Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

An oddly polite chorus of mechanical beeps echoed through the dense jungle canopy, drawing the attention of the four remaining Careers. They would have been five, but Strucker had gotten careless in the rush for the Cornucopia and Ten's male tribute had taken him out in the first five minutes.

Jack looked up from where he'd been sharpening his knife to see four parachutes drifting down through the artificial twilight—silver containers glinting as they caught the last rays of programmed sunlight.

"Sponsor gifts," Rumlow announced for their invisible audience, already moving toward the nearest parachute. "About damn time."

Jack watched as each of his allies retrieved their containers. His own landed with a soft thud just beyond the fire pit they'd established. The timing felt deliberate—coordinated. That should have been his first clue.

Frost cracked open her container first, revealing a compact crossbow with a quiver of steel-tipped bolts. "Finally, something with range," she muttered, testing the weapon's draw.

Underwood's gift was more practical—a medical kit complete with bandages, antiseptic, and what looked like morphling patches. 

"Smart," Jack muttered, already cataloging the supplies. "Keep us operational longer."

Rumlow's container held an array of throwing knives, each blade perfectly balanced. He hefted one experimentally, a cruel smile playing at his lips. "These'll do nicely."

Jack opened his own container to find a length of climbing rope and a grappling hook—useful for the arena's varied terrain. But it was the slip of paper tucked beneath the rope that made his blood run cold.

Two words, written in the familiar handwriting. Kill Carter.

"What do your notes say?" Jack asked carefully, trying to keep his voice casual as he palmed the message.

Frost unfolded her paper and read aloud: "Wait for broadcast signal. Maximum viewer impact essential." She looked up with a frown. 

"Same here," Underwood confirmed, scanning his own note. "Looks like they want Carter to pop on screen."

Rumlow nodded, crumpling his message. "It’ll make a good show." His eyes glittered with anticipation. "Fine by me."

All three turned to Jack expectantly. He felt the weight of his own note, the paper seeming to burn against his palm. The handwriting was unmistakable—Vernon Masters' distinctive scrawl, the same penmanship that had written training schedules and victory strategies throughout Jack's childhood.

"Mine says... something different," Jack said slowly. He pulled out the paper, allowing them to see it. "Just says to kill her. No mention of waiting."

Frost snatched the note from his hand, examining it closely. "This handwriting doesn't match the others. Look—" She held it up beside her own message. The difference was stark: where the other notes were printed in the Capitol's standard bureaucratic font, Jack's was clearly handwritten.

"Someone's trying to sabotage us," Rumlow concluded darkly. “Mummy and Daddy think they’re clever."

"From inside the arena?" Underwood rolled her eyes. "These go through the Game Room before they get to us. There must be a mole."

Jack nodded along with their reasoning, but his gut twisted. He recognized that handwriting. Had seen it countless times growing up—on birthday cards, training notes, rare letters from home during his first Games. If Vernon had sent this message, there was a good reason. There had to be.

"Yeah," Jack said aloud, forcing conviction into his voice. "They’re trying to split us up. We stick to the plan."

But even as he spoke, Jack was calculating. The others would wait for their signal, giving him a window to get to Carter without them following. The question wasn't whether he could find her. It was whether he'd actually be able to go through with it when he did.

"I'll take the first watch," Jack volunteered, settling back against a tree with his new rope coiled beside him. "You three get some rest."

As his allies settled in for the night, Jack stared into the darkness beyond their fire, knife in hand while he thought. His thumb ran over the leather cord wrapped tightly around the handle, token and habit both picked up from his first Games sixteen years ago.

He slowly removed the leather, unwrapping and rewrapping the cord absently. The stunning lacquered oak of the knife’s original handle shone in the firelight. Jack stilled when his eyes unerringly landed on the initials scratched into the surface years ago.  

MC . 

They seemed to stare back at him, accusatory.

“I don’t think I can protect her anymore,” Jack whispered to the knife. 

This year's Games had made history long before the starting cannon ever fired. The Capital had never passed up the opportunity for elaborate pageantry and this year was plenty of incentive for the Game makers to pull out all the stops. They always did for a Quarter Quell, but somehow the announcement that the tributes would be selected from the existing Victor pools still caught Jack off guard. 

Most of the districts didn’t suffer from suspense; they didn't have enough Victors for there to be any surprises about who was headed into this year’s Arena. Except for Nine, who had been required to donate one of their two male Victors to compete for Twelve—who’s only male Victor had long since deserted the district.

All of them were dead now, regardless.

It was only in the Career districts that there was any excitement to be had from the reaping, though not for Jack. He had been personally encouraged to volunteer after a gift of red roses accompanied the inexplicable death of his father’s assistant.

Carter and Rogers stood alone as the last living Victors from Ten. Everyone in Panem knew from the moment the Quell rules were announced that the married couple would be reaped together. Ten had no other living Victors since Roger’s win ten years ago. 

President Schmidt's words from the announcement echoed in Jack’s head: "Parents must learn that their choices shape not only their own futures, but the futures of their children." Wise words from a man who was forcing a heavily pregnant tribute to her death.

