but Tubbo sees a frightening sort of satisfaction within them, and he has to share said expression.

Fire rains down upon District 12 as riots break out and Peacekeepers fail to quell them. Tubbo knows that innocent blood will be spilled on his hometown’s streets tonight. He can’t bring himself to care.

His son is dead. Ranboo has been mute for days now, frozen, shaking, broken. 

“They’re started with the tear gas,” says a voice from the kitchen, accompanied with the clink of glass against a marble countertop. Tubbo turns to look, finding his friend pouring a large glass of water. Tommy blinks in confusion at his scrutiny. “What? You want some?”

Tubbo just shakes his head. Ranboo curls in closer upon his lap, despite being the taller of the two. His head is tucked gently against Tubbo’s shoulder, the shorter boy’s hand dragging gently through his two-toned hair. They’ve been sitting like this for well over an hour, because Ranboo refuses to stand. Not even to eat.

“I’m not thirsty,” he replies. Tommy grins and gulps down a drink or two of the water. He looks back outside the kitchen window. Back at innocent blood, and explosions, and screams as Peacekeepers beat back ravenous crowds. His grin widens.

The explosions have not been instigated by Tubbo. Not Tubbo, nor his frail, broken husband, nor his friend, no matter how bloodthirsty Tommy is. No. Tubbo is in quiet mourning, lost in the grief of a dead son.

But his fingerprints could probably have been retrieved from a car had the door not opened, triggering an explosion and a revolution both.

---

Phil claps a hand over his mouth the moment the words leave them. Fucking hell — that was stupid . The type of move that could get him killed. But it’s too late — the impulse to look for Technoblade has come back so suddenly it nearly sends him tumbling from his tree. 

This is exactly why the man had played into their friendship so much, wasn’t it? Phil knows they’re nothing more than brief acquaintances — but for the gamemakers to have changed this rule so suddenly, their friendship must have made the Capitol weak at the knees. Technoblade’s dedication must have been obvious, whereas Phil has only barely managed not to kill him.

It doesn’t matter. Whatever has happened in the past — even an attempt on his life — doesn’t matter. Refusing to team up with — or even consider doing so — with Technoblade would not only get him ostracized in his hometown, it would ruin his chance for more sponsors. The Capitol operates under the assumption that they’re friends, and Phil will let them. 

He’s already tied up in this tree. Night is falling, the deaths already announced. There’s no sense in going chasing after his tribute partner now, not as darkness shrouds the world. 

But still. Thoughts of the future run through his mind, over and over. Technoblade. Wilbur. Life. 

Phil sleeps, and he does so with as much optimism as he can afford. 

In the morning, he’s forced to be more cautious than ever. It comes to him as he wakes that the Careers are surely aware of where Technoblade is now — or the general direction — if they’re so sure he’s nearly dead. Phil can’t afford to become hunted. Not again. He unwraps himself from his tree and lands on the ground with grim determination, his bow already ready in his hands as he starts to stalk through the wood. 

The last time Phil saw Technoblade was through a venomous nightmare. He’d dripped blood and he’d looked more like an animal than anything. But he’d escaped, hadn’t he? Killing Punz’s partner in the process? Perhaps he’s out there somewhere near the fallen hive, waiting to be found or to die. Or perhaps he’s hidden his true strength and is out there hunting, whether for Phil or otherwise. 

He wouldn’t have survived without water regardless. Phil almost has to snort at the thought, as he remembers his first few days in the games. He takes a small sip of water and banishes the memory. No- Technoblade must be near a water source. It can’t be the lake since that’s too close to the Career’s camp, but Phil doubts the other man got too far into the forest in his escape either. The river, though, might have worked. It’s a place to start searching anyways.

He sets a fire full of dense green wood and sets off in the opposite direction, hoping to confuse the Careers with his absence. Setting down the stream, the sun starts burning away all the morning mist, leaving the day far hotter than most. The water against Phil’s bare feet is cool and comfortable, and he takes his time. Each bird in the tree, every camera in the forest, every animal in the foliage seems to be watching, and he knows exactly why.

Phil has proven himself a killer. Technoblade has too. What will happen when they meet?

Continuing past the spot where he split off to locate the Careers, Phil finds that the rocks around are getting thicker, steeper, harder to navigate. It’s hard to imagine a mortally wounded and hallucinating man stumbling through these slippery rocks, the thick water plants all about. He’s just about to turn around and head the other direction entirely when he sees it.

A long streak of blood against the side of a boulder, parted by the space between someone’s fingers, jagged as if the person creating it had fallen before their hand could finish the mark. Phil looks up to find another long patch of red, starting to wash away with the river water and humidity. He climbs toward it, daring to whisper:

“Technoblade.”

There’s no response. Only the bubbling of a creek, the soft sound of birds high above him. But Phil is determined, and he continues on, climbing up, higher and higher through the steep and craggy slope. “Technoblade!”

A crow lands on a branch not far away and starts to mimic him. Phil goes silent — Technoblade must have moved further on anyways. 

The upper half of the stream is thicker, but much more gentle than the one below. Phil’s foot has just broken the water when he hears a low chuckle. 

“Y’here t’ finish me off, Phil?”

To his right. He whips around, ducking his head and following the voice, as hoarse and weak and quiet as it is. There’s no mistaking the voice, though. Who else in the arena would call him Phil, and in such a sardonic tone?

“Technoblade,” he hisses, casting his gaze across the area. But the man is nowhere around, and Phil knows he didn’t just hallucinate the voice. “Mate-”

He takes a step forward and is met with a soft, halting hiss. Technoblade laughs from nowhere. “C’mon. Don’t step on me.”

Phil jerks back. The voice is right beneath his feet. Then — out of the corner of his vision appears bright red scleras, pointed right into Phil’s blue. He gasps and is awarded with a flash of sharp white teeth when Technoblade lets out another laugh from beneath a thick layering of mud.

He’s tucked into a nearby outcropping of rocks, oddly stacked. Upright, grinning, Technoblade is now revealed, his long legs and chest and every inch of his body coated in mud and leaves and moss. Phil has to laugh a little beside himself. “No- close your eyes-”

And the other man disappears back into the rocks. He reappears with a weak grin at Phil’s full-bodied laugh, disbelieving, excited. His smile looks wrong somehow, and his teeth are stained bright red, but that’s beside the point. 

Technoblade is alive. And, even better, so is Phil.

“Guess all the cakes paid off, huh?”

He’s awarded with a wry smile. “Ah- yeah, I just though’ tha’ frosting would be a better def’nse against the C’reers than my own fists. As one does. Usually when they’re d’lerious. Or dyin’.”

“You’re not dying,” Phil says. He leans over, dropping to his heels and squinting in closer.

“Say’s who?”

“Me,” he replies simply. “We’re teaming up now. Or have your ears been too clogged with mud to hear?”

Technoblade lets out a huff and groans weakly at the energy it expends. “So I heard. Bruh,” he mutters, as some unseen injury is jostled. “Good luck carrying m’ corpse around.”

“Right. Well. About that. Where are you injured?”

“Y’r gonna have to be a bit more specific about that.” He peels himself up off of the rocks and slumps over, clearly dizzy. Phil is quick to take his water bottle from his bag and tip it to the man’s lips, ignoring the way Technoblade’s hands shake, his jaw twitches. “Punz cut me back. M’ jaw to my hair. Can’t see outta my left eye.”

That’s… not good. Phil will readily admit that. He realizes suddenly that Technoblade has only been opening one eye this entire time, and the left side of his mouth is open, ripped in a way it shouldn’t be.

“Well,” he says, keeping his voice passive and steady. “Let’s just get you up into of the stream. Wash all the mud off. I’ve got some good supplies, we can go from there.” A nod from the other man. Then, Phil leans in, hooking a few limp mud-stained pink strands of hair in his hand and pulling them away from Technoblade’s ear. “And don’t forget,” he whispers. “We’re thick as thieves. No knives through my back just yet.”

Another soft, genuinely joking laugh. A shaky “Bruhhhh,” that drags on for several more seconds than necessary. 

Phil sets his pack and supplies down on the ground next to Technoblade and starts pulling the largest clods of mud and plants off of him. It seems to have him entirely ensnared, wrapped around his legs and arms and back. The other man tries to help at first, but he keeps flinching as injuries are disturbed, hands shaking so violently they only get in the way. Soft exhales that cut off and sharpen are the only markers of pain — other than his muted flinches — through the entire ordeal, but by the end, breathing ragged and head tipped back, it’s clear he’s not getting up without help.

“Alright. Here’s the plan.” Phil hooks his arms beneath Technoblade’s arms, the man to out of it to protest. “I’m going to drag you over. It’s gonna hurt like fuckin’ hell, but I don’t really have any other choice. Just… try not to scream.”

“Shouldn’t be h - ha-”

He cuts off and sinks his teeth into his lip, screwing both eyes shut as Phil yanks him to the side. Technoblade is a fair bit heavier than him, and it’s a struggle, but he still manages, slowly pulling the man to the shore of the river. He’s panting. When Phil finally lies him down on the ground, a short cry falls past his lips, half shout and half groan.

“Alright!” Phil says, voice a bit higher, nervous, clapping his hands. “Uhm. New plan! I’m just gonna wash you out from here, alright?”

His confidence is staggering. The Capitol must be exuding excitement. Phil pretends he knows what he’s doing and sits down, unzipping his bag and removing all the waterskins inside. 

It takes a long ten minutes to remove the barest bones of the grime. He pries chunks of dried mud off, stringy dead plants coming up with it, brown and green and smelling of rot. There’s no time to think of decency, and once he comes to Technoblade’s clothes, he doesn’t hesitate to unzip the man’s jacket and unbutton his shirt.

There’s a large hole in the side of his shirt, going clean through. Whatever created this tear seems to have only grazed Techno, but his undershirt is horribly matted into the wound anyway, weeping blood and dirt. Phil cuts the once-white fabric away with his knife and discards it, never to be worn again. Next he washes water through the sparse wounds on his chest, bruises and lumps and only two larger cuts. There’s a long burn sliced into the front of his chest and several tracker jacker stings upon his stomach and shoulders, but this Phil can deal with.

It’s when he comes to the man’s face that he starts to worry.

A long, jagged, oozing red line goes from just at the edge of Technoblade’s chin, through his upper and lower lips, and right over his eye. It only barely ends just before his hairline, the whole area so hopelessly matted in dry blood that Phil can hardly tell where hair starts and wounds begin. His lips are split, the separate pieces of skin hanging almost loosely, his teeth exposed. He’s missing one, actually, just where the cut begins. A gap where a canine once sat, wet and shiny and red. White crusts at the entire thing, so hopefully lost to infection and smelling of festering, rotted, flesh. 

Even worse, his skin is pale, flushed with red. One hand against his forehead reveals a terrible fever, burning at Phil’s skin when he makes contact with Techno’s. The other man has clearly noticed — he shies away at the touch — but he refuses to comment. 

There are plenty enough wounds to deal with before this one. Phil pulls the tracker jacker stingers from his chest, pretending to inspect the light freckles on Technoblade’s shoulders instead of noticing every wound there. He chews and applies the herbs to the stings, ignoring the sweat pouring down him, the blotchy pallor of his skin. Technoblade sighs in immediate relief as Phil smooths the burn salve down his chest, curling inwards unconsciously, hands twitching, eyes shut.

“Swallow these,” Phil says, handing over some of the fever pills from Punz’s small first aid kit. Technoblade cracks open his one eye — the other swollen, weeping red and white — blood and pus — with his eyelashes matter down to his cheek. 

“You tryna poison me already, Philza?”

“It’s Phil,” he replies automatically, dropping the pills between Technoblade’s open lips without another word. The other man rolls his eye — or does he look to the side? It’s hard to tell with one of his eyes forced shut — but swallows them anyways, relaxing once the pills have gone down. “You must be hungry.”

He’s given no response. It’s clear food is the last thing on Technoblade’s mind right now.

“Mate.”

Technoblade lets out a sigh. He deflates in on himself, nodding. “Sure. I could eat.”

Phil only manages to feed the man a few apple slices before his skin has gone an odd shade of grey, his breathing increasingly ragged. He backs off and tucks the food away, almost feeling bad for just how disgusted by the food Technoblade looks. 

“Thanks. I sh’ld probably eat more, shouldn’t I?”

Phil doesn’t respond to that. 

The contents of his first aid kit are meager. Fever pills. A few bandages. Some medicine to settle an upset stomach. Looking back at Technoblade — pus leaking from the infected cut swallowing his entire face, feverish and weak and unable to eat — he knows it isn’t enough.

“We’re gonna have to experiment some,” He says apologetically, as he holds up the kit. The tracker jacker leaves draw out infection, so he pulls those out first, washing them off in the stream. Then he places a hand to Technoblade’s shoulder and gently helps him lie down, nodding. It’s gross, and it’s uncomfortable, but he presses the wadded-up leaves to the other man’s face, the massive infected gash stretching across his jaw and eye.

Within a minute or two, white puss starts to leach out and dribble down the side of Technoblade’s face. He grimaces and lets out a weak chuckle, turning his head to keep it from leaking into his nose, or his other eye, or-

Phil looks away and bites his cheek, letting out a bit of a hysterical laugh. It’s fucking awful. 

“Hey Phil?” 

Looking back over, Phil sees that one of Technoblade’s hands is resting limply against his knife. “How’s about you do the stabbing?”

It’s such a ridiculous situation that Phil can’t help but laugh. “Aw, come off it you fucker. If I stabbed you I’d have the whole Capitol at my throat.”

“You’d probably make the Careers pretty happy though.”

“Eugh.” He wrinkles his nose. Technoblade laughs, nodding in agreeance.

“Yeah. That’s about how I feel abou’ ‘em too, I th’nk.”

He washes away the first round of leaves and all the puss that comes with it, cursing all the while. Once the second round of cleansing is done, though, the wound looks better. Better enough. Some of the swelling around Techno’s eye has gone down, but it’s still red and disgusting. His lips are split to hell and bloody and disgusting, but at least they’re not actively leaking red everywhere. Phil winds bandages across the worst of the wound — mostly his eye and just below — and pretends that Techno’s fever feels a bit better. A bit. 

Then it’s just on to Technoblade’s legs. He pulls his pants off — his boxers are in fine condition, thankfully, and Phil sets about bandaging the larger of the slices on his legs. There’s one more tracker jacker sting, and Phil pastes more leaves upon it, carefully washing it all away in the end. Once the whole thing is finished, Technoblade’s eyes are shut, his lips half parted. He’s clearly exhausted, but his hand is still curled about his knife, his wariness not yet declining. Phil respects him for it. Neither of them are friends. Not yet. 

“So. What’s Jschlatt sent you?”

A flickering wave of his hand. “Absolutely nothin’. Why, he favorin’ you?”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” Phil says, bristling just a little. Then he sags, and shrugs, looking away from Technoblade — chest mottled with bruises and fever, skin pale and wet with sweat, one eye clouded, blinking lazily, staring into the sky. “Sure. Yeah. He sent me some burn cream. And- yeah, he sent some bread too. For Michael.”

“It must be your rustic charm,” Technoblade rumbles, laughing hoarsely when Phil squawks, indignant and joking. 

“No, definitely not, don’t make me into that sort of man mate I swear to god-“

Another laugh. At least Techno has kept his humor, Phil supposes. He lets the man dose for now, though, airing out Techno’s jacket and undershirt and trousers, repacking mud on his backpack. But by the time late afternoon arrives, Phil can no longer afford to let them rest. He shakes the injured man by his shoulder, rousing him from what looks like a very mediocre sleep. “Hey. We’ve got to go.”

“G- go?” Techno mutters through closed eyes, frowning. “What? Go where?”

“Away. Downstream, I think. We need to get into a less exposed place before we rest.” 

A low, irritated grown. Techno leverages himself up onto his elbows and nods, heading lolling slightly with the effort it takes to move it. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

Phil helps him get dressed, button his shirt and letting the man slide everything else on himself. Then he slips an arm beneath Technoblade’s shoulders, tugging him up off the ground. It’s immediately revealed that despite their malnutrition, Technoblade is still heavy. And tall, which Phil is distinctively not. His head tips down and his shoulders sag but at least he can walk, just enough. He stumbles and his breathing is heavy and Phil cringes at every rough gasp, pained groan. He can’t help but feel… 

Guilty.

Guilty, because Technoblade had been injured trying to save him. Guilty, because Jschlatt is apparently only putting an effort into sponsoring Phil. Guilty, because Technoblade still stands here, strong and tall, and he moves forward despite his injuries. His many injuries.

There’s no time for guilt in the Hunger Games. Phil and Techno make it several yards away from the stream before he deems it safe. There’s no way they’ll be able to get up in a tree tonight, and this is at least safer than camping out directly beside the river. Phil finds a small alcove of rocks and covers the ground in pine needles as Technoblade sits watch, focusing on the outdoors. After that, once they’ve settled in the cave, Phil makes a shit sort of covering in front of the mouth of the craggy hole in the scenery. It’s mediocre as hell, but he’s exhausted, unable to force himself to do much more.

“You need to eat,” he tells Technoblade as he unpacks his bag, taking out the remainder of his wild turkey. The man sighs heavily and takes it, staring at it warily. Phil just takes a bite and shrugs.

“Not your best cooking.”

“If you’re going to insult me-“ Phil cuts off, sitting up and moving over to push Technoblade’s hand closer to his mouth. The man recoils and swats Phil away with a warning glare. “-at least eat the shit.”

“I don’t know if this-“ he gestures at the massive, gaping cut that is his face. “-will be improved by undercooked bird.”

“Fuck off.”

Technoblade shrugs. “Eh.” 

They eat. They drink. Phil forces Technoblade to take more fever pills, but they don’t seem to have had any effect. It's a quiet, cool evening, and neither of them seems especially jazzed to go outside. Phil makes to stand and keep watch anyways, tucking his poncho-jacket closer to his chest. Then- there’s a soft cough, and he turns to see Technoblade reading himself to speak.

“I appreciate the help,” he mutters, voice reluctant to form words. “And if somehow, just maybe, I don’t make it-“

“You’re going to make it,” Phil says flippantly. He refuses to let Technoblade die now, and he’s sure it’s purely out of his own stubbornness. The injured man seems relatively nihilistic about his future, but Phil supposed that’s probably because he’s actively rotting from the inside. Besides that- he refuses to sit back and let Technoblade make amends that mean nothing yet. 

“Alright, alrigh’, sure. But-“

“I didn’t drain all that pus for nothing,” Phil snarks back. He dips his head down and starts to leave. 

“But I-“ he insists.

Phil jerks back around and lands on his knees, lurching forward to lift Technoblade’s knife from his fingers before the man can react. He wraps his hand around Technoblade’s and lifts the knife to his own throat, a grim smile upon his face. 

“End it now, then. If you’re so sure that you’re going to die then you might as well take me with you. I doubt I’ll take down three tributes on my own, mate.”

Their eyes meet. The blade is cool against Phil’s neck, serrated edge softly running against his skin, so close to his jugular. Technoblade presses his arm in just barely closer, as if considering the idea of killing him there. Of ending their alliance before it can even begin.

Then, Technoblade’s hand drops, slipping off the knife. “You’re an idiot.”

“N’ so are you,” Phil remarks blithely. He pulls the knife off his skin and sets it on the ground. Then — rethinking the decision in an odd moment, when Technoblade’s red sclera’s shine just slightly too bloody in the evening light, he settles it back on the man’s lap. “You’re not allowed to die yet.”

If the knife against his skin had been cool, the evening air is frigid. Phil steps outside just as a soft tone whistles out, the fabric of a parachute appearing high above him. He squints in wonder — could it be something to actually help Techno?

When he unscrews the lid, there appears a small bowl of soup. It isn’t medicine or antibiotics or anything nearly as useful, but it smells hearty and slightly of some herbal remedies his mother had once used on his father when he was sick. There’s a small note on top of it. 

Friends.

The message is clear. He can almost hear Jschlatt drunkenly slurring at him, demanding that he stop pulling knives and that Technoblade stop being so apathetic. But he’s right — they’re as cold as the night. The Capitol is meant to believe they’re close friends and that’s impossible when they keep fighting. Phil takes a deep breath and turns back to the cave.

He’s never really had friends. There’s his son, and perhaps fleeting acquaintances, people who give him discounts in the Hob or who used to pair up with him in classes. And then there's Michael, taken far too soon. Phil's dead ear beats for a moment with a sharp memory of sound, pain and fire and a shout of his name. But he can… assume — how it feels. To be kind. To be protective. 

“Shit,” he mutters, mustering up all of his surprise and pasting it right back into his voice. He hurried inside their badly concealed hiding spot and grins widely, Technoblade already startled awake. “Shit! Well, Jschlatt finally came through to you, hey?”

“What.”

“Soup!” Phil cringes at the excitement in his voice. Hopefully, no one notices how out of his depth he is. Technoblade straightens up though, curious about the bundle in Phil’s hands. “Now you’ve really got to eat.”

“Bruh. I’m not hungry. At all.” Technoblade shrinks away from the food and curls his lip in distaste when Phil uncaps it. “Nope, nope, nope-“

“One time-“ Technoblade starts to interrupt him. “One time,” Phil continues obstinately “A man from the mines caught a cold. And- it got worse and he had a fever but in the end, he refused to eat. He just… gave up. His brain boiled and he went into actual convulsions, Technoblade. Your face is already a wet pile of fucking mush. Do you want your brain to be one as well?”

Technoblade stares at him, obviously a bit stunned. His one eye widens, and then he grins, raising an eyebrow and shaking his head until it makes him dizzy enough that he has to stop. “Fine. Fine, you piece of-”

Phil presses the soup into his hands before Technoblade can finish his insult.

Chapter Text

Phil doesn’t sleep. 

He stays up all night, sitting just at the edge of their cave hideaway and stretching out just far enough to be comfortable. Technoblade, on the other hand, rests fitfully, his fever not yet dissipating. It’s only around morning that the man finally breaks from his sickness, forehead cooling and the furrow in his brown starting to lessen. It’s then that Phil leaves their hovel, pushing forward with the dense thickets of rocks and leaves and foliage that awaits him. 

He spends the earliest hours of the morning purifying more water and scavenging for fish. He grabs some tracker jacker herbs while he’s at it, along with several of the berries he knows Michael used to have.

He’s greeted by a knife to the throat when he returns. He’s barely in through the foliage when Technoblade’s face appears, attached to an arm and a hand and by extension, his knife. When he realizes who’s in front of him, though, he drops his stormy snarl and the blade both, sighing.

“Sorry,” He says gruffly. “I woke up and you’d g’ne off. I ‘ssumed you were pr’bably dead.”

Phil snorts. “Wow, mate. Your confidence in me is staggering.”

“Alyssa and Punz liked to hunt at night. They probably still do.” He shrugs and settles back up against a nearby wall, eyes slipping shut and head tipping back. His throat bobs with a heavy breath, but his skin has lost some of its violent red shade. “Feel a helluva lot better than last night though. So thank you for that. I’ve got clean clothes, there’s less blood, yknow.” He peeks one eye open and grins. “You’re not terrible company either.”

He’s got to let out a real — and surprisingly genuine — laugh at that. “Shithead.”

It takes a moment of struggling to get Technoblade to eat, but the man clearly knows that he needs to. Phil forces some mashed berries into him before he denies any of the wild turkey yet again, but it’s not a total failure. He takes a few more fever pills and then looks, deeply, up into Phil’s eyes.

“You look terrible.”

“Thanks. Hadn’t noticed.”

A roll of his eyes. “No- you didn’t sleep at all last night, did you? That’s a t’rrible idea. A good way to get y’rself killed.”

Phil levels him with a serious eye. He doesn’t need Technoblade’s help nor advice. “I’m fine, mate. Really.”

“Ah yeah, you’re really sellin it there-” 

Techno takes a swipe at Phil’s ankles with his leg in a sudden movement so fast he has no time to react. Instead of steadying himself, though, he’s so tired that his limbs buckle, sending him halfway to the ground before he’s able to brace his knees and straighten back out.

“The fuck was that for?” Phil exclaims angrily, fingers itching for his knife. “What the-”

“Look, you’re tired,” Technoblade continues, stressing all the words at once as if he thinks that’ll make Phil more inclined to sleep. “Y’ can’t stay up forever, Phil. It’ll kill you- or worse, s’meone else will.”

He rubs his ankles and grumbles quietly. “Yeah, it’ll be you at this rate, you fucker. Fine. If I sleep, you keep watch. Drink water, or I’m not the only one who’s gonna die soon.”

It’s too warm for the sleeping bag now that morning has begun. He lies down on the cool stone with the fabric beneath his head, his bow clutched in one hand should he have to awaken and shoot someone at a moment’s notice. 

Techno seems to notice his jittery nervousness. In a gruff voice and with an oddly soft scowl: 

“Go to sleep.”

There’s no arguing with that. He lies his head down on the ground and curls his knees to his chest, letting his eyes weigh down with exhaustion.

He’s nearly completely asleep when there’s a soft rustling noise. A hand falls down against his shoulder blade and rests there, as if Techno is grounding himself in the presence of another person. Almost as if he’s keeping them connected. It’s good acting, Phil thinks with a pang of loss, just as he falls asleep. 

---

He knows from the moment he awakens that he’s slept too long. It’s warmer, and the sun has fallen slightly, though Technoblade’s position is unchanged and the hand on Phil’s back has yet to move. It recoils when he scoots away, though, scowling up at the other man.

“You were supposed to get me up after a few hours, mate. Not the whole damn day.”

“Why?” Technoblade asks, cocking his head. He smooths out his shirt now that they’ve split, facing each other properly. “N’thing is ‘appening here. If there was, I’d have gotten you. Besides, you look a lot less murd’rous when you’re asleep.”

His deadpan tone makes Phil scowl. Well — all of it does, really. But Technoblade just snorts as if his discomfort is the funniest thing ever, and that’s when Phil notices just how red his skin has gotten again. He jerks forward and places a hand to Techno’s forehead before the man can react.

“You’re burning up again,” he murmurs. “Here.” Digging around in his bag reveals a handful of fever pills. Technoblade downs them dutifully, raising an eyebrow when Phil hands him a full quart of water, then another.

Then it’s on to the wounds. His tracker jacker stings have begun to go down, his bruises turning a healthy yellow. The rest of the wounds on his body seem to be progressing as most wounds should, and Phil lets the man press burn cream onto the large burn on his chest.

He reaches up for Technoblade’s face. The man flinches, caught off guard at the sudden movement. Phil moves back for a slight second — making a mental note to announce himself more, now that one of Technoblade’s eyes is blind for the foreseeable future. Then, steeling himself, he unwraps the bandages.

His heart sinks right down into his lungs and his breath seizes. It’s bad. So much worse. There’s no more pus, but the wound is swollen and inflamed, his eye bloody red. His mouth is twisted at an odd angle where his skin has stretched and forced it out of its normal half-frown. The worst by far, though, are the small red streaks starting to crawl up his face. Blood poisoning. No amount of normal medicine will fix this — he runs a finger across the area and feels a terrible heat — only something of the Capitol’s making could even put a dent in it. 

He won’t lie to Technoblade, though. He won’t water down the prognosis. Phil takes a deep breath, shuffling backward and landing on his haunches. “It’s blood poisoning.”

For a moment, Technoblade gives him no reaction. There’s only birdsong and animals to be heard in the silence, their eyes meeting. Something tense and knowing proceeds to communicate itself wordlessly. Both of them know that the other is as good as dead.

“I know,” he replies, words slurred — almost even more so with the bandage peeled away. “I’ll have to amputate half of my face.”

His voice is so deadpan it startles a bit of a laugh out of Phil. “Well. You need to eat anyways, whether you have teeth or not. Either eat the turkey or I’ll light a fire and start up some soup.”

“That is an objectively terrible decision,” says the other man in that same monotone cadence, lackadaisical yet smiling. “I’ll eat your… stringy turkey.”

And, to Technoblade’s credit, he does. He grimaces throughout the entire ordeal and looks as if he wants to complain at every moment, but he gets through it. Phil goes out to the stream and soaks a bit of torn fabric in water, but when the fabric is placed upon Technoblade’s forehead, it hardly does anything at all. They’re both playing a losing game and they know it.

But Technoblade smiles, and thanks Phil when he asks if he needs anything else. They don’t talk about it.

“I’m alright,” he says, nodding. “I don’t think there’s anything else to do about…” A vague gesture towards his face. Then his one eye opens slightly, eyebrow raised. He huffs out a laugh. “No- you could tell me a story. We haven’t caught up in a while.”

Right- they’re meant to be close friends. The audience will take this as a sardonic joke about their time apart during the games. Between Techno and Phil, it’s an invitation to take their minds off of everything else. 

“A story. You know- that’s not really my forte.”

“Doesn’t have t’ be special, Phil,” he replies. “Anything.”

His first thought is that night years ago when Technoblade tossed him bread. That’s a terrible idea. His second idea manages to be even worse — he has no intention of rehashing Michael’s death, and a pang of loss shoots through him at the very idea. He settles instead on something mild, finding himself absentmindedly running his thumb over his rabbit’s foot token. 

“You know my son,” Phil begins. Technoblade nods, though gives no input other than that when Phil extends the same gesture in return. “Wilbur. He’s… an artist, to say the least. Loves his music, though I’ve no clue where he got it from.” (That’s a lie. But Wilbur will probably laugh back home, so it’s fine.) “The local church used to have a full choir, and he participated when he could. But District 12 isn’t exactly the richest, and the church realized a choir wasn’t really… equitable.”