Carter hadn’t made any announcements to the public, as any Victor would be expected to do. How she possibly managed to make it so long without being exposed was still a mystery to Jack. It was virtually impossible to keep a secret like that from the Capitol, especially with Chadwick winking and nudging Panem’s most famous couple about hypothetical children at every interview since their wedding. Jack and the rest of Panem had learned of the baby during the Quell Reaping when the they had taken their place as tributes with a surprising amount of grace and a less surprising amount of national outrage—Even Jack's father had lost his composure while watching the broadcast, sucking in a sharp breath and marching out of the room.

A twig snapped somewhere to his left. Jack froze, every sense suddenly alert. He could hear the sound of heavy breathing. Multiple people. At least two, maybe three.

Moving with the fluid grace that marked him as a Career, Jack crept toward the source of the sound, just out of earshot of the camp. Through a gap in the leaves, he caught a glimpse of them—Rogers standing with his back to a massive tree, Carter at his side. They were talking in hushed tones, Rogers' hand protectively placed on the swell of her belly.

Jack shifted slightly to get a better vantage point and considered his options. Rogers was the immediate threat—bigger and stronger than him, at least since Erskine’s little party trick turned out to be permanent. Jack had seen him snap a tribute's neck with the same efficient motion he'd probably used on injured cattle back in Ten

Take out Rogers first, then deal with Carter. That was the logical play.

Carter suddenly doubled over, a gasp escaping her lips. Rogers instantly but her side, supporting her weight as she breathed heavily.

"They’re getting closer," he heard her whisper.

"Three minutes," Rogers confirmed, worry evident in his voice. “We need a defensible position.”

Jack felt a chill as the evidence clicked into place. The Games had seen many atrocities—children killing children, allies betraying one another, deaths by starvation, exposure, and muttations engineered specifically to create spectacular television. But never this. 

Never a woman in labor.

Rogers scanned their surroundings, his face drawn with concern while his eyes remained vigilant. Jack instinctively pulled back deeper into the shadows.

"We need to move," Rogers finally said. "It's not safe here."

"I just need a minute," Carter replied, her voice strained but determined.

Jack watched as the two tried to manage the pain. They were vulnerable now. It was the perfect moment to strike. His fingers closed around his knife, drawing it silently from its sheath.

One quick throw could take out Rogers. The man wouldn't even see it coming. Then Carter would be alone and defenseless.

The knife felt suddenly heavy in Jack's hand.

He thought of his father, watching from District 1, likely with Schmidt's people monitoring his every reaction. Of the first time Jack had met Peggy, twelve years old and glaring holes in him from where she stood under her late brother’s image. Of Vernon, who had his own agenda that somehow included this . 

Jack had never failed the Capitol before. He'd always fulfilled their every expectation: to spend his childhood learning violence along with his times tables, to provide a spectacle, to make his district—his father proud—and to slaughter those who stood between him and victory. Then smile and act grateful for the opportunity. Jack had always done his duty and he always would, even if it made him little more than a weapon to be aimed at whatever target they pointed him toward

Rogers and Carter were moving again, slowly making their way through the dense vegetation. Jack followed at a distance, still hidden, still hunting.

They arrived at a small clearing and Rogers stepped away to secure the perimeter momentarily. Carter stood alone, one hand supporting her lower back, the other braced against a tree.

Jack moved silently behind her, his training taking over. Before she could react, he had one arm around her, pulling her back against him, the knife at her throat.

She went completely still, though he could feel the rapid beat of her heart.

"Hello, Jack," she said quietly, surprising him with her calm. "I was wondering when one of you would find us."

Her lack of fear unsettled him. This wasn't how tributes were supposed to react with a blade at their throat. They were supposed to beg, to bargain, to break.

But Peggy Carter did none of those things. Instead, she spoke in that composed, crisp accent, as if they were having a conversation over tea rather than engaged in a deadly standoff. "Have the other Careers abandoned you yet?" She asked, her voice steady despite the cold steel against her skin.

Jack tightened his grip. "Shut up."

"Rumlow's planning to kill you, you know. He doesn't trust you." Her words were measured, careful. "I've seen how he watches you."

"I said shut up," Jack hissed. She was stalling for time, she had to be, but he'd seen those looks too.

"You're different from them, Jack. We both know it." Peggy kept her body still, but Jack could feel her pulse hammering where the knife threatened to break her skin. "Why else would you hesitate now?"

Jack swallowed hard. "I'm not hesitating."

"Then why am I still breathing?" She let that hang in the air between them.

Jack's arm tensed. "Maybe I just want to enjoy the moment."

"No," Peggy replied softly. "I don't think that's it at all. I think you're tired of being Schmidt's puppet. I think somewhere under all that Career training, there's still a person who knows right from wrong."

"There's no right or wrong in the arena," Jack said, but his voice lacked conviction. "Only survivors and the dead."

"Is that what your father taught you?" Peggy asked. 

Jack's breath caught. "Leave my father out of this."

"Schmidt threatened him, didn't he? That's why you volunteered." He was sure Peggy could feel his pulse quicken against her back. "You're not here by choice any more than I am."

"We all have our reasons," Jack muttered.

"And what's your reason for this?" Peggy gestured slightly with her chin toward the knife. "Glory? Honor? Or are you just afraid of what happens if you don't follow through on orders?"

Jack knew that his silence was as much of an answer as anything he could say.

"You know as well as I do what being a victor entails. I know you think there’s only one way to play that role." Peggy's voice grew softer. "But there's another way, Jack. A way out."

"There's no way out of the arena except in a box," Jack replied dully.