The next parts of his story all include illegal trading and hunting, both with District 12 citizens and the Peacekeepers within that are most willing to turn a blind eye and shop around. Phil pauses, rethinking the tale just enough so that he knows he won’t get anyone in trouble.

“I… Picked up odd jobs around town. You know how it can be to pick up odd favors before you go to the coal mines. I got myself a bit of a savings and-”

He cuts off. In the true story, he’d been out hunting. There’d been a young buck — probably only a year or two old, his antlers only just growing in — poised beside a stream, watching intently in the opposite direction to Phil. It had been beautiful. Two arrows through the neck later, it hadn’t been quite as much. But he can’t say that. So, instead:

“I worked with the butcher. You know her- she gave me a fair price in exchange for a brief apprenticeship, the works and all. Taught me quite a bit of useful shit, but one of the best parts was how to skin and prepare a shipment of buck. It usually comes in prepped already — but occasionally they let a piece or two’a meat slip through.” He shrugs. “Meat is meat, though. So she taught me how, and let me have the skin and antlers in exchange.”

“Don’t tell me you strung its guts up into guitar strings,” Technoblade says. He leans forward, plunking his head down onto his hands, propped against his knees. His eye gains a dubious look and Phil laughs.

“Naw, absolutely not. Wilbur would’a been fuckin’ pissed. No. I traded that up for a good amount of money with a couple of hobbyist leatherworkers. Went to market one day and I saw it.”

“Saw what?”

Phil snorts. “I’m getting to that. It was Wilbur’s birthday, yknow, and I’d been out looking for something small to get him. The old pastor was down there, hauling down a big load of instruments for sale. They were all pretty dinged up, but shit, that guitar was practically useless.”

He doesn’t mention that he was only confident in his ability to fix said guitar because his father taught him woodworking when he learned how to make bows. He doesn’t mention the fair amount of illegal haggling that happened at that market. He does continue, though, a soft smile upon his lips. 

“I went up to the man and asked after it. Music is a luxury out there, and so even if it was totally destroyed, it still cost way too much for me.” He’s unable to stop his smile from growing as he remembers everything else. “As soon as I mentioned Wil, though, the guy just — lit up. Got a big ole smile and started rambling. Apparently, every morning for a while he’d taken walks down at the edge of the District. Well- Wil goes out there an’ sings when no one can hear him. They would walk around and chat some mornings.”

He shrugs a little as the story slips from his hands. “He gave me the guitar for next to nothing. Wil was- heh — Wilbur was fucking ecstatic over it when I handed it off. Acted like I’d gotten him a ticket to the Capitol, you know?”

Technoblade is smiling just a little when Phil looks up. It’s the first genuine one that hasn’t been a grimace since the games began. “He sounds like you.”

“Me?” A scoff. “What?”

“Well- y’ did get plenty into the camaflougin’ yesterday, Phil,” he slurs, waving a hand and rolling his eye. “He probably got his enthusiasm from you, even if y’rs is all for plants and- decor. Yknow.”

“You’re a prick,” he says, after a slow silence. Then Technoblade laughs a little, and Phil breaks off with a chuckle. “Drink your fucking water.”

“Your b’dside manner could do with some w’rk,” Technoblade quips back.

“I’m going to bedside manner you into a chokehold-”

Trumpets sound outside. Phil is silent and on his feet in an instant, leaving Technoblade and their conversation alone in favor of hearing whatever it is Sapnap has to hear. It’s as Phil expects — he’s announcing a feast. But they have more than enough food and weapons for now, and he’s about to brush off the whole idea entirely, when suddenly-

“Alright, alright. I know some of you are already probably thinking of abandoning this offer. But think carefully — each of you has something you are in desperate need of. That one thing will be in a backpack at the Cornucopia marked with your District number at dawn. You have until then to consider this offer but be warned. This is your last chance.”

There’s nothing else. The world cuts off into silence and then the anthem plays, casting Phil in the silver starlight shade of the Capitol’s seal. There are no faces to be displayed tonight.

“I don’t suppose you plan on taking the safe route here, d’you?”

Phil turns to find Technoblade standing just behind him, leaning heavily on the cave wall. He looks anywhere but Phil, the sky reflected in his one functional eye, stormy and heavy with exhaustion and fever.

“You’re going to go, aren’t you,” he mutters. Phil scoffs. 

“They’ll either have medicine for you or something of equal importance. I don’t think I have a choice, Tech.” He slips back inside the room and rummages about in his bag, sorting through his supplies while Technoblade follows back within. 

“You’re riskin’ an awful lot f’r me here, Phil,” he replies warningly as if his words will have any impact at all. “I can’t go with you. Or I can try- but I’ll just hold you back. If you go, you’re an open target.”

“And?” Phil snorts, shrugging his shoulders lazily. A hand lands on his back — he shrugs it off, turning around to glare harshly at the owner of the palm. “I can handle myself. And I’m not letting you die. Not if I can help it.”

“It’s not worth it,” Technoblade growls right back.

“Oh? And you get to decide that now?” Phil laughs, harsh and bitter, and watches the fragile foundations of their false relationship crumble. Oddly enough — he doesn’t want Technoblade to die. The man’s reluctance to accept his help feels like a slap to the face. He stands, shrugging his pack back down to the ground. “Fuck off. I’m going to get some air.”

He pushes past his camouflage at the cave mouth and walks down to the stream, carefully sliding over the slippery rocks and keeping himself upright. He’s tired — but not enough to fall, as he bends over and dips his hands in the clear, running water. He can’t help but feel cheated, somehow. If Michael were alive-

No. That’s not a good place to think about now. Michael isn’t alive, so there’s no use in wondering and what-ifs. He splashes water up into his face and his unbraided hair, letting the droplets spiral and twist down back into the stream as they slide from his skin. He almost misses the noise of a long, shrill whistle, when he sees it.

A parachute. Not far from him, just across the stream and caught in a bush. He’s on his feet in seconds, rushing across and unscrewing the contents. When opened, it reveals a small silver vial of… 

Of something. Phil’s filled with confusion — this is certainly not enough medicine to treat Techno’s face, but Jschlatt must have sent it for some reason. He unscrews the lid and brings it to his nose, taking a quick sniff of the thing.

Sleeping syrup? What possible use could he have for sleeping draught? Neither of them has insomnia so critical that it could harm them, and Technoblade-

Technoblade. It hits him. The dose in this vial is good for about a day. More than enough time for Phil to make it to the banquet and back with his precious medicine. He just needs an excuse for the man to take the medicine. He mashes up a handful of berries and shreds some mint leaves within, dumping them inside some of his old packaging material and then dousing them in the serum. Technoblade is stewing in a corner when he returns and frowns slightly when he enters.

“I found a new patch of berries downstream. I may be pissed at you, but you’ve still gotta eat.” He presses the fruit forward and Technoblade takes it, taking a thoughtful bite with a roll of his good eye.

For a moment, he just chews. Then, once swallowed, he frowns slightly. “They’re… sweet.”

“They’re sugar berries,” Phil says, lying between his teeth. Techno looks up at him with a trusting — and slightly delirious — gaze, and it almost makes him feel bad. Until the man takes another bite, and then another, looking thoughtfully up at Phil. 

“They taste s’rta familiar?” He says, looking down at them.

“I used to scavenge for em’ quite a bit. You might’ve had them down at the market.”

Another bite. “Yeah. Yeah- maybe. They’re sweet as syrup.” Then, a pause. “Syrup!”

Techno lurches up and starts to spit, but Phil is too fast, and the other man is too sick. He pinches his nose shut and covers his mouth with one hand, forcing him to swallow. Technoblade looks up, expression betrayed and hateful and mouth curled in a snarl, but he’s already falling unconscious. 

After only another moment, he slumps backward. Phil places a hand to his back and carefully lowers the man down, gently laying his head on the sleeping bag beside it. He looks vulnerable. Afraid, even, his brow twisted with fever and his mouth slightly open. His hand sit at his sides and twitch. Phil feels guilt twist at his gut.

There’s no point in sitting and feeling sorry, though. He slings his quiver against his back and grabs his bow in one hand. There are things to be done.

Chapter Text

He straps his knife down onto his leg with a makeshift holster comprised of old backpack fabric and a bit of plastic. He slings his quiver and bow upon his shoulder and gets to work with finalizing the camouflage in front of their cave. It’s not perfect, but with about an hour left before the middle of the night, he’s got to make do.

Alyssa is a genius with knives. Her partner could have any manner of unknown talents. Fundy is small, and unarmed, but there’s a weird amount of muscle that warps his sleeves and crawls up his shoulders. Phil is well equipped, but there will be three people at the cornucopia. Can he take them all himself?

There’s no time to wait and think There’s no time for insecurity or indecision. Phil pulls away from the cave and places his night vision glasses upon the bridge of his nose, casting a sideways look behind him. Then, moving through the trees, he walks away from Technoblade.

As he slips through the wood, he thinks of Wilbur. With such a huge event as a feast school is probably canceled, meaning his son will be ushered into the town square to watch the games. This mean’s a lack of privacy, but an increase in support. People will be there to help him should he need it — and even spare some food if they have any to spare. Phil can only hope his reputation as a fair hunter will have garnered Wilbur enough support to survive. 

His hearing has yet to return and the slanting shadows of night make his vision foggy. But he makes it up the stream and to Michael’s and his former camp no problem, moving as fast as he dares. Phil finds his former hiding place by the Career’s lake camp and he stays there, hunkering down for the morning. A soft layering of mist flows across the entire world, damp droplets of dew pressed into the foliage. The oppressive heat of day starts to return as a comfortable warmth amidst a frozen night. 

The cornucopia hasn’t yet been re-filled. It’s empty and stoic. But there are a few hours till dawn regardless, and Phil buries his head into his poncho with a sneer. The gamemaker’s are making these nights intolerable. Maybe if he’s lucky they’ll have put a woolen coat next to Technoblade’s medicine. 

Just as the first golden rays of sunlight start to bounce off the great silver cornucopia, the land shifts. It splits in two, little granules of earth bouncing off and into a deep, empty hole, opening further with every second. A moment later, a round table — nice, carved wood by the looks of it, inordinately fancy and perhaps specially used to mock them — draped with a long white tablecloth starts coming up from the opening.

There are three backpacks. One. Eleven. Twelve.

And then — the instant the table has stabilized, a figure darts out of the woods from beside Phil, and there are suddenly only two packs left. Alyssa grabs the large black bag with the number one printed across it, racing across the field and then back so quickly Phil can hardly blink. 

It’s odd — why is she worried about being caught? Why is she running as if God itself is on her heels? Why had she not gone for the other packs?

He doesn’t have enough time to think about it, though. The ground won’t stay untouched for long, and he needs to get a move on. He finds himself launching up from behind the bushes, tumbling out at a sprint and making a rabid dash for his bag. It’s small and red, looking almost as if he could just hold it in one hand. But what’s inside will surely be irreplaceable, so he runs anyways, feet pounding against the ground and his surroundings melting away. 

The first shot rings out like a whipcrack. Phil startles and dives out of the way as a full bullet goes rushing past him, just narrowly missing his side. He turns and strings his bow as quickly as he can and— there — his heart stutters as the arrow flies, going straight toward the heart of his opponent. They duck, though, just as he had.

They don’t dive fast enough. They drop their gun as the arrow punctures their shoulder, forced to pull it out and stop to examine the wound. Phil strings another arrow through his bow and continues to run in only the way a practiced hunter could do.

Then he’s there at the table, and he loops his hand through the straps of his backpack. His unnamed opponent is up by the time he turns, ready to shoot, when-

It’s just a revolver. A shitty, unmodified revolver, one that Phil has seen in suicides and nearly nothing else. But a bullet pushes forth from its barrel, and the sound makes both of Phil’s ears immediately go dead. There’s a feeling like a hot iron brand being pressed against his forehead and he screams, dropping to the ground as red floods his eyes, rips through his skin, a metallic taste flooding his mouth.

He’s flat on his back. Alyssa’s unnamed partner shoves her knees into his shoulders and pins him there, and he’s so shocked he can hardly move, let alone throw her off.

This is it, thinks Phil, and hopes Wilbur doesn’t watch.

“Where’s your buddy now, District 12?” She spats, waving her revolver around. The silver glints brightly, and then he feels it press into the side of his head, barrel landing there. Then her other hand comes into view, holding a wicked, jagged blade, serrated and sharp. She means to make this slow. Painful. It lands on the underside of his chin and tilts his head up, Phil forced to swallow to avoid pressing into it.

“He’s out there,” he bluffs, because he’s alive as long as he’s talking. “Hunting Alyssa." Then, turning his head toward the forest: 

“ Technoblade!”

Phil cries out for his partner. And, for a moment, the word feels like a real plea on his lips. He doesn’t want to die. But the girl slams her fist into his windpipe and he chokes, back curving upward and a wet wheeze — blood bubbling up from his lips — falling out of his mouth. Her head whips back and forth. No Technoblade appears, and she grins, her gun coming in closer and jamming itself into his neck this time, the chamber click click clicking to the side.

“Liar,” she growls with a smile. “He’s almost dead. Punz knew where he cut him up, You’ve got him tied up in a tree somewhere I bet, all sick and worried for you. Too bad you’ll never see him again, hm?”

She opens her poncho, revealing a small collection of knives. “I told Alyssa that if she let me have you,” she says, as she reaches within, selecting an almost dainty-looking blade, curved and thin and wickedly sharp, “I’d give the audience a show.”

“Fuck you,” he hisses, continuing to struggle. She’s too heavy. It’s no use. Her long black hair frames his face as she leans in, tilting her head, considering him as if he’s a block of wood she’s about to carve.

Then her arm moves, and she shifts her poncho’s edge up into her hand. It sweeps over the graze in his forehead, and he jerks, letting out a hoarse gasp as pain slams back into the wound, burning and terrible. It seems to be just a graze — but that doesn’t make it any better.

“Maybe I’ll cut you up to match your little friend, hm?” She muses, leaning in so close it’s as if she’s about to kiss him. Their noses nearly bump as she moves her knife down, trailing it gently across his mouth. Blood beads up upon the path and he clamps his lips shut against it. But then it trails lower, edging down his neck, into his collarbones, then just above his heart. “Or I could scar you up like that little ally you had. Michael, was it?”

“Oh- you fucker-” he gasps as the butt end of her gun slams into his head, arching pain across his already injured skin, black filling his eyes. It’s a struggle to stay conscious, but he does long enough to see her lean in and smile. 

“Yeah. Not much use for that pretty little smile anymore. I should start…” She lifts her knife once more, placing it at the edge of his lips. It digs through where his mouth ends, tugging it upward in a smile. “Here.” 

His face quickly drains of blood — no, no, this can’t be it-

Something yanks the girl off of him and she screams. The great force rips her away and Phil is left reeling, wondering who the hell it could be. Technoblade? Some wild twist from the gamemakers? Maybe even Alyssa?

But no — when Phil leverages himself upon his elbows and looks, there’s Fundy. Foxfaced and tall and lanky, teeth grit together and face one marred with pure and unadulterated rage. The girl from District one is encased in his arms and screaming.

“What did you do?” Screams Fundy, and Phil startles. The man seems huge in the morning light, towering over the almost tiny girl below him. “What’d you do to that little kid? You kill him?”

“No!” She screams out in fear and scrambles backward on all fours like an ant chased with a magnifying glass. “No- I swear, it wasn’t me!”

“You said his name,” says Fundy, and he almost sounds devastated. Phil wonders- had he known Tubbo or Ranboo? Had he known tiny Michael, who sang and who loved, and who fought so fiercely it killed him? “I heard you. You killed him, didn’t you?”

“No- no-” the girl on the ground sees the stone in Fundy’s hand — the size of a small loaf of bread and already stained in blood — and fucking loses it. She screams, so anguished and panicked and earsplitting it burns, drool frothing out of her mouth in her panic. “Alyssa!”

A name is called back, unintelligible, panic unmistakable. It’s too far away, and Alyssa will never reach her partner before her brains have been splattered across the grass. Phil suddenly realizes — this was their plan. Alyssa grabs their bag and then her partner moves in for the kill as soon as anyone else arrives. 

Well. It’s backfired, hasn’t it? Because Fundy brings his rock down hard on the girl’s skull. No blood erupts from the spot, but Phil can see the dent in her skull, the ghastly white of impacted bone. She’s going to be dead within a minute. He hears her moan, watches as pasty spit rolls down her chin and she babbles, brain dead.

He has no time to run when Fundy turns on him. His eyes are devastated, his cheek splattered in blood — from animal or human, Phil can’t know. “What did she mean,” he gasps, breathing heavily. “What d- did she mean when- about you and- and about Michael?”

Phil just stares for a moment, vision swimming. Fundy is haloed in morning light. 

“I- we blew up th’ supplies. I was there- I saw you laughing and- and stealing from them. We blew up the supplies, and I tried to save him, mate, I really- I did-” he babbles, not even entirely sure of what he’s saying but knowing it’s some sort of mangled apology “-But they got there first.”

There’s a long pause. Phil can only hope his death is swift, as he lies there, stuck to the ground, shaking too badly to move. 

“And you killed him?” Fundy demands. “The man who- who killed Michael?”

“Yes,” he gasps. “Yes- I killed him. And buried Michael- I buried him with flowers. And sang him to sleep.”

He’s hysterical. He’s pouring out useless information but he needs people to knows — needs them to see that what he did was genuine. That Michael was truly important. 

“To sleep?” Asks the man, and-

Fundy is young. Younger than Phil. Maybe eighteen at the oldest, fifteen at the least. He’s shaking, holding back tears. He looks as if he’s lost a friend. 

“Yes,” Phil answers, overwhelmed yet still forcing himself onward. “I sang to him till he died. Your District-” he stutters on the memory “-they sent me bread. I’m-”

A dry and heavy sob rips out of his bloody lips. His head hurts. The dying girl is moaning, crying out a name that her broken mind can no longer form. “Just make it quick, ok?” He begs, falling back onto the ground. He lies down — both because he sees no point in prolonging his own suffering and because his arms can barely hold up his aching body any longer. 

The rock falls and Phil’s eyes shut. 

“Just this once,” pants the boy. Phil looks and finds that the weapon lies on the ground, Fundy taking one stumbling step backward. “I’ll let you go. We’re even, you hear me? We’re done. So run. I don’t owe you anymore.”

The words throw Phil right back into that night years ago, a completely separate debt — rain and burnt bread and bruises. He nods. Because he understands. That dislike of debt, that needing to repay it. 

“No!” Calls Alyssa, and Phil can hear from the pain in her voice that she has seen her tribute’s form on the ground. 

“You’d better run,” Fundy chokes out. “You’d better run.”

Phil flips over and his feet dig into the dirt, gaining just enough traction for him to launch up off the ground. He runs, twisting and nearly falling several times as he gains his footing, going in the opposite direction from the sound of voices. 

He reaches the woods and finally turns, looking back upon the cornucopia. Fundy is running away from it with two bags in his hands. Alyssa is chasing after him, a knife in her hand. A hovership hangs above, coming down to collect the broken body on the ground. 

Phil runs. 

He wipes the blood pouring from his bullet wound out of his eyes as it fills his eyes and mouth over and over, coating blonde eyelashes in red. He crashes through the underbrush like a wounded deer, praying to anyone who might hear that no one is chasing after him. 

Somehow he makes it back to the cave. It’s undisturbed. No one has been here, and relief slams into him, so poignant his knees buckle and he collapses the moment he enters. Technoblade is there, lying on top of the sleeping bag and resting fitfully. 

He yanks the backpack from his arm. His vision swims. Phil cuts the bag open and dumps out the contents. A small box and a small needle and he gasps in triumph, pulling it free from its clinical white encasing. Without hesitation — or the wherewithal to wait and check the label — he plunges the needle into Technoblade’s elbow, watching as liquid floods from it.

The last thing he remembers is lifting a hand to his head and finding it soaked in blood. The world goes black.

Chapter Text

Phil is skinny. Hopelessly so, with his ribs jutting out from his shirt even under his poncho, his jaw pronounced and sharp. His lips are pale and chapped, his skin a shade to match. Soft ash-yellow hair drifts from his crown in waves, falling upon the surface of the cave. It’s all a stark contrast to the bright red staining his skull. Dripping down a thick gash through his forehead, a steadily growing puddle on the floor. It slips through his lips and stains his teeth. If he weren’t beathing, Techno might think he was dead.

“Phil.” The name falls out of his lips before he can stop it. Conflicting emotions flicker through him — rage at being tricked and drugged, then confusion when he realizes his face is no longer burning, then something like fear when he sees the deep gash in Phil’s skin and hears how shallow his breathing is. “Shit- Philza-”

He leans down and takes the edge of his poncho into one hand, pressing it into the wound. Phil doesn’t move, but the blue beneath his eyelids flickers, fearful in dreaming. Technoblade’s poncho quickly soaks up the blood.

The man on the ground is — was — an enemy. Techno has never had a friend before, disregarding the children at school who tried to become one. He’s never really understood the idea. You can only hammer the lesson of individuality into your child so many times before they start to believe it. 

So, honestly, Techno shouldn’t feel as bad as he does. But his face no longer burns and he doesn’t feel feverish and there’s a needle discarded on the floor. Philza lets out a soft moan as Techno pushes the fabric more insistently into his forehead, ignoring the noise. 

“What in the world did you do,” whispers Technoblade to no one. Philza just recoils from the hand stemming the bloodflow of his wound, cringing away. 

He’s never had a friend before. He’s never lied about having one either — especially not to the entirety of the Capitol. If he dislikes people at home he’ll tell them, rather than stringing them along and getting their hopes up. It’s perhaps why he’s not very well-liked. 

He looks down at Phil, though. Phil, who risked his life for a single bag of medicine for someone who was already half dead. Phil, who told Technoblade stories of his son and kept him safe. Protected. Phil, bleeding out in silence on a cold and unforgiving stone floor, losing his life for a man who has tried to kill him already.

Technoblade hooks an arm around the man’s shoulders and tugs him up, setting him gently on top of their unrolled sleeping bag, blood be damned. He looks fragile, pale and haloed in blood and blond hair. But at least he might be comfortable.

---

There’s the sound of rain atop his home’s tin roof, pounding dutifully down and disrupting his sleep. 

There’s a man’s quiet voice. Unfamiliar — but strangely enough, Phil doesn’t feel afraid. 

There’s a soft touch upon his forehead. Fabric pressed against a pained spot in his skin and he gasps.

He falls to unconsciousness once again.

---

“Blood loss is a helluva stupid thing to go out for,” Technoblade rambles, gently wrapping a long strip of fabric around Phil’s wound. Upon closer inspection — and after washing it out — it looks almost like a bullet wound. Who the hell even has guns right now? 

Phil doesn’t speak. He passes in and out of consciousness and lets out whispers of murmurs every once in a while, eyelids flickering with activity. Technoblade just pulls his hair back into a messy ponytail and thumbs blood off of his face as it trickles down, questioning the motives behind his gentleness.

The odd man he tends to now is endearing. Funny, almost, in a sardonic and sarcastic way that Technoblade has more than enough experience with being. But he’s soft just as much. Fiercely protective of his son. 

Their friendship is meant to be a facade. Technoblade finds himself forced to remember this fact all too often. He can’t help but be drawn to Philza, despite the fact that they’d both actively attempted to kill each other less than three or four days ago. 

“You’re an idiot,” he mutters softly, settling Phil’s head back against the sleeping bag and studying him. Ash grey hair. Pale skin. Freckles line his nose and crawl up his brow. He’d be handsome, perhaps, if Technoblade cared at all about such things. Now he just looks…

Small. Quiet. Broad-shouldered and capable, perhaps, but with an angry red gash across his forehead and a twist to his brow that speaks to pain, not murderous instinct. 

Philza might be an idiot. Maybe that just means Technoblade had better get to know him before he gets himself killed.

---

He remembers-

Moths, crowding at the fading light of a lamp in autumn when the cold fronts of the north were just beginning to move in. Yellow light within the house and outside of it as well, leaves and sunsets and coarse rocky gravel.

Wilbur says something to him as he sits upon his bed, but he can’t hear it.

“What?” he mutters, but his voice is soft and muffled and scratched as if he hasn’t had anything to drink for a long while. That’s odd — he’s always had enough water. It’s been food that he’s never had enough of.

Phil feels himself falling — backward, into his chair, onto the ground, into the dirt and into the world itself — just as Wilbur repeats his words, but it isn’t Wilbur, it isn’t his son, and they really sound more annoyed than anything-

---

“Yeah, yeah, of course you start wakin’ up right as I give you some water,” grumbles Technoblade, watching as Phil’s eyes stutter shut and his breathing goes deep once again. He snorts, tipping their water bottle back and pouring more of the cool, filtered liquid into the man’s throat. “And- there’y go again, hm?”

It’s been almost a full day. Phil has passed in and out of consciousness several times. Technoblade’s only assurance that the man hasn’t fallen into some sort of delirious coma is that he actually spoke during one of those fast moments of lucidity.

So. Small mercies, he supposes.

Techno screws the cap of the water bottle back on and lowers Phil’s head back to the sleeping bag, carefully brushing a few strands of hair away from his brow. 

This is courtesy. For an ally, for a partner. This gentleness and care is wasted. He doesn’t have to be friends with Philza to help him in these games. 

(But he could be, couldn’t he?)

---

Rain drums against the ceiling in thick waves, muffled and tinny and sharp. It slams down and on and on like all good storms do, smothering the sounds of his District in noise.

Phil turns over, an arm stretching out to find Wilbur beside him only to find that the spot is empty.

His eyes shoot open. Dark stone greets him. Technoblade’s haggard face looks over, expression slightly pinched.

“Ah. S’ you,” he says softly, as the events of the games return.

“It’s me,” replies the man, watching with a raised eyebrow as Phil pulls himself off the ground, pressing his hand into the floor and lifting himself upward. Vertigo hits him — he’s dizzy as hell — but he makes it, and presses his wrist gently against where he remembers his wound being. It hurts like a bitch. He hisses. “Ah- stupid idea. You’ve got a bullet wound, Phil.”

“Fuck,” he says, ripping his hand back. Dizziness fills him again, the world spinning around and around and-

“Woah there,” Technoblade says, chuckling a little. He pushes Phil’s shoulder — and so when he falls, he falls against the wall instead of face-first into the ground. “Best to hold off on moving around. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“Saving your sorry ass,” Phil quips, but there’s no bite behind it. Technoblade doesn’t sound angry at the fact that he was drugged. Phil won’t look a gift horse in a mouth, so he simply lies there, slumped against the wall and waiting for the world to stop throbbing in his vision.

“Sure. Saving my sorry ass.” Technoblade lifts a hand and unwraps the bandages around his face. The cut is still there, as violent and angry and jagged as ever. But the swelling has gone down, the tiny red veins surrounding it all but gone. “Whatever you stabbed me with worked.”

Phil groans wordlessly and tips his head back, an almost-giggle falling from his lips. “Yeah, it better fucking have. Got shot for that shit. How long have I been out?”

“‘Bout a day. I woke up yesterday to find you sittin’ on the floor in a very interesting pile of blood. Which- by the way,” Technoblade continues, voice monotone, “nearly got everywhere. So thanks for that.”

“O’ course,” Phil says without lifting his head. “What’re friends for? Did you eat anything?”

“Enough.”

“Right then. Pass it over.”

Technoblade slowly slides him wild turkey and a handful of berries. Phil can barely lift his arm without waves of dizziness passing through him, so he just takes it wordlessly, not even bothering with nodding. He can’t, manners be damned. Every time he tries he feels like he might vomit. 

“Your boots and socks were soaking, so I took them off. They’re still wet and-” there’s a thundercrack outside. Both of them startle. Phil a little more — it sounds far too much like a gunshot. “And the weather isn’t helping. I wonder who instigated the storm. Who’s it meant for?”

“Fundy or Alyssa. Maybe even us.”

“Right. That other girl is dead — I saw her in the sky last night.” Technoblade cocks his head. “Did you kill her?”

“Ah- no. Fundy did.” Phil recalls the memory — shivering. “Smashed her skull with a rock.”

A sharp intake of breath and a snort. “Well. I bet you’re glad he didn’t catch you, then?”

Everything else comes flooding back with this mention. He’s filled with something almost like shame — but he has no clue of the origin. “He— uhm. He did. But he let me go. Because- of Michael. Because of what I did for him. He didn’t want to owe me for that.”

“Owe...” Technoblade cocks an eyebrow as if asking for further elaboration.

It occurs to Phil once again that this is exactly what his desire to help Technoblade stems from. Debt. His debt to him, coming from years ago, with soggy burnt bread and starvation.

“Like the bread. How I can never seem to get over owing you for that.”

“The-” he frowns, processing. Then his frown deepens, as if this is ridiculous. “The bread. You mean when we were kids? Phil, I think we can let that go at this point, you know, you did just save my life-”

“You didn’t know me. I’d never spoken to you,” Phil argues. “And- mate, you saved my life. My son and I would’ve starved without that.” He doesn’t even know why he’s so adamant about this. But something about that small gesture has always stuck with him, and so he barrels on, insistent. “I have owed you for that, and for a long time. Why did you give it to me, anyways?”

This seems to make the man pause. Technoblade tilts his head, studying Phil with a blank expression. Long pink hair drapes his cheeks, covering the unsightly scar cutting through his face. His eyes, red, dark, are blank. 

“In truth,” he begins, pausing carefully between words, “I just… did it. I didn’t think about it. You could’ve been anyone. You weren’t special — not right then. I just- saw you under that tree. You were staring so intently, though I don’t think you realized. It was a split second decision. I just… threw the bread.”