"Unless we change the rules," Peggy said. "Schmidt has pushed too far this time. The districts are watching. They're waiting."

"For what?" Jack asked, his grip loosening unconsciously.

"For someone to show them it's possible to say no." Peggy took a steadying breath. "Even here. Even now. You have a choice, Jack."

The knife trembled as though it were trying to support the weight of every piece of himself he'd handed over to the Capitol elite, every tribute he'd sent to die in the arena, every person he'd sacrificed to become a victor. 

“You can kill me now,” Carter said carefully, “You might even make it away alive if you’re fast enough.”  

Branches rustling preceded the return of Rogers, who froze at the sight of his wife held at blade point. His face drained of color, eyes widening with a primal fear. Steve's hands clenched into fists at his side and a bend in his stance told Jack that he was ready to charge like a bull seeing red.

Fear surged through Jack, cold and electric. Steve Rogers wasn't the half-starved tribute from Ten he’d been a decade ago. He wasn’t a child-tribute thrown into the arena without training or a morphling addict too strung out to put up much of a fight. Jack had seen footage of Rogers snapping necks with his bare hands during his first games, after his transformation into the wall of a man standing in front of him. 

Their eyes locked across the clearing—predator recognizing predator—and in that moment, Jack saw not just rage in Rogers' eyes, but terror. The raw, desperate fear of a man who might lose everything he loved in a single heartbeat. It was a vulnerability Jack had never expected to see in a victor, and certainly not one as formidable as Rogers.

But Steve didn’t move. 

Whatever unspoken conversation aired between Ten’s tributes kept the man at bay. Somehow, even with a knife at her throat, Peggy was in control.

“Schmidt may even reward you…” She took a steady breath.

Steve stepped towards them, but Jack stepped back, dragging Peggy with him. His eyes darted frantically between Rogers and the surrounding trees, calculating escape routes, fighting angles, survival odds. His heart hammered against his ribs, and he knew that despite all his training, he had never been so close to death as he was in this moment.

Peggy kept talking. “He could tip the scales so that you win. You’ll be eating out his hands like a pet—” 

“I’m not Schmidt’s pet,” Jack snapped. “ 

“You’re a Career. All of you do his dirty work, whether you want to admit that to yourselves or not.”

“You wanna keep stalling?” He pressed the knife deeper and felt the slight give as the blade split her skin. It would be her last warning  “Or do you wanna make your point?”

Pegyy hissed at the cut but didn’t try to break away. "My point is that killing me won't change what's already begun. But you know what will change? You. You will spend the rest of your life outside this arena as ‘the man who killed the pregnant tribute.’”

Her body tensed as though bracing for something other than Jack's knife, but continued in a striated voice, "It won't be like before. Oh, they'll still use you in the Capitol like they've always done. Parade you. Sell you. Dress you up and applaud you for being the obedient little pawn you are. I’ll still be a martyr, but you'll be a different kind of symbol. The latest in a long line of boogeymen. That’s who you’ll really be, in the Capitol or in the Districts. It will follow you everywhere you go for the rest of your life... assuming you survive this arena long enough to have one."

Her grip relaxed incrementally and she let out a slow exhale before adding, "You have a choice here, Jack. You could pick a different path. Forget the past. Join us.” 

Jack's grip on the knife trembled visibly now, but the pressure against her throat didn't increase. "Join you?" he whispered harshly in her ear. "And what—become cannon fodder for your rebellion? Die as your pawn instead of Schmidt's?"

Steve took another cautious step forward, hands raised in a placating gesture. "We protect our own, Thompson. Always have."

"A little late for team spirit, Rogers," Jack scoffed, but uncertainty crept into his voice.

From the dense foliage to their left, Stark emerged from the foliage with Barnes covering his flank. Stark’s usual swagger was absent, replaced by uncharacteristic caution as he assessed the standoff.

"The jammers are down. Four minutes," Howard said warily. "They can't hear us right now."

Jack tensed. "What do you mean they can't—"

"I mean I've temporarily disabled their surveillance," Howard cut in. "Stark Industries built these systems before Thompson and Sons offered them cheaper labor. I know their weaknesses."

"Jack," Peggy managed with gritted teeth. It was becoming harder for Jack to pretend that he didn't recognize these as contractions. Were they supposed to be this close together? That meant something, right? Regardless, she bargained through the pain, "You've seen what Schmidt does to victors who've outlived their usefulness.”

"If he can’t find a new use for you," Barnes added, his metal arm—courtesy of the Games that earned him his own Victorhood—gleaming in the dappled jungle light. "Ask me how I know."

Jack's breathing was ragged now. "If I let you go, what's your plan? We're still trapped in the arena until enough of us are dead."

"No," Howard replied confidently. "The fence has a weak point in the twelve o'clock sector. I've been mapping the electrical pulses. We need to be there at midnight."

"Three minutes thirty seconds" Bucky warned, glancing at Howard's makeshift timer.

“There’s a team, a big one, waiting on the other side.” Steve's eyes never left Peggy's. "It's your call, Jack. But make it now."

In the distance, thunder rolled across the artificial sky—the gamemakers' warning of some new horror to be unleashed.

Jack withdrew the knife so suddenly that Peggy stumbled forward with a gasp into Steve's waiting arms. 

"If Schmidt wanted me to hurt," Jack said, wiping sweat from his brow, "he would have gone after my father. Not his assistant. He wanted me in these games for a reason."