Well. Phil’s almost slightly stunned by that explanation. All of these years — spent wondering, spent worrying about impossible debts and owing. It turns out Technoblade only did it on a whim. Perhaps, if one tiny butterfly wing had flapped only a second later that day, he wouldn’t have done it at all.

For some reason, Phil almost appreciates that.

“So,” Techno continues, coughing awkwardly. Phil’s head snaps back up. “Fundy and Alyssa, then? What are the odds they’ll both get struck with lightning and just die?”

“Ah- I don’t think we’d be that lucky.” He pauses. “Though I almost don’t really want Fundy to die. He’s young. Seems like he and Wil might get along, in another life.”

“Then let’s hope that neither of us is the one forced to kill him,” Technoblade replies solemnly.

But, for some odd reason, this doesn’t quell Phil’s worry. Whether it’s fever or simply dizziness, he can’t quite think straight, exhaustion falling over him again as he leans entirely against the wall.

He tips his head back. “I’d like to go home.”

“Yeah,” Technoblade replies. “I would too.”

“No-” the man doesn’t get it. “I- I want to go home.”

There’s a long pause. Phil grapples with his words, barely able to hold onto a thread of consciousness, ever slipping. Then Techno leans forward, pressing a hand into his shoulder and gently pulling him down to lie on top of the sleeping bag once again. Phil looks up at the ceiling and is almost comforted by the warmth of his partner’s palm on his arm.

“Alright, Phil,” says Technoblade, voice so soft it hurts — as if he’s speaking to a frightened child. “You sleep. We’ll be home soon.”

Phil just nods, eyes slipping shut. He feels a hand slip across his forehead and then- darkness.

---

Evening has fallen when he’s awoken, but it’s hard to differentiate the night sky from the heavy clouds outside, the downpour having tripled into something torrential. Phil feels a bit better — and ignores his embarrassment when he thinks of the discussion from the hours previous — and sits up immediately, finding himself incredibly hungry.

It seems Technoblade is just as famished. They root through their meager food stores and find two pieces of wild turkey, a small handful of roots, and several strips of dried fruit.

“Should we ration it?” asks Technoblade. 

Philza — far more experienced in the rationing off of food — shakes his head. “Nah. It’s getting old. We shouldn’t eat the turkey once it’s gone bad- it’s best to just eat it now before it turns.”

They try to eat slowly, but they’re both so hungry that they finish in a manner of minutes. Neither of them are satisfied, either. “Tomorrow is a hunting day,” Phil says, yawning and stretching his arms high above his head, testing his vertigo.

“Mind letting me try to get a few shots in with your bow?” Techno stretches his arm out and twists his wrist around in a slow cycle. His hand catches in one of the streams of water dripping from the ceiling and he reels it back in. “With my dead eye, I need to start working on my depth perception.”

A snort. “Sure. As long as you promise not to lose any of my arrows.”

“You seem perfectly capable of doing that yourself,” Techno snarks right back. Then, when Phil grins, he barks out a short laugh. “Did you shoot anyone yesterday before you ran?”

“Just Alyssa’s partner. Tried to catch Fundy- but he ran off before I could. You know that field opposite of the lake? With the grasses high as your head? Yeah, went down there.”

“That’s a gamble.”

Phil nods, agreeing. “Every time I look in that field I feel like a snakes gonna come flying up and bite my head off. It’s too secluded.”

Technoblade nods right back. “Yeah- everyone in the Career pack wanted to hunt you down in there, but I knew you wouldn’t have gone there. It’s not your style — I’ve seen you with a bow.”

“You’re a shithead,” Phil remarks, though there’s no bite. He’s right — there would’ve been barely any visibility in that field, especially with his short stature. “I wonder if he’s been camping out down there. It would explain how he’s gotten so big during the games — maybe there’s some secret stache of food in there.”

“Either that or his sponsors are obsessed.”

This reminds Phil of Jschlatt’s own trend of aid towards them, and he grins. “Right. Well, ours probably spent up a ton of money helping me the other night.”

“Yeah,” Techno grumbles back severely. “Don’t try it again. I have a knife.”

“Oh? You’re gonna kill me?”

“Sure,” he replies. Then, he exhales roughly, dropping the facade. “Naw- that would be stupid. You’ve kept me alive this long. Just- just let me think, ok?”

“Oh? Can’t think of any solutions?” Phil mimes knocking on his head as if it’s a door. It just makes him dizzy. He grins anyways. “Technoblade is stumped?”

“The problem is that we’re both still alive, which means you did the right thing in some backward manner.”

“In some- mate.”

“You drugged me, Phil,” Techno deadpans. “I think I get the rights to call it backward. Thanks.”

Phil crows with laughter. “It was pretty badass though, wasn’t it!”

“Oh, yeah, bruh- gettin’ yourself killed for me is so badass.”

“Well, I didn’t die,” he retorts.

Technoblade levels him with a half-serious glare. “Don’t die on my behalf, Phil. You were just talking about debt- how would I pay you back?”

The question is almost real. Phil actually thinks about it — because there’s a very real chance one of them could still die before they can go home. He leans back, musing. It isn’t a hard question, but the whole thing is so utterly complicated he has to think.

“You’d take care of my kid,” he says, as solemn as the dead. “And you? If you died?”

Technoblade has to think even longer than Phil does. But, eventually, he nods to himself, satisfied with his answer. 

“I don’t have much. You’d live. You’d be a better mentor than Jschlatt.” He chuckles tiredly. “That’s all I need.”

Phil almost wants to argue. But he nods — playing off the whole exchange as a joke. 

“C’mon,” says the other man when neither one of them knows what else to do. Technoblade tugs on the edge of the sleeping bag beneath Phil. “It’s almost night. Let’s get to bed.”

It’s so damn cold that they both crawl into the sleeping bag and stay there. It’s odd — the proximity. Technoblade’s back upon his own, the two facing opposite directions. It’s too frigid for Phil to sit outside and keep watch, so he lies there, listening to the gentle lull of his partner’s breathing. Water drowns it out every once in a while as the storm picks up. With the help of the night vision goggles, he watches as small streams break through the top of the roof, trickling down onto the stone floor. It’s rhythmic. Not unlike a lullaby. Phil nods off several times and wakes up angry with himself — until he’s forced to admit defeat and rouse Technoblade. He doesn’t seem to care.

Unfortunately, the weather doesn’t seem any better the next day. It’s as if the gamemakers are stoically insistent on drowning them all. He wonders how Alyssa’s doing. How Fundy is doing. It doesn’t really matter now, though. 

They’re starving. They’re tired. The rain is so thick they can hardly see three feet in front of themselves, but they head off anyways, as recovered from their wounds as they can be. It drenches them in seconds, but without food, they run the risk of sickness — again. 

“We can forage for plants,” Techno suggests. “I know I’m not going to get any good shots in — and I wouldn’t expect you to make any either. We get shipments of herbs for the bakery. I won’t eat anything unless you sign off on it.”

“That’s not a terrible idea,” Phil says, looking through the trees. The rain has absolutely no sign of stopping. 

So Phil teaches him a simple two-note whistle and gives him his spare knife, splitting them apart. It isn’t a perfect system, but with both of them injured and the whistles they keep sharing, it’s the best they’ve got. 

The rain starts to lessen just as Phil manages to find a good bush of raspberries. He raises a hand and feels its endless downpour trickle, drizzling a bit more than before. Whistling back to Technoblade assures him that his tribute partner is safe — so he sets off, daring a bit more space between them.

He manages to fell another wild turkey and a disproportionately large squirrel by the time the rain ends completely. Technoblade whistles to him every once in a while. He whistles back. And, after setting a few snares, he starts to head back to their rendezvous point. He whistles.

Phil is greeted with silence. He runs. 

Finding Technoblade’s pack, he finds a pile of berries and a sheet of plastic on the ground. His knife isn’t there, but then Phil whistles again and — silence. Panic rises in his throat — he doesn’t want to die but he doesn’t want Technoblade to either, and he’s only just growing fond of the other man, and-

“Techno!” He shouts. His voice is foreign — hoarse and panicked — to his own ears. “Technoblade!’

Phil runs through the bushes and- and nearly sends an arrow right through his partner’s neck as the other man appears. 

“Hey- Phil-” he says, clearly startled. His empty hands land on Phil’s shoulder but he rips himself away, glaring. 

“What the fuck are you doing? You’re supposed to whistle!”

“I- I just couldn’t hear it by the stream, Phil,” Techno tries to soothe.

“No!” He shouts right back. “That was stupid and reckless. If two people agree on a signal, they stay close enough to hear each other, mate!”

This seems to settle Technoblade some as he realizes his mistake. He moves forward again, closing the gap between them. “All right. I’m sorry,” he replies, far too careful and calm.

“That’s- that’s how Michael got killed,” Phil gasps, suddenly finding himself thrown back into that night. Technoblade reaches out, putting a hand on his arm, attempting to calm him down. But Phil just wordlessly shakes his head, placing his own palm against his heart, listening to the rapid beating. He’s fine — the whole ordeal is just far too familiar for comfort. He curses. “Did you even get anything?”

A nod. Technoblade looks a little bit like he’s still trying not to lose his temper. He stretches his hand out, though, a few blackberries rolling around within his palm. Phil doesn’t recognize them — not by name. So he plucks a few from Technoblade’s palm, squeezing them in his fingers and then bringing them up to smell.

They’re sweet. Almost like a tomato if someone sprinkled a bit of sugar atop it, the juice immediately staining Phil’s fingers. Then he remembers — a warning from his past.

(“That’s nightlock,” reminds his father, pulling Phil’s hand away from a bush. “Never that. You’ll be dead before it hits your stomach.”)

A cannon sounds behind him. For a single instant — Phil thinks he might be sick, and he whirls around. But Technoblade is still there, looking around as if for an opponent. 

“You didn’t eat them?” He demands. Technoblade shakes his head.

“Phil, we need to go-”

He growls. “You-”

There through the trees. A shock of red hair floats up in a hovercraft’s iron teeth, glinting in the afternoon sun. Fundy’s emaciated form hangs from the jaw, his head lolling downward. Even from far away, Phil can see the flecks of frothy spit dripping down his chin. The black juice of berries slipping across his jaw.

The two left in the area watch for a moment, waiting for the hovercraft to disappear back into the trees. The whole forest feels frozen. Phil can’t help but feel some sort of guilt for the man’s death. But the truth is evident.

“He killed himself.”

Technoblade turns to him, a slight furrow in his brow. “How can you know?”

Phil shakes his head. “He was too smart to have eaten them by accident. I saw him doing the plant sorting activities during training. That was intentional.”

The berries between them suddenly seem to weigh a thousand tons. Phil crouches down and rolls the rest onto the ground, leaving them in the dirt, slightly moist with the juice of the one he’d crushed.

Phil presses three fingers to his lips, pinky and thumb just barely touching. Technoblade, without prompting, follows along. 

They pay their respects in the only way that the games will allow. 

Chapter Text

Technoblade isn’t guilty about Fundy’s death. That much is clear. It seems he’s better at compartmentalizing than Phil — but some of that is because only one of them had their life spared by the other man. The dead man, life ended by his own hand.

Phil had thought Fundy had a chance. He’d had seemed… fox-like both in appearance and nature. Clever, and fast, and able to make split-second decisions.

Perhaps that’s what his suicide was. Just a split-second decision made by a man who knew his time was up. 

And besides — it isn’t as if Technoblade takes joy in Fundy’s death. Both he and Phil can understand the value of having one less opponent, even if it’s unfortunate whichever way you frame it.

“That just leaves Alyssa, doesn’t it?”

Phil nods, mind feeling exceptionally heavy — both with the weight of who he has killed and who has died for him, whether by their own volition or not. They’re sitting at their rendezvous point, leaned up against twin trees and conversing as lightly as they can. There’s no point in leaving their spot. There’s no point in anything at all — save for keeping their weapons ready and waiting. 

“I wonder what the Capitol’ll throw at us now,” says Techno, looking up to the sky and the spectators they can only assume are above them. “There’s gotta be one last show, heh?”

“Unfortunately,” Phil responds, “You’re probably right. Do you think it’s worth it to go back to our cave?”

A shake of his companion’s head is all the confirmation he needs. “It’s not safe to be trapped in a corner if the gamemakers do end up throwing something exceptionally rough at us.”

They instead continue casing the woods for food. Phil is far more helpful with his bow than Techno’s knife — the man is built for swords, and there are no other ranged weapons for him to utilize — but Technoblade helps skin the pelts of their catches and cut through the ragged weeds clouding their path. Night starts to slip into sight, deep indigo hues that trickle upward from the sun and then right back down, a wave of darkness. Stars have yet to appear, the sky still marred with clouds. By the time Technoblade starts putting a fire together, the sound of owls and night-bugs have begun to overtake that of crows and the quiet rustling of diurnal prey.

“I think it’ll be tonight.”

Technoblade looks up from their spit of food, roasting slowly atop a fire that they no longer bother with keeping small. There’s no point in avoiding attention any longer. In fact, attracting Alyssa to them is perhaps actually a priority, now that the Gamemaker’s might be sending things after them to get them to fight. 

“You think?” He says in response, uncertain. “You think it’ll… end? Tonight?”

“Has to,” Phil says right back, sure in his answer as he nods. “Fundy is dead. Alyssa is surely far away — she would’ve come after us if she was nearby. All the Capitol is probably getting tired of waiting. We should be ready for anything.”

“Right,” says Techno shortly. He nods, and there’s a heaviness to each of their voices that hasn’t been nearly as certain before. They both know that tonight is their last chance to win. To live. “I wonder how they’ll do it.”

“Well, there’s no point in wasting any of this food if it really is the end.” Phil sprawls a hand out, gesturing at their feast of catches. Compared to their typical meals these past few weeks, this is something egregious. There’s rabbit, roots, greens, and a bit of squirrel. Phil packs herbs within their meat and digs in, savoring the taste and not holding back on how much of it he eats. 

Afterward, their hands covered in grease and their mouths tasting slightly sour, it’s clear that both of them need a bath. Or as close as you can get to one in the games — so they head off from their spot and in the direction of the stream, the two of them both fantasizing about things such as showers and soap for once they get out of the arena. 

They arrive at the river. It’s empty. 

Phil groans and leans down, running his fingers across the dirt and finding it bone dry. There’s isn’t even any mud, the plants around it already starting to look slightly wilted. When he straightens, Techno is looking off into the horizon. It’s clear what they’re both thinking.

“They’re driving us to the lake.”

Phil nods, feeling acceptance and exhaustion wave over him. “Well. I guess this is a good start to bringing us together, isn’t it?”

“They could’ve at least let us clean our hands first,” grumbles Technoblade, who moves to wipe his grubby fingers off on a nearby bushel of leaves. It hardly works, but he seems satisfied enough, shrugging. “Uhm. So. Are we staying here to spite them? Or should we just go down there?”