"Three minutes. Two fifty-nine…” Howard muttered.

"To kill me?" Peggy challenged, leaning heavily against Steve as the contraction subsided. “Or to get rid of you while keeping his hands clean?”

Jack looked at each of them in turn, hoping his well-crafted Career facade wouldn't slip and reveal any of the genuine fear below. Then he set his jaw with the realization that these Rebels were his only way out of here alive. "You want me to carry Carter on my back or something?” 

“I can walk!” Peggy hissed.

“And I’m President of Panem,” Jack quipped. 

"Two and thirty," Howard interrupted.

“I know you don’t trust us,” Rogers whispered to Jack, “But trust when we say this plan has been in the works for longer than you know.”

“I trust that we’re all going to die… Which means I officially have nothing left to lose.” Jack sighed, finally tucking his knife away. He eyed Peggy warrily, trying to ignore the strange knot of guilt  in his stomach that seemed to grow every time he saw her. 

Above them, against the darkening artificial sky, the Capitol’s bright symbol projected across the area accompanied by blaring orchestral music. 

“You picked a hell of a time to become a father, Rogers,” Jack muttered as the recording reviewed each fallen face of the day. 

Five more dead.

Just nine tributes left now—Three other Careers, the girl from Eight he’d let escape yesterday, and the five of them in this clearing. Soon to be six if Carter’s heavy breathing was any hint.

“Two minutes,” Howard chimed. 

“How long until midnight?” Jack asked.

Stark pulled something round and clearly handmade out of his pocket, studying it for a moment. “Four hours. No, a little less.” 

None of the men said anything for a moment, but shared a look of unspoken concern amongst themselves: Carter wasn’t going to make it that long.

“I can feel you all staring,” Peggy growled at them. She had sat down at the base of one of the large trees around them. Her hands rested carefully on her middle, her hair piled messily on her head to keep off her neck. She looked exhausted already, skin pale and shining with a thin sheen of sweat that had no relation to the humidity.

Steve crouched beside her, carefully brushing a strand of hair from her face. "How close?"

"Close," she replied through clenched teeth. She gripped Steve's hand with sudden, bruising force. "Too close."

Stark cleared his throat, exchanging a significant look with Barnes. "This might actually work in our favor.” Eyes turned to him as he continued, "Think about it. A live birth in the arena.  It's unprecedented. Every camera in Panem will be pointed at her."

"And only her," Jack concluded, understanding dawning on his face.

"Exactly. I need access to the control junction. With the cameras focused on..." he gestured vaguely in Peggy’s direction, "...this miracle of life, I can slip through their blind spots."

"And what exactly are you going to do once you get there?" Jack pressed.

“How about you stop trying to think and go back to looking pretty for the cameras?” Howard glared. “I’m not wasting our last thirty seconds of privacy explaining something that you won’t understand. I’m gonna do science and we are gonna get out of here. Capiche?”

Peggy's pained moan prevented any further conversation. Steve slid his arms under her and held her close to his chest, clearly ready to move. He acknowledged Bucky and Howard before settling his eyes on Jack. “Thompson, with us. Let’s go.”

Jack nodded quietly. He waited until they'd hit their stride to say, “I let Martinelli go yesterday. I think she’s still alive. The remaining are Career pack—Underwood, Rumlow, and Frost. They've set up camp on the south ridge… they have orders to let this drama play out before killing you. Something about record viewing numbers."

This information got no response from Steve or Peggy, the former focused on walking and the latter on her breathing which had become labored once more. Jack silently mourned his timing and wondered why he couldn’t have run into them after the baby was born (and how far might he be able to reasonably excuse himself from the event.)

They stopped at a dense cluster of trees where the roots had formed a shallow hollow—an apparent stage for this anticipated performance. 

The Gamemakers were hooked. So was the rest of Panem. 

Jack glanced around warily, noting that Bucky and Howard had split from the group but wisely didn’t bring it to attention as Steve set Peggy down against the trees. He watched Steve whisper something to her, and Peggy smiled before grimacing again.

Jack rubbed the back of his head, uncertain of his role now that the immediate threat wasn’t something he could punch. "I should probably... keep watch or something."

"Actually," Peggy said, her voice strained but determined, "I need you to help Steve.”

Jack blanched. "I'm not a doctor, Carter."

"And I'm not typically in the habit of giving birth on battlefields," she retorted. "Yet here we are."

The artificial sky above them darkened further as the gamemakers' programmed night cycle began. In the distance, unfamiliar animal calls echoed through the canopy—a manufactured reminder of the dangers lurking in the arena's shadows. Somewhere up there, beyond the illusion of sky, cameras were capturing every moment of their struggle. 

A stage, a delicious conflict, and a brief but theoretically happy ending. 

It was the kind of emotional spectacle most Gamemakers only dreamed of orchestrating, but Jack was starting to understand something deeper. Steve and Peggy knew—they must have known—that their story would ignite a different kind of reaction throughout Panem than Schmidt had anticipated. Viewers were already having a hard time finding an acceptable excuse for Peggy’s presence in the arena, even in the Capitol. If this went well, the people would see it for what it was. Hope.

"I still don't trust you, Carter,” Jack whispered as he started grabbing some sticks to start a small fire. 

Despite everything, Peggy smiled. "The feeling is mutual, Jack. But right now… we need you." 

He met her gaze, taken aback by the heavy emotion he saw in her eyes. He swallowed, telling himself it was part of the performance, and looked away to focus on his task.

The group remained quiet for a while, save for Peggy’s rhythmic panting and increasingly frequent groans. Once the fire was going Jack found a canteen of water in one of their packs and got to work boiling it. Whether this was helpful or not, he had no idea, but it seemed like the correct thing for him to do.

Steve cycled between letting Peggy crush his hand and preparing her in other ways for the delivery. He cut a line in her clothes so she wouldn’t have to undress on camera—an ultimately futile gesture to keep Carter’s dignity—and produced a thin, dirtied blanket from his pack to cover her legs. 

Jack stared at the makeshift setup, the reality of the situation sinking over him like storm clouds. "Have either of you done this before?"

Steve's jaw tightened as he arranged the blanket more carefully over Peggy's legs. "Not with people." When Jack raised an eyebrow, he elaborated, “Our livestock. Calves, mostly. Sometimes goats."

"Brilliant," Jack muttered. "So Carter here is getting the same medical care as a heifer."

Peggy let out a pained laugh that quickly transformed into a moan. "At this point—" she gasped, "I'll take whatever experience I can get."

Rogers shot Jack a warning look. "The principles are the same. And I used to go to work with Ma before I was old enough to stay home alone. She’s a nurse—did the occasional home delivery. I was allowed in the room to hand her things." His voice softened as he spoke to his wife. "You're doing great. Just like we talked about."

Jack watched as Steve's large, calloused hands moved with surprising gentleness, checking Peggy's progress with quiet confidence that belied his lack of formal training. There was something intimate and sacred about the moment that made Jack feel like an intruder. 

"Water's ready," he announced, mostly to break the tension he felt. "What do you need me to do with it?"

"Clean your hands," Steve instructed without looking up. "Then mine. We'll need two pieces of string. Or…" he paused. “Rope? Pieces of fabric? It’s to tie off the cord after. Needs to be sterile-ish.”

Jack nodded his understanding and tore thin strips from the bottom of his own undershirt, realizing belatedly that he was destroying Capitol property. The thought almost made him smile. He dipped the strips in the hot water then wrung them out before passing it to Steve. 

“I think I need to push,” Peggy announced with relative composure, though her white knuckled grip on the neighboring tree roots didn’t aid the effect.

"Don't hold back, Peg," Steve murmured. "Let them hear you."

Jack understood immediately—this was part of the performance, part of keeping every eye in the Capital fixed on them. Human struggle in genuine form.  He glanced up instinctively to where he knew cameras would be hidden among the foliage. "You getting all this, Schmidt?" he whispered under his breath.

Peggy's next cry echoed through the jungle. In the distance, some night creature answered with a haunting call of its own. 

Jack wondered if the Career pack would wake to see Jack’s post abandoned and know what he’d done. They would come here, intending to stop Jack from carrying out Vernon’s instructions, only to kill him for his apparent betrayal. 

Except, they’d wait in the shadows, bound by the contract of their own missions to stay at bay long enough for Carter to do this. They’d all be safe until this was over. 

At least, Steve and Jack would be. 

Jack found himself kneeling beside Peggy's head, unsure how he'd gotten there. "Tell me about Ten," he said. When both Peggy and Steve gave him questioning looks, he continued awkwardly, "Distraction helps with pain. That's what our trainers always said."

Peggy's laugh was strained but genuine. "You want—" she panted, "small talk—now?"

"Humor me, Carter."

"It's beautiful," Steve answered instead. He was focused wholly on what was going on between Peggy’s legs as she strained. "Rolling hills as far as you can see. The air smells like grass and earth after rain. You’d probably think our house is small coming from One.” 

“Still big to us, even with Steve’s mother downstairs.” Peggy made a sound that might have been a sob or a laugh. "Just painted the nursery."

“You can see Two’s mountain range outside the window,” Steve added. “There’s a grove of oaks that way, ground gets covered in wood hyacinths come spring.” 

“What kind of flower is that?” Jack asked. 

Peggy answered between heaving breaths, a few words at a time, “You might—call them fairy flowers—as far north—as you are. They’re blue—Argh! B-bluebells!” 

The root she’d been clinging onto suddenly gave way from the ground, scattering pebbles and chunks of dirt across the three of them.

Jack ducked his head to avoid getting anything in his eyes and blindly reached out with his hand to replace the root as Peggy’s anchor.

She took his hand without hesitation, face contorting as she honed her focus on pushing. The sound that tore from her throat was primal and powerful—a battle cry more than a scream of pain. Jack found himself bracing her shoulders with his other hand as she bore down.

“That’s good,” Steve whispered in his support. “Breathe.”

Peggy fell back against Jack, chest heaving. He didn’t believe any of this part was an exaggeration now that he was seeing up close and personal the way the pain took control with each wave. 

“What color are you going to paint it? The nursery?” Jack asked as she recovered, only to prepare for the next one immediately. 

“Blue,” she rasped, knuckles white in her vice grip on his hand. “Like. The flowers.” 

“I’ve never heard them called anything but bluebells.” Jack whispered. “But I know them. My father used to grow them before…” He cleared the rest of the sentence away with a pointed cough. 

Steve's eyes softened for a moment at Jack's unexpected vulnerability. "I didn't know you had a garden in One."