“Best to follow along,” says Phil. “Who knows what they’ll do next if we refuse to comply. Might just shoot us straight outta the air and end it all right there.”

“Naw,” Technoblade retorts with a snort, “That’s not nearly dramatic enough. Maybe they’d send a swarm of tracker jackers after us?”

“I’m not surprised those are your worst nightmare.”

“I’m surprised they’re not yours!” He laughs, a bit incredulous. “Did it not scare you, droppin’ ‘em all down on top of us?”

Phil almost has the impulse to lie — he’s still a bit bitter about Technoblade pairing up with the Careers, after all. But he just chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course I was scared. Mate- I was fucking terrified. But I didn’t have any other option, did I?”

“I guess you didn’t, huh. Was awfully dangerous.”

“It was actually Michael’s idea,” Phil elaborates, smiling. They’ve begun to make the upward trek back to the lake, boots no longer sucked into the soft mud of the stream and instead kicking up small clouds of dirt. “He pointed out the nest in the first place, I mean. Crafty bugger.”

“Sounds like it.”

They travel on in silence for a bit. The sun is still high enough that neither one of them need the night glasses, so they slip quietly across the wood, feeling…

Finished. Feeling complete. As if the world itself is coming to an end, the sunset on their backs and death or life waiting for them with open hands. The last of the last day’s light trickles in through the trees, golden flowers and leaves stretched across the ground where shadows don’t lie. 

They rest for a moment where the downed tracker jacker nest lies. Its honeycomb surface is beaten and warped, pulpy white substance flecking down its side like spit. When Techno nudges it with his foot, it crumbles into dust and flies immediately into the wind, the only trace of it left in their memories.

Shadows bend and twist around the clearing. A real darkness surrounds it, and Phil shivers, remembering bloated bodies and Michael’s warning. The terrible hallucinations he’d suffered through run on replay in his mind for a brief moment. Then, he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head.

“Let’s move on.”

Technoblade doesn’t comment. It’s clear they can both feel the haze surrounding the place. They leave in silence. 

There’s no sign of Alyssa when they finally make it to the cornucopia, and night has well and truly fallen already. They circle the massive metal contraption and find it empty — both of supplies and life — so they abandon it and move to the lake, finally able to wipe their hands — and in Phil’s case, because Techno’s cut cannot be risked, his face. 

“I’d rather not fight at night,” Technoblade comments, looking up to the sky. Stars have finally begun to appear, speckling the night’s blue canvas. 

“Maybe she wants to. Maybe she’s hidden nearby,” says Phil, squeezing drops of iodine in his water and watching it quickly dissolve. “She can’t stay hidden forever, though. Our best bet is to wait here.”

Technoblade seems inclined to agree. They sit beside the lake in clear view for anyone to see, should their vision penetrate the darkness quickly thickening around them. In the clear of the evening and the plain, Phil can see crows darting through the trees, hear their caws as they rustle like big black leaves. He opens his mouth and lets out a note. They repeat it. Then he tries with Michael’s whistle, slow and careful as to give them a moment to digest.

They follow along to that, too, back and forth across the branches. 

“Where’s that one from?” Asks Techno, frowning. He sways to the melody as it rises, a full-bodied entity pressing through the air, dancing as the crows tones interlock and connect. “It’s familiar.”

Phil’s hand finds the rabbit’s foot in his pocket. He pulls it out, thumbing the soft fur. “It was Michael’s whistle. You must’ve heard the birds sharing it. When you were still in the riverbank. I think they remember it.”

The two sit there in the moonlight and listen for a long few minutes. Phil’s eyes slip shut as the birds dive for each other and for the sky and for the moon, deep black wings blending in with everything but the stars. He wonders, as the tune grows eerie, unearthly and peaceful all at once, if someone else whistles this every night when it’s quitting time now that Michael is gone.

Then someone — or something — breaks the melody.

Discordant notes. Broken runs, striking caws where smooth humming notes had once lied upon the air. The crows quickly leave their song behind and begin to shriek, cawing wildly and rustling up in a massive cloud of black.

Alyssa crashes through the trees the moment Phil and Techno make it to their feet. She has no knife. She still runs straight toward them, sudden and quick. Phil’s arrow — loaded in instants — smacks right into her chest and then falls, hitting the ground with a silent thump.

“She’s got some sort of body armor!” He shouts to Technoblade over the crows. Just in time, too, because a moment later she’s upon us, breath heavy and eyes wide. 

Alyssa runs right past them.

Her face is red and purple and mottled, covered in sweat. She’s been running for a long time, panting heavily as she goes between them and then even further behind them. Not toward them, but away from something else. 

Then he sees it.

Not far past the trees are bodies. Bodies with arms and legs and hands that are warped and bent and broken, a shade of grey that Phil knows goes far past shadows. They lope into the clearing with a ruined gait, limping and falling even as they keep up their constant speed. Some are even lacking legs. 

Phil grabs Technoblade by the arm and he runs. 

—-

Mutts.

Muttations. There’s no other explanation. Not for the skin that falls from them in heaps and waves, rolling down their thin bones and angular frames. Not for the superhuman speed at which they run despite their many injuries, the white of bone exposed and their wounds no longer able to weep blood. Phil can see that they were once human from far away. He very much wishes to avoid seeing them up close.

Alyssa has run right to the cornucopia. She climbs the tip and scrambles for purchase on the lithe metal, crawling upward. Phil yanks Techno along, the two of them sprinting full pelt for the silver deus-ex-machina before them. He shoots an arrow blindly before him and hears a scream — and it’s so familiar that his legs stutter, his eyes wide. The pain within the voice and the groan at the edge of it and then the mangled word that ends it all are so strangely similar to…

“Philza!” A shout breaks through the others. “Watch out!”

And then Techno has pulled ahead. And then Phil falls, feeling something land on his back and slam him to the ground. It’s small, but fast, and its long, grey arms, naked save for the ragged edges of its torn and burnt outfit, claw up his sides, scratching deep cuts into his skin. He screams in both horror and pain, bucking the thing off and turning onto his back, kicking forward blindly. Gnashing teeth and bleeding eyes and wide, empty scleras fill his vision, thin and stringy pink hair falling in clumps down a slimy layer of skin. An empty eye socket dives down, and then he hears it:

The thing is talking. It’s begging. It’s whining, animalistic and childish and-

And then Phil recognizes Michael’s terrified screams in its mouth and sees Michael’s eyes in the only one still remaining in its grey skin. Blood gurgles out of a massive gaping hole in his chest, the skin around it sliding down on a frame of ruined bone. 

Michael’s reanimated corpse rips through Phil’s skin and all he can do is watch. 

Then teeth latch down onto his leg, through his calf, then back out, back up to his knee, and he screams in agony, something white-hot and sharp coursing through his veins as his blood starts to spill. He scrambles backward and chokes on a sob and Michael — sweet, courageous, dead, Michael — bites through his skin with loose teeth that fall off and lodge in the skin there, little white thorns in Phil’s skin, nightmarishly warped, gums blackened. 

“Please,” Michael’s corpse begs, and blood mixes with the tears in his eyes, “Kill me, Phil.”

A knife goes flying into Michael’s open eye socket. He screeches in rage as he’s flung backward, and then hands are under Phil’s arms, yanking him up and looping one of them over a shoulder. He feels himself being dragged away, Technoblade saying something, begging for him to answer, shouting angrily over the sounds of kill me, please, kill me Phil, and begging and his name, repeated over and over as crows caw and the world descends into chaos.

“Phil!” Shouts Technoblade one more time, and he feels a hand strike him across the face. His head jerks to the side, his consciousness just barely arriving in time for him to feel himself hoisted upward, the tip of the cornucopia just in reach. He grabs it on impulse, a gag ripped out of him when he feels his knee shift openly, flesh around it no longer there, the bone fully exposed. He thinks, as he yanks himself up, that he can feel his lower leg start to separate from the upper. 

“It’s him!” He manages to gasp out, lying on his back. Technoblade’s face swims into view as the man falls to his knees beside him. 

“Who?” demands the other man.

Phil looks back down. And, sure enough, there they are. Thin red hair sloughs off of Fundy’s skull, fanged teeth gnashing. Aphmau’s body bleeds pus and plasma, deep gurgles belching up from her ruined throat. Then there’s the girl from District 4, and the boy with the lame leg, dragging the limb behind him. 

“What is it?” Technoblade shouts again, frantic. 

Phil moans in pain and then nods, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief reprieve from the nightmare. “It’s them,” he gasps, voice haggard and rough. “It’s all the other tributes’ corpses. Look at them.”

“Oh God,” Technoblade says, voice both deadpan and rough and harsh at once. “Oh- you don’t think it’s- It’s really them?”

The resemblance is uncanny. But before Phil has any time to examine them further, they move, the corpses recoiling and twisting and shoving each other around. The Punz one grips the Michael one by the shoulders and lifts him up, shoving him onto the cornucopia without even a breath. Technoblade shouts in horror as it grabs his leg and yanks, only to cut off when a knife flies into its skull. Michael drops like a- well, like a corpse, and Technoblade scrambles back onto the flat area of the cornucopia that Phil lies on. 

Alyssa has started to stand. There’s a knife between her fingers and her palm, and Phil ignores his pain long enough to move onto his thighs, stringing an arrow in his bow. It’s taken by one of the corpses, though, shooting clean through some nameless casualty with its head twisted completely backward.

He’s just turning back to face Alyssa when he hears a loud thwack and watches as Technoblade is tugged away from him, a shout of agony falling out of his lips when Alyssa lands another blow to the deeply injured tissue of his face. He’s too disoriented to understand what’s happening, that much is clear, and her arms wrap around his neck and head, cutting off his air entirely until he lifts his hand, clawing weakly at them as he gurgles. 

Phil is quick to string an arrow, aiming it right at her head. She’s got body armor, sure, but her face is unprotected, and he’s about to shoot when she speaks.

A harsh laugh. “If you shoot me, he goes down too.”

She’s right, and Phil grits his teeth both in anger and pain. They’re stuck in a stalemate. If Alyssa kills Technoblade, she’ll get an arrow to the brain. If Phil kills her, then Technoblade — having sunken to his knees, gasping, wheezing for air, face bright purple and lips tinged with blue — will be eaten alive by the corpses beneath them. 

Time is running out. If Technoblade passes out — or worse, dies — then Alyssa will surely have no trouble taking Phil out with both a body to use as a shield and Phil’s injured state. She seems to be confident in this, lips quirked in a manic smile. Tears roll out of her eyes. Phil ignores them.

In some last ditch effort to fight back, Technoblade raises an arm. He’s shaking badly, but still manages to sign a jagged X across the back of Alyssa’s palm, constricting against his windpipe. 

She notices one second too late what his plan is. Phil’s bow jerks downward. He shoots clean through her hand and she screams in pain, reflexively dropping Techno. The bulkier man has an easy time shoving her backward and then stumbling away, ignoring her fearful cry as she plummets into the ranks of the corpses, fate already sealed. 

Screaming. Awful, animalistic screaming, like nothing Phil has ever heard. Alyssa fights as best she can with her knife and with her body armor, but she’s so quickly overpowered that there’s a clear winner even before the fight has ended. She screams and she screams and she screams, and then she sobs, gurgling because her ripped apart lungs can no longer support anything else. 

The audience watching them from above are being given a show. 

After what must be around half an hour, Alyssa falls to the ground with a thump, spent. The corpses converge on her, twisted arms dipping into her ribs and ripping out what they want. But still, she will not die. They tear and rip at her as if they know exactly where to hurt her in order to not yet be fatal. The anthem sounds, and yet no cannon rings out, the only sound that of gnashing teeth and soft whimpers and moans.

Phil feels a hand land on his thigh, and he looks up. In the moonlight, Technoblade is pale as dust and swaying dizzily, the wound across his face weeping blood from beneath his bandages. His hand lifts, though, and he points at Phil’s wound.

“I need you to stay still.”

For a moment he doesn’t understand. Then he sees the strip of fabric in Technoblade’s hand, torn from his poncho. Phil takes a deep breath and nods, leaning back onto his back and shutting his eyes. He lifts his leg obligingly — there’s no point in asking if he can help, he’ll just stop when the pain overwhelms him — and waits as the fabric slips beneath it. 

Phil bites clean through his lip and lets out a sob as the fabric tightens, cutting off the flow of blood from his wound. His back arches and his head smacks against the cornucopia, but then it’s done, and he feels a hand press against his shoulder, alerting him to the completion of the task. Sitting up is an ordeal, but Technoblade is there, the two of them pressing their backs together in order to keep the other from falling down.

“Why don’t they just kill her,” Phil says bitterly.

“Y’ kn’w why,” responds Technoblade, hoarse and exhausted. His slur is back, words marred. He’s right, though. The audience came to watch a game, and a game is what they’re been given, its soundtrack the agonized sounds of the girl on the ground below them.

It must be well over another hour before the corpses can be seen, slowly shifting further out from beneath the cornucopia’s walls. Alyssa has not yet joined their ranks in anything other than proximity, and Phil looks down. He doesn’t want this girl to live. Not anymore. But he finds that dooming her to this fate doesn’t bring her any joy, either. 

His bow is still clutched in a white knuckle grip. He has one arrow left.

Technoblade doesn’t need to ask what he intends to do when Phil crawls forward, stringing his arrow and pointing it downward at the raw chunk of meat that was one his enemy. Alyssa’s vocal cords are shredded and her mouth is more of a hole, but still, Phil thinks he can hear her say something that might have once been please.

There’s no satisfaction in her death when Phil’s arrow goes through her skull. He just feels hollow. A cannon rings out, and he moves away, unwilling to watch any longer as the dead mangle the dead. 

“We won,” says Technoblade, sounding just as hollow as Phil feels.

“Hooray,” he says, bitter and sarcastic. There’s no joy to be shared between them at all.

A pit opens in the ground, right where the table at the feast had come up, days ago. The corpses howl in fear as they’re hurled through it, Alyssa falling down with them as well, bits of her falling apart in her descent. 

They lie there. And there is silence.

“What d’ you think they’re waiting f’r?” Asks Technoblade, waving a weak hand up to the skies. He’s bright white, save for the blood smeared down his front.

“I don’t know,” Phil says. As he makes to address the audience, though, a microphone clicks on and Sapnap’s voice fills the arena. 

“Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games,” says the announcer, voice reverberating through their skulls and disturbing the crows. “The earlier revision has been revoked. Upon closer inspection of the rule book it has been revealed that only one winner may be allowed. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor.”

It takes only a moment for it all to sink in as a burst of static announces the end of the statement. Phil stares at Technoblade, the two of them weary to the bone. 

They’d expected this.

“If you think about it,” says Techno, smiling a little, “It’s not that surprising.”