"We didn't," Jack replied, his voice tight. "Not officially. We weren’t allowed to touch the Victory Gardens. My father kept his flowers hidden behind the house. His own small rebellion, I guess."

Another contraction interrupted whatever response might have come. Peggy arched her back reflexively, flinching at the fresh and agonizing pressures from the baby’s descent.

“How are we looking down there?” Jack asked. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep watching Peggy in this state without throwing up (or keeping his hands from breaking.)

“Can see the head,” Steve informed them, his voice steady despite the tension evident in his shoulders. "But… I-I think the baby might be turned the wrong way."

Fear flashed across Peggy's face—a rare display that made Jack's own stomach clench for reasons beyond his understanding. "What do you mean?”

"She’s not coming head first. I mean, she is, but—I see a face… ” He muttered almost like a question. Steve met his eyes with a gaze that communicated far more than his words.

“Aren’t you supposed to see a face?” Jack asked, trying not to curse as Peggy’s grip tightened.

“Not like this.” Steve muttered. He lifted his hands—damp with blood and something Jack didn’t care to ask the name for—to make a demonstrative circle with his fingers. He held it over his head like a halo. “Babies are supposed to come like this: crown first. But her neck must be tilted weird because it's more like…” Steve moved the circle down so it framed his face.

“And that’s bad?” Jack tried not to grimace as his mind involuntarily replaced the symbolic hand shape with more accurate body parts.

“I…I don’t know.” Steve settled back as he’d been, several emotions flickering over his features before landing decidedly on determination. He looked up at Jack. "We need more water. And if you can find anything to help with the pain—bark, leaves, anything—"

"I'm fine," Peggy interrupted breathlessly

"You're not fine," both men responded in unison, then exchanged surprised glances.

Jack carefully extracted himself from behind Peggy, making sure she was supported against the tree trunk before retrieving their water container. "I'll be quick. Don’t break any more trees."

He slipped away from their small camp, grateful for the momentary escape from the intensity of Peggy's labor. The night air was cool against his sweat-dampened skin. The artificial jungle seemed eerily quiet now, as if the gamemakers had silenced even the simulated wildlife to better capture the sounds of Peggy's struggle.

Jack filled the container at a nearby stream—conveniently placed, he suspected, by the gamemakers to keep this particular drama going. As he straightened, a familiar rhythmic beeping caught his attention.

A sponsor. The people were watching.

Jack scanned the undergrowth with urgency until he spotted the white fabric of the parachute and the generously sized silver container attached. 

He wasted no time prying it open.

A slip of paper was the first thing to pop out.

Jack’s face paled as he scanned the message. He ripped the container from its delivery parachute before turning and rushing back towards the sounds of Peggy’s continued labor efforts.

She was in the mists of what seemed to be a rather intense contraction as he hurried in

"You're doing great," Steve was saying, his tone encouraging despite the worry etched deep into his face.

“Stop pushing!” Jack knelt beside Peggy again, dragging the sponsor’s gift with him.

Peggy collapsed back, chest heaving as Jack handed the paper over.

Steve’s fingers, bloody from where he’d been assisting, stained the page with red. His eyebrows furrowed further as he read aloud the information: “Brow presentation: incomplete flexion of fetal head during delivery process. Risk for obstructed labor, uterine rupture, operational delivery, and… fetal death.” He paused with a quick glance at the others before continuing. “Manual rotation and forceps assisted delivery recommended.” 

Jack peered back into the container, pulling out a thermal blanket sized for a newborn, a prepared injection labeled morphling 2mg , and a strange stainless steel tool that he could only describe as a pair of oversized, curved salad tongs. 

“I don’t suppose your mom taught you how to use these?” Jack said before he could stop himself. 

Steve’s glare was short-lived and he flipped the paper over to examine the how-to-use diagrams on the back.  

“Please don't—” Peggy had paled to practically the same color as the paper. She looked up at Jack, eyes wide with growing panic. “Don’t let those things near me. I’ll push harder. I’ll push harder, I promise!”

“I don’t think it’s a matter of pushing harder,” Jack whispered, watching Steve examine the instrument—any excuse to look away from the unfiltered terror taking over Peggy’s expression.

Steve handed Jack the injection then put his hands gently on Peggy’s legs. “It’s going to be okay.” 

Whether the gesture actually provided any confort or not was unclear since the next pain was already overtaking any other response from Peggy. She tucked her chin to her chest, instinctively curling inward for the slight relief pushing provided.

“Don’t push, Carter,” Jack said urgently as he took the cap off the injection, “Just ride it out until we can figure this out, okay?”

“Ride? It? Out?” Peggy growled through her teeth. “Are you fu— Uugh cking kidding me?” 

“Here. Two milligrams.” Jack administered the painkiller in her shoulder. “I don’t know if it’s going to make a difference. But don’t push until—” he hesitated, looking at Steve again. “Um… what’s the plan exactly?”

“Fix the baby’s position, place the forceps…” Steve took the warming blanket and laid it carefully over Peggy’s chest where the baby would go as soon as it was born. Then he straightened his spine with renewed purpose and began to guide Peggy’s knees further apart.  “She pushes. I pull.”

Peggy let her head fall back against the tree with a soft thud. Jack couldn’t tell if she’d accepted the situation or was just smart enough not to waste her brief moments of rest by fighting against it. Her eyes remained screwed shut as she tried to steady her breathing.

“Jack, I might need an extra pair of hands down here.” Steve was shifting again, doing something with his hands that Jack was not compelled to find out about. 

He blanched. "I don't think—"

"Now, Thompson," Steve ordered.

Riddled with hesitation, Jack moved to Steve's side and pointedly avoided looking beneath the blanket. 

“When I say so, you’re going to press up hard.” Steve grabbed Jack’s hands and guided them to press gently on Peggy’s belly, just above her pubic bone. "The goal is to push the baby back enough that I can move its head the right way."

“Push it back?” Jack swallowed hard, praying his face wasn’t green. "Won’t that hurt Carter?  Is that even safe?"

“Hand me the forceps after, when I say to,” Steve instructed rather than answer the question. “This is going to be easier between contractions, so we’ll do it after the next one.”

As if the pain were summoned by Steve’s words, Peggy suddenly cried out, her legs shaking with the effort of trying not to push. Jack couldn’t hide his grimace. With his hands at the ready on her skin, he could feel the muscles of her abdomen draw taut like a drum. 

He swore he could hear the whirr of a camera zooming in to televize Peggy’s agony.

When her body finally relaxed, breaths coming in short, labored gasps, Steve gave a sharp nod. "Now," he commanded. "Push up and back, firmly."

Jack set his jaw and applied pressure as instructed, pressing upward and inward. Peggy's hand shot out and gripped his shoulder, fingers digging into his flesh with such force that Jack knew there would be bruises. 

He could see Steve shift out of the corner of his eye and whatever he did made Peggy dig her nails into Jack's shoulder hard enough to break the skin. She threw her head back and screamed, a sound which tore through the jungle night—raw and primal, cutting off abruptly as she ran out of breath, only to be replaced by a series of gulping whimpers.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Jack found himself repeating, though he didn't ease the pressure. His eyes met Peggy's, and the naked pain he saw there made something deep in his chest crack open. The sensation under his hands was unlike anything he'd ever felt—the resistance of Peggy's body, the strange firmness of the baby so close to life. It was intimate in a way that made him profoundly uncomfortable, but he couldn't turn away now. He wouldn’t. 

"Keep going," Steve directed, his voice tight with concentration. "I can almost—there."

The subtle shift under Jack's hand was perfectly timed with the hot pinpricks of blood welling on his shoulder where Peggy sank her nails in. The sharp sting was welcome, a minor penance for what he and Steve were inflicting on her.

"Forceps," Steve instructed, "Now."

Jack released the pressure with one hand, fumbling for the instrument. The metal was cold to the touch, the curved blades looking impossibly barbaric. He placed them in Steve's outstretched palm, trying not to think about what they would be used for.

"Easy now," Steve whispered, more to himself than to either of them. 

Jack couldn't see exactly what Steve was doing, but the clink of metal and Peggy's sharp intake of breath painted more of a picture than he really wanted. "Got it?" he asked, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.

"No," Steve replied, his focus absolute. "Need to get the second blade in position."

Jack's shoulder was almost numb under Peggy's grip, but she suddenly released him to grasp his free hand instead. The desperation in her touch made him turn to look at her face. Her eyes were glassy with pain despite the morphling, her skin so pale it seemed translucent in the firelight.

"I can’t—Talk to me," she gasped. "Distract me."

Jack searched frantically for something to say. "Those bluebells," he began, his voice surprisingly steady. "My father used to say they were the exact color of the sky just before sunrise. That perfect blue that only lasts for a few minutes."

Another metallic clink from the forceps, another wave of pain evident in the tightening of Peggy's grip. Jack pressed on, desperate to give her something else to focus on.

"He taught me how to plant them. Said they were demanding little things that wanted just the right amount of sun. The right amount of shade and water. Had to be buried just right, not too deep. He'd spend hours on his knees in the dirt, and my mother would scold him for ruining his good pants." Jack let out a shaky laugh. "One is all about luxury, you know? Appearances—"

"Got it," Steve announced, the relief evident in his voice. "Blades are locked. Jack, keep that pressure steady. Peggy, when the next contraction comes, I need you to push as hard as you can."

Peggy's grip tightened sooner than Jack had expected, like the waves were coming practically on top of one another. She crushed his fingers in her grip, her other hand braced against the ground. She bore down with a strength that seemed impossible for someone so exhausted, chin to chest and face twisted in agony. 

“Get to ten, Carter.” Jack found himself counting out loud. "One, two, three, four..."

A strangled cry escaped Peggy, cut short as she gasped for breath. Despite the dim firelight, Jack could tell her face was completely red from the exertion. 

“Five, six, seven —dead!” Jack blew his whistle as Peggy dropped from the pull up bar, landing on the safety mats below with a hefty thud.

“You don’t know that!” She was on her feet instantly to face Jack, but most of the effect of defiance was lost since she only came up to his shoulders and her face was still pink from the effort of hanging on. “Maybe I landed in water.” 

“Or maybe you landed on rocks and spit your head open.” Jack bent down with his hands braced on his knees to get eye level with the twelve-year-old tribute. 

To her credit, Carter didn’t back down. Jack was starting to think she didn’t know how to. “You aren’t my mentor, Thompson.”

“I am for this exercise.” He crossed his arms, puffing his chest a little and straightening as tall as his sixteen-year-year old frame could. While it was true that Jack had never run a group training before, he was sure the other mentors wouldn’t have left him to it if they thought he couldn’t handle it. He wouldn’t let anyone think he could be taken apart by some little girl. “If you can’t hang onto that bar for ten seconds, then you’re dead, Carter. Even your brother knew that.” 