Phil shakes his head, looking away. The sun has begun to rise, the night cut short by the impatience of the gamemakers. Yellow and gold and pink swirl together in a cloudless sky. It’s beautiful. “No, it’s not.”

“We both know they need a victor,” Technoblade says quietly. There’s sorrow in his voice, guilt and premature mourning altogether. Phil nods at him, swallowing the lump in his throat. 

He moves on autopilot. His hands snake down to his belt, the pouch hanging from below it. He isn’t sure why he felt inclined to keep them — the berries — but they’re as fresh and as firm as they were when he first struck them from Technoblade’s hand. The nightlock lies there on his palm, and he smiles.

“Here,” he mutters. “They need a victor. How about we don’t let them have one? Just this once?”

Technoblade blinks, not yet understanding. Then, with a slow nod, he takes half of the berries from Phil’s hand, rolling them about between his fingers. 

They’re sitting at the edge of the cornucopia, legs dangling down and the metal surface just starting to warm with the sun’s growing rays. Phil holds his hand out, displaying the berries for the whole world to see. Technoblade’s fingers slip into his, and he looks down to see that their hands have intertwined, clutching at each other as tightly as they did that day weeks ago on parade. 

Now there’s more significance to the embrace. They are, somehow, friends.

“One.” There are no goodbyes. “Two.” Technoblade smiles at Phil, and he smiles back. “Three.”

They throw the berries into their mouths.

“Stop!” Screeches a new voice, and Phil can just recognize it as Fit Mc , the head gamemaker taking the microphone from Sapnap and speaking for himself. “Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games — Philza Craft and Technoblade! I give you— the tributes of District 12!”

Chapter Text

Phil immediately spits the berries from his mouth and wipes his tongue with his shirt. Technoblade does the same, reaching into his pack and pulling out a half-full container of water, swishing some around across his tongue and then spitting it out. 

“You didn’t swallow any?” Phil demands.

“Guess I’d b’ dead by now if I had,” Techno says, with a grin. “You?”

“Same there,” he says, leaning back in relief. Technoblade responds, but it’s drowned out by the din of cheers from the Capitol being broadcasted above them. They can’t even hear the crows quieting down when a hovercraft appears, two twin black ladders unfurling and swaying as they land right behind Phil and Technoblade.

It’s a struggle to stand. Techno slings one of Phil’s arms over his shoulder and tugs him upward, but they both have to half-hobble to the ladders, dizzy and weakened from blood loss and their wounds. Neither of them wants to let go of each other. That much is clear. So they slip onto one ladder by themselves, still glued together at the side. 

It’s the same as that ship, weeks ago, that had frozen Phil to its ladder. For a moment he’s relieved — and then he feels a sharp pain in his leg, and liquid starts to gush down it. His muscles no longer tensed, blood starts to actively freefall from the wound, intense stabbing pain flowing alongside it. He can see Technoblade from where his eyes have frozen, growing ever more pale as his bandages stain in blood, leaking down his chin, his breathing a ragged whine of pain. 

The moment they’re dropped upon the floor of the hovercraft, they fall to the ground, neither of them still able to hold themselves up. Hands land on Phil’s shoulders and he jerks, unused to the touch, jerking closer to Technoblade, who seems to be fighting to move closer to him as well. They struggle nearer and nearer as they’re tugged farther and farther away, but blood loss wins out, and a moment of dizziness has Phil lost to his captor’s hands. 

The walls are black and white. The hands around him are encased in sterile blue gloves, the latex prickling oddly at Phil’s skin, a contrast to the dirt and leaves he’s gotten so used to being around. The floor is pleasantly cool, but he has no way to enjoy it as he scrambles for purchase, ripping at the fabric of the coats gripping him until they grab his arms, pulling them away and pinning them to his sides. 

“Te- Tech!” He shouts breathlessly. After so long with this man being his only companion, watching him being dragged away is terrifying. He kicks out frantically, but it just makes his leg hurt more, dragging a rough sound of pain from his bruised lips.

“Get- Get off!” Roars Technoblade, who seems to be fighting back efficiently. But he’s tired, and injured, and malnourished, and he sends one last terrified look at Phil — the ghost of a name upon his lips — before a needle pushes into his back, and he collapses to his knees, eyes rolling up into his skull.

Phil shouts in manic anger and hate and grief, struggling onward, but the hands around his shoulders and arms are too tight, their grip a vice, and then there’s the prick of a needle in his back. A heavy exhaustion overcomes him, and he growls one last time — only for it to come out as more of a whine — and then falls into sleep.

—-

Soft golden light flows from twin strips of light. It bounces off of large square tiles, white glittering in the highlights. There’s the vague form of a figure reflected within them, gaunt and thin and shrunken against a cot. There are no doors nor windows, everything a satiny, shrouded finish. The air smells sharp, all antiseptic and needles and medications, IV lines and wires hooked up to his arm and dipping in and out of his skin. A soft white robe flutters against his skin as Phil lifts his arm, addressing the tubes coming from the crook of his elbow with muted discomfort and neutrality.

It’s perfectly clean. His fingernails have been scrubbed clean and rounded. His knuckles are sharp and thin with malnutrition, but the cuts and dirt ingrained in his skin have virtually disappeared. The scars upon his arms from his days in the games are smaller, much lighter than before. Phil raises a hand to his forehead and finds the puckered scar above his brow has completely flattened. He’s just rustling his fingers through his hair — silky and smooth and untangled — when he freezes.

He can hear. Yes— when Phil snaps his fingers next to his left ear, sound has been restored. It echoes and he winces, realizing that the pressure on his temples is not only from sleep and has yet to dissipate.

With those things taken into stock, Phil starts to sit up, pushing his elbows into the mattress below him. He’s forced to stop, though, when he realizes that a band has been wrapped around his waist, restraining him to the bed. Fingernails weakly scramble for purchase against its black surface, Phil too tired to fight much but still giving his best effort. 

“Philza.”

He freezes. There’s no door — but a portion of the wall to his left slides open, a familiar voice coming from outside. He counts himself lucky to be able to hear again, hands pausing at their manic scratching. 

Jschlatt looks good. He’s a little less gaunt, a little less sallow. Phil thinks that can probably be contributed to the lack of alcohol in his system — if the nicely tied tie resting upon his suit jacket is any indication, the lack of sway to his walk. He’s carrying a tray, and he deposits it against Phil’s thighs lazily, pressing a button on the side of his bed until Phil can sit up.

When Phil speaks, his voice is rusty and thin. “Did Technoblade make it?”

Jschlatt lets out a soft laugh, settling into a chair beside Phil and pulling a cigarette free from his suit jacket. “You don’t care if I smoke, do you?” Phil shakes his head. “Of course you don’t.” He lights the thing, pressing it to his lips and taking a long drag, eyes fluttering shut. In that same position, he smiles, and he speaks. “Yeah. He made it out. Mostly in one piece, too. Lost an eye and a few teeth, but it’s nothing the Capitol can’t just… buff off.”

Phil nods. The smell of nicotine swirls about the room for a moment before it filters out, the orange light at the end of Jschlatt’s cigarette still burning merrily.

“Just in case you were wondering about your own mug,” Jschlatt says, sighing, “You’re fine too. Got uh… A little more missing, though.”

Frowning, Phil lifts a hand and snaps at his ear again. No— his hearing remains intact. Both his hands are there, and running his tongue over his teeth reveals a full set. So what? He moves his legs, and his feet, and—

No. No— that’s not right. He moves a leg, and a foot, the other one just not quite right enough to be called his. Phil tries again, only to realize that he can feel very little beneath his right knee. Taking a shaky breath, he leans back, head plunking down onto his pillow.

“Yeah,” Jschlatt says gruffly through a mouthful of cigarette. “Yeah- uh- they couldn’t salvage it. Some sorta parasitic bacteria they put into those mutts at the end’a the game, keeping people alive for longer while simultaneously destroying them. It got so bad that they had to amputate. Replaced it with a pretty high-tech prosthetic, I’m told, so you should be able to move everything around even if you can’t feel much.”

It should be comforting. Phil should be happy, knowing that he’s gotten the privilege of having some fully-functional prosthesis. He can feel each artificial toe moving as he makes an attempt to do so, his ankle flexing and twisting at his command. But, at the same time, it’s different. Very different. 

He’ll never feel grass beneath that foot any longer. Never kick through a stream and have cool water flutter across his bones, soothing decade-old aches. Jschlatt leans across the bed and lifts the edge of the blanket for Phil, revealing the mechanical limb. It’s sized properly, each bendable part shifting as it should, thin plates of metal holding it together. It’s a deep, obsidian black, silent as a cat. To any other person, it might even be beautiful. 

Phil just shakes his head and waits for Jschlatt to move the blanket back over it. He doesn’t move the false limb any more.

“You got lucky,” Jschlatt says, smirking — though not without an air of sadness. “They ended up giving Technoblade’s false teeth fangs. Knocked out a few on the other side to make em symmetrical too.”

The man leaves soon after, Phil left to his own devices. He looks down at his plate despite his empty appetite. A bowl of broth, a small serving of applesauce, and a cup of water.

He supposes it makes sense. Whether the Capitol is giving him shit just to spite him or whether they’re doing it to keep him from eating too much too early — it doesn’t matter. It’s a struggle for Phil to get down even this meager portion, shoving through it and trying to ignore the tense burn in his lower knee. 

Phil doesn’t care about the food, though, or his beautiful new faux leg or the Capitol’s high treatment of him. He doesn’t care about any of it. He wants to go home. To see Wilbur and to rest and perhaps, even to see Technoblade again. But as he starts to wriggle free from the band keeping him stuck to the bed, he watches clear liquid seep into his IV, and he falls back down to the bed with a groan as sleep overtakes him.

This happens for what feels like years. Waking, eating, being knocked out again — whether he makes an attempt to leave or not. Jschlatt doesn’t return, instead replaced by the avox boy from the nights before the games. He’s kind, oddly enough. There’s nothing but compassion in his eyes as he comes in with Phil’s tray of food every day, even going so far as to help him drink when his hands shake too badly to lift the cup unaided. 

His scars start to fade until there’s no proof of them ever being there at all. His leg starts to feel less and less painful by the day. Phil bides his time, waiting and waiting and waiting, until finally, he wakes up, and he finds himself unrestrained.

There’s no strap across his waist or tubes flowing from his arms. He’s free to move about. Movement brings a soft ache to his limbs, but nothing like the full blown agony he’d felt in those last days in the games. He shifts from his position, sliding his legs from beneath the blanket atop him and settling his heels down onto the ground. Phil surveys the difference between his limbs with his hands planted on his knees. There is one, single, gaping scar at his leg, darkened tissue that the Capitol clearly failed to quell. Sweeping his foot across the ground reveals no sensation other than the monotony of doing it.

There’s a cane sitting next to the bed. It’s unassuming, black like his prosthetic. Phil reaches out and grabs it, pressing it into the ground and leaning the top half of his weight upon it. Then, reaching his missing leg down and putting his toes to the tiles, he rolls the base of his foot onto the floor and stands.

He’s shaking, badly. That descent to the ground is not a graceful one, Phil’s injured knee buckling almost immediately. His left leg picks up the slack, though, dragging him forward just enough to lift his right and settle it back down. He takes a few experimental first steps, leaning heavily upon his cane, shoulders hunched. 

Lying at the edge of his bed is an outfit that puts his teeth on edge. The clothes he’d worn in the arena, though fresh and new. Once done with his practice with the cane, he gently settles it against the bed, wobbling only a little. Phil pulls on his tunic and poncho and pants and ties up his boots in accordance to how Foolish had done, all those many weeks ago. Despite the confusion of his body with his new leg, he manages, dressing in a little over a minute. 

After this, a panel in the wall beside Phil slides open, the same as where Jschlatt had stepped through. Phil grips his new cane with white-knuckled fingers, hair falling into his face and surely making him look more than a bit crazed with his malnourished and exhausted state. His stylists can only do so much.

Stepping outside reveals an empty hall. Doors line it on every side, but no people are around, leaving Phil slightly confused. He hobbles out, a slight limp to every step. Then he hears his name called — coming from a high man’s voice, at first evoking confusion, and then eagerness. Quackity. 

Phil turns and sees the man waiting in a large chamber at the end of the hall, a few other people around him. Quackity smiles brightly as Phil advances, toothy and fanged and sharp and a massive relief. Perhaps he should have more restraint — he is, after all, still getting used to a new limb — but Phil rushes forward, smiling widely. 

To his own surprise, he doesn’t shy away from the hug that Foolish throws him into, arms opening wide and a chuckle ripped out of him. Phil’s stylist pats him on the back and beams wide and strong. “You did good, Philza.”

“He certainly did!” Shrieks Quackity as Foolish pulls away, clapping his hands. Jschlatt lets out a soft (but certainly fond) pfft at the other man’s enthusiasm. 

“You and Technoblade both did,” Jschlatt says, completing the train of congratulations. He looks genuinely happy for them, something wistful in his eyes. It makes sense. Phil steps forward, nodding as he gives the man a firm shake of his hand. 

“Where is Technoblade, then? And Puffy?” Phil asks, the first words he can manage to get out.

“She’s still with him,” Foolish answers. “They want your reunion to be publicized. At the ceremony.”

“Oh.” Phil has to laugh a little at that. He’s so tired of all of the games bullshit that he can’t even muster up an ounce of surprise. “Oh. Right. That.”

“That,” Jschlatt drawls, back to a slightly venomous tone. It’s actually not that bad to listen to, though Phil doesn’t think he can say he missed the drunk’s sharp tongue. “Go on with Foolish then. He has to get you ready.”

It’s nice, though almost in an overwhelming fashion, as Foolish leads Phil out of the hospital, an arm around his shoulder and helping him when his cane can’t quite carry him. Phil is led past cameras and guards, elevators and staircases. The hospital must be far underground, as even the Training Center — which Phil had thought was deep below already — is above them. They travel up an elevator together and make it to the lobby of the Tribute Center. Its windows are tinted to keep prying eyes away, guards surveying every inch of the place.

The next step is to go up the tribute elevator. Phil can’t help but shut his eyes, the faces of the dead tributes in his path too vivid not to be seen as Foolish and he ride past their floors. 

Once the door opens, his stylist team is there. They flock him and start babbling immediately, yipping and yapping like excited dogs. But he isn’t disturbed. It’s clear they’re truly happy to see him alright, and he’s happy to see them in turn. He’s swept into the dining room, given a full meal. Rolls and roast beef and lamb stew and steamed vegetables, even if his portions are being greatly controlled. He asks for seconds, and they tell him that he under no circumstances can not have them. (Though Foolish slips him an extra roll with a wink.)

They take him back to his bedroom from before the games, and Foolish steps out to let the prep team do their work. Apparently, the Capitol has given him a full body polish. All of his scars — from things as small as nicking his arm on a nail at home or to being shot in the forehead — have disappeared, leaving not a single blemish other than his freckles left.

His prep team set him up for a warm shower that might make Phil cry, just a little. The water is gentle and the soaps smell slightly of roses and pine, nothing like the harsh scents and temperatures of the games. They work on his nails and hair and everything else once he’s finished, tying his hair — now about half its original length, lying just below his shoulders — into a side braid. Phil is starting to wonder if that’s become his thing. 

Foolish returns not long after. He’s holding a soft, moss-green button-down and white slacks, something so simply Phil is at first taken aback.

“What? Giving up on the boy on fire thing so easily, then?”

“You tell me,” Foolish replies cryptically. He helps to tug the outfit on over Phil’s shoulders, buttoning up the front. It’s been padded, filling in areas when Phil lost weight in the arena. He frowns, and Foolish must notice, because he sighs. “They wanted to alter you and Technoblade both surgically. Said they’d make you prettier again. Jschlatt got into a massive screaming match with a handful of doctor’s over it. I wish I’d been there to help.”

He’s steered toward the mirror and presented. Phil finds that his white pants flow airly about his ankles, tapered and cuffed tightly to his legs just above thin leather sandals. His shirt is unbuttoned down to his collarbones, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

It’s a strategic look. Phil looks young, even with the stubble on his chin and his thinness. For a moment he can stand there and imagine he’s just a boy. Maybe only a year or two older than Wilbur at best. Then he feels something slipped into his hand. He looks down.

“I had them keep it,” Foolish whispers, as Phil palms the rabbit’s foot. While he’s distracted, his stylist slips his crow pin into his shirt pocket and buttons it shut. 

“I…” Phil trails off. Looking back in the mirror reveals not a hardened killer, but a young man, defeated and sad. With his prosthetic limb and his thin, airy clothes, he looks almost angelic — and it isn’t self-esteem that makes him think that. He swallows the lump in his throat and pockets the rabbit foot, nodding. “Thank you.”

Foolish just gives him a soft nod. Then he’s being led from the room, and the moment ends. 

He’s brought down to the room where he’s trained, though it’s been completely cleaned up and emptied. A brand-new metal plate has been installed in one corner, far too reminiscent of that which brought him into the games. But Phil waits beside it regardless, listening to the quiet murmuring of his stylists. Then they peel away, going off to put on their own outfits. Phil is left in silence. 

Phil doesn’t notice Jschlatt until he’s jumping beneath his touch, grabbing the man’s wrist and preparing to snap it if need be. He just raises an eyebrow, coughing dryly into his other hand. Phil drops his wrist, though he doesn’t apologize.

“Cmere,” he says roughly. “Give me a hug.”

It’s a weird request. Phil almost declines it. But there’s a warning in Jschlatt’s eyes, and so he leans forward, wrapping his arms around his mentor and feeling the man do the same in return. He starts talking quickly, lips hidden in Phil’s hair as he speaks. 

“You’re in trouble. Big trouble. The Capitol’s furious about the stunt you pulled — you turned them into a laughingstock. They’re the joke of panem.”

Phil feels his stomach drop. Of course — the games are hardly over. But he just smiles and laughs, hiding his words with a smile. “And what’s our plan?”

“You are so incredibly protective of Technoblade that you managed to totally lose it for him. You were willing to kill yourself, alright, kid? I’ve already talked to him. You two are madly and insanely obsessed with each other.” He pulls back with a smile, so true that Phil blinks in surprise. He adjusts Phil’s collar and laughs. “Got it, sweetheart?”

“Sure, mate,” Phil says casually. Two can play at this lie. He does have to admit, though — the idea of forcing himself to continue being Technoblade’s closest friend doesn’t feel difficult at all. He almost feels melancholy at the thought that Technoblade had been acting throughout the games. “Shall we?”

He gestures to his platform. Jschlatt leads him upon it, handing him his cane when the shaking in his knees starts to get a little too obvious. He leans against it and wipes a hand across his face, sighing, shaking. 

“Good luck,” he says, and there’s compassion in his voice. Then he walks into the gloom, leaving Phil alone with the din of the crowd above.

The stakes have raised. Phil began a game of wits and he has dragged not only himself and Technoblade into it — but all their allies and family as well. In the games, he’d only been thinking about not giving the Capitol the satisfaction of another tragic ending. He hadn’t been thinking about how they’d react — or the idea that Phil and Technoblade might still have a chance to live. 

Phil’s mind races with all the information he’s been given, and he longs to hold the rabbit’s foot still in his pocket. Are he and Technoblade truly friends now? How much of their companionship in the games had been false on either side? Phil knows he acted as he did out of some genuine care for the man, but what had Technoblade been thinking? He can’t know. Not until he finally gets to see his fellow tribute.

But that just reminds him once more. They’re not tributes. They’re victors. And yet the games have hardly begun.

The platform moves. The anthem screams. The crowd froths and slobbers and sobs. Sapnap is there, greeting the audience with a voice that shouts smiles. Does he know? Does he understand how vital this interview will be for his newfound victors? How essential every word will be — every expression of innocence?

The prep teams are introduced. Cheers. Foolish and Puffy are introduced. Raucous screams. Quackity is greeted with adoration, Jschlatt by his side. And then-

The din of the crowd sounds like a bomb being dropped and rattles the stage beneath Phil’s feet just as much. Bright lights blind Phil. And there is Technoblade, only a few yards away, smiling tiredly.

Phil races forward. Technoblade does as well. And then they meet, and though there’s a height difference and their hair falls into each other’s faces and they can’t stop laughing, their arms meet, and it’s wonderful. Then Phil’s knee buckles and locks, cane discarded beside him. 

“Fuck- mate-” he stutters out as he falls, accidentally pulling Technoblade to the side and onto the ground with him. The taller man catches them both with an elbow, chuckling as the audience launches into another bought of screams at his heroism. Phil coughs, and then laughs loudly, scrambling for his cane and helping to pick them both back up off the ground. 

They stand there for a moment and stare. The crowds melt into a watercolor blur, their noise radio static. Blue eyes meet red, and Phil sees within them his own emotions reflected. 

They’re both afraid, and the other knows it.

But soon enough, Sapnap has to stretch forward and nudge them apart, breaking their held hands apart. The crowd laughs and crows at their seeming obsession. Phil and Technoblade are led to a small loveseat — usually replaced by a single chair — and plunked down within it, both of them grinning manically.

Technoblade is dressed in a matching outfit to Phil’s, though his pants are black, his shirt a soft lilac, his shoes boots rather than sandals. With his mouth stretched wide, Phil can see that three teeth on either side of his canines have been shaped into fangs. One of his eyes is a milky white, sightless. A jagged scar — clearly too much to simply be buffed away — runs across his eye and through his eyebrow. It’s strategic though, in the same way as everything else. He looks like a victim. Not a killer.

Sapnap makes a few more jokes. Phil slings an arm across Technoblade’s shoulders and laughs accordingly, pressing himself to look as close to the man as possible. But then it’s time for the show. Three hour of condensed game highlights. Several weeks into such a small amount of time. Can it even be done properly?

Apparently, it can. Phil wonders, as the highlight reels start, how any victors can stand to sit here and watch. It makes him sick. He’s lucky that the video focuses on Phil and Techno’s friendship instead of their kills — yet he’s still shaking, and he knows his companion is beside him doing the same.

The first half hour of the video is the events before the games. They play Phil’s reaction at the reaping — and oh, how he misses Wilbur. Then there’s the tribute parade, and Phil and Technoblade’s interviews, all played against a soundtrack of jaunty music.

Then it’s on to the games, alternating between shots of them and shots of tributes dying. Technoblade’s strategy is revealed — diverting the attention of the Careers when he first attacked Phil, staying up all night beneath the tracker jacker hive. Phil almost seems cold in comparison.

Until they get to Michael.

He shuts down. The first image of his fallen ally flickers on screen and Phil shuts down, going stiff at Technoblade’s side. After that a cool numbness falls over him and it isn’t Technoblade or Michael or Phil or Fundy or Alyssa that he sees in the games — it’s people so far detached that his eyes glaze and he could even sleep.

They end the whole thing with a short clip of Phil and Technoblade in the hovercraft after their victory. They’re gaunt. Hollow. Frenzied and nightmarish. Their hair is matted and covered in dirt, their skin sunken and shallow. They fight their way toward each other with screams that seem terrified. Phil is thankful that the gamemakers at least have the sense to continue their story of friendship. 

The anthem plays as the story ends. It’s over. This part of the games, at least. And then there’s President Dream at the end of the stage, followed by a little girl, carrying a cushion holding a crown. He’s dressed in a regal sapphire blue cloak and a deep black suit. The crowd murmurs in confusion at the singular crown presented — until he gives it a slight twist, and one becomes two.

Technoblade smiles with concealed anger in his eyes as Dream’s empty and unforgiving mask grins back at him, settling the crown on his head. Phil just stares, not daring to give any expression of his own. Not caring enough to worry about it.

Bowing and congrats follow. Phil feels as if he might fall over with how long he’s forced to keep waving. But then it’s off to the Presidential mansion and the Victory Banquet, where there’s very little time for them to actually eat. Capitol officials and generous sponsors shove past each other constantly to get a single photo with Phil or Technoblade. Phil catches a glimpse of split silver-black hair in the distance, of a soft smile upward from the shorter of the pair. Neither of the two former Victors approaches him. He thanks them for that.

Jschlatt and Quackity circle around them all night, keeping particularly hungry vultures at bay. President Dream makes his rounds between tables and tables of food, the most menacing figure of them all. Phil and Technoblade just cling tightly to each other’s hands. There’s nothing else to be done. 

They’re split and whisked away at the crack of dawn, sent off to sleep before their interviews commence. Jschlatt personally escorts him to his own door, actually, setting off a whole slew of alarm bells in his head. When he tries to leave his room after several hours of tossing and turning, he finds the door locked. Phil doesn’t try again. 

Then, within what feels like seconds, it’s morning.

Quackity wakes him with a beaming smile and a hot-rod red suit. Phil is given a bowl of stew and another of hot oats before his prep team and Foolish arrive, excitedly chattering about the events of the night before. He’s dressed in a soft white suit, lacy filigree sewn into the collar and sleeves. It hikes up against his neck and presses into his adam’s apple till Phil feels like he can hardly breathe, but at least the illusion of innocence is retained.

Foolish and Phil sit and chat idly for the few minutes between now and the interview, but since the locking of his bedroom door, he can’t shake the thought that he’s being watched. It makes sense, too, for the Capitol to be monitoring him — if they’re truly so paranoid that he has some terrible plan to overthrow them. 

The interview room is actually just the sitting room — where they’d watched the tributes score be announced all those many nights ago — but with a love seat moved into it and vases upon vases of heaping multicolored roses, smelling violently fragrant. They’ve been modified. Mutts, just like all the others in the games. 

Sapnap gives him a warm hug and a huge laugh when he enters the room. “Congratulations, Philza! How are you doing?”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Fine. Nervous about the interview, I think.”

“Aw, don’t even worry about it at all,” says the other man with a reassuring nod. “You’ll do just fine.”

Then Technoblade is there, dressed in a more casual version of Phil’s own suit, and he’s filled with a relief he hadn’t noticed to be absent. So neither one of them has had an accident in their sleep. They’re fine. It’s all ok.

They settle into the loveseat. Jschlatt squashes his hands together — they should get closer. So Phil kicks his legs up onto the seat and drapes them lazily over Technoblade’s knees as the other man pulls him in with an arm over his shoulders. The touch feels manufactured — but nice, in some odd backward way. 

Someone counts backward from five and just like that, they’re live for all of Panem. Sapnap starts with a few jokes to rile up the crowds, but then he’s focused entirely on his two virtuous victors. He knows when to smile, joke, tease them, and even when to get choked up as he asks them questions and slowly weasels out the story of the games from between them. 

“So, Phil,” Sapnap enquires, prompting him to shoot his head up and come to attention. “We know Technoblade’s side of your friendship. But cmon- tell us how you found him. Where did this story start for you, Philza?”

He jolts. It’s a deeply personal question, with an equally as personal answer. For a moment all he can do is stutter and stare, trying to collect his thoughts. He does not want to talk about that night with the bread. 

But this is the way of the Capitol. They find your secrets, no matter how secret you keep them.

“I uhm-” he smiles, lips dry. “My parents died in an accident in District 12.” A sympathetic aww from Sapnap supplies him with all the fodder for his woeful tale. “My son and I — Wil — had fallen on… hard times. There was no way for us to get food. We’d been starving. But then- uhm. Technoblade saw me out in the rain. It’s a bit humiliating, really, but he gave me bread when I was on the brink of starvation. I’ve been close with him ever since.”

Technoblade squeezes his hand reassuringly. Phil squeezes back. He’s able to omit the true urgency of the situation, his deeper feelings in general. But it still feels like a crime to recollect this private moment.

“So now that you two don’t have to keep fighting for your lives,” Sapnap says, as if this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard, “What will you do? What will you do with each other?”

Oh, this one’s easy. Phil puts on a wide smile and chuckles devilishly, gesturing up to Technoblade’s face. “Be his other eye.”

“Put him somewhere he won’t lose any other limbs,” Technoblade retorts, poking a finger against Phil’s prosthetic. Sapnap laughs raucously. The hilarity seems endless. All Phil can remember is the pain of having lost that limb. 

“And I’ve just got to ask you, Phil. When you pulled out those berries—” here it comes “—what was going through your mind? In that exact moment, I mean.”

He takes a long pause before he answers. This is the crucial question. Why did he do it? Was it out of hate, or vanity, or rebellion? Did he think of himself as more important than the Capitol — enough so to try and slander them entirely? The question seems to call for a big, thought out speech, but all Phil can whisper out is one nearly inaudible sentence.

“I didn’t want to lose the one person the world had proved I could rely on,” he mutters, getting it over with. The problem is — it isn’t entirely untrue. 

“Technoblade? Anything to add?” asks Sapnap softly.

Phil can feel his companion shake his head. “I think that goes for the both of us.”

And then, finally, it’s over. It’s over for now but Phil knows that none of it is truly over, no matter how much he wishes it to be and no matter how many times Sapnap bows and signs off with a wide toothy grin. Phil can’t even be sure that he said anything right till he reaches Jschlatt — and is given, in return for his false smile, a miniature nod. 

They’re returned to their rooms to collect their belongings. Phil takes his crow pin and his rabbit’s foot, though he has nothing else. Then they’re ushered into a car with blacked-out windows, brought outside of the tribute building.

For the first time in weeks — perhaps even almost a month now — they’re leaving. They’re almost touching freedom, separated from the place where the bloodshed originated. Gone is Michael, peering out from a station beside Phil and Techno, watching them. Gone is Punz, shouting at Fundy, who is gone as well, to return his knife. They’re all gone. 

Then they’re shoved onto a train and whisked away before crowds can flock them. It starts to move the moment the last passenger has entered, not giving any of them a moment to pause before their journey begins. 

They leave in silence.