It was a low blow, Jack knew, but so had been tripping him at the beginning of training that day. Eleven other tributes still hung onto the bars overhead, watching the scene below with interest, but Peggy wasn’t stupid enough to try anything now. 

Not with the sponsors watching them so closely from their viewing lounge. 

“You don’t know anything about my brother.” Her eyes found the floor, hands balling into fists at her sides. 

“I know he fought harder than this to survive,” Jack said dismisively.

Peggy’s fists shook as she looked up at Jack, radiating resentment. He was going to have to get used to that look if she lived. He was almost sure the girl was going to burst into tears when suddenly she turned on her heel and jumped.

Each tribute had been provided ladders to get up to the high bars when the exercise began. Now in their absence, Peggy had caught onto the feet of Five’s male—a lanky kid who flailed like a strung up fish at the sudden extra weight. 

Five lost his grip after a few seconds, but Peggy had already scrambled half way up the boy, kicking off his shoulder as he fell to take his place on the bars. She looked down at Jack, eyes ablaze with something aside from her usual anger.

“Start counting,” she ordered breathlessly.

Jack frowned. “You can’t just—”

“I said. Start. COUNTING!” 

Jack squared his jaw and reset his stopwatch. "--Eight, nine, ten! Breathe, Carter," Jack instructed, "In through your nose, out through your mouth. That's it."

Steve's face was a mask of concentration, sweat beading on his forehead as he maintained steady traction on the forceps. "The head's turning," he reported, voice tight. "Almost there."

Peggy flinched hard at some unseen force and Jack felt a rush of nausea that had nothing to do with the blood or fluids. This time her scream was different—louder and unanticipated. A sound of pure desperation that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"Something's wrong," she sobbed out. "Steve—"

"I know," Steve said grimly. "The shoulders—Jack, press down. Right here." He moved Jack's hand to a different position on Peggy's abdomen, higher up.

Jack applied pressure as directed, feeling the strange, solid mass of the baby beneath his palm. The reality of what they were doing—delivering a child in the middle of a battlefield with only the most rudimentary medical knowledge—hit him with sudden, sickening clarity.

He'd killed other tributes without hesitation in his previous Games. Had trained his entire life to do exactly that. Yet here he was, fighting desperately to save a life instead of taking one.

"Push again," Steve urged. "Push hard."

Peggy's entire body tensed with effort, her back arching as she clawed at the ground of purchase. Jack found himself whispering encouragement alongside Steve, or maybe a prayer. Any remaining barriers between allies and enemies were temporarily forgotten.

Steve manipulated the forceps with one hand while pressing against something with the other. The strain was evident in every line of his body, a careful balance between the force needed to deliver the baby and the gentleness required to avoid harm.

Peggy's next push was accompanied by a scream so raw that Jack felt it like a physical blow. He maintained the pressure on her abdomen, feeling rather than seeing the baby finally slip free.

A rush of fluid. Peggy’s loud grunt of relief. The forceps clattered to the ground as Steve quickly supported the baby's body. Jack found himself holding his breath, his hand still resting on Peggy's now significantly softer abdomen. 

A gurgling cough. Then a thin, reedy cry. 

“She’s okay.” Steve’s words were no longer in the voice of a tribute fighting for survival, but the watery joy of a proud father. “She’s okay.”

Within seconds, he placed the squirming infant to Peggy's chest where her whining quickly grew into an indignant wail. Jack stared at the small, wrinkled face, now rapidly pinking up. Marks from the forceps were turning red on her little cheeks and her fists were clenched, waving in the air. 

The baby squirmed uncomfortably, still covered in blood and a whitish goop that looked almost exactly like cottage cheese, yet she was unmistakably healthy—ten fingers, ten toes, a dusting of dark hair that would probably lighten to match Steve's blond.

“Hey there, Bluebell,” Jack whispered.

"Sarah," Peggy corrected gently. Her voice was thick with emotion, the pain of moments before dissolving in the warmth of first meeting her daughter. Tears tracked silently down her cheeks as she cradled the tiny life against her chest. "Hello, my darling."

Jack stepped back, suddenly aware he was intruding on something sacred. His hands were stained with birth fluids, and his shoulder throbbed where Peggy's nails had broken skin. He retreated to the edge of their small camp, ostensibly to keep watch but really to give the new family space and himself room to process what had just happened.

Behind him, Steve's voice dropped to a tender murmur, his tone unmistakably filled with love and pride. The baby's cries gradually subsided as she nestled against her mother's warmth. Jack gazed into the darkness of the jungle, acutely conscious of the cameras capturing every moment of this unprecedented event.

What were Capitol viewers thinking now? What was his father feeling, watching his son—trained as a ruthless killer—help deliver new life instead? What emotions stirred in the districts, seeing birth triumph in an arena designed only for death?

Just under two hours until midnight. Two hours until whatever Howard had planned. Two hours with a newborn infant in the most dangerous place in Panem.

He returned to the fire and added more wood, building it higher.

"They're watching," Peggy said softly. She had shifted the baby to nurse at her breast, a protective hand cradling Sarah's head. Jack instinctively averted his eyes. 

"Good," he said, addressing his words more to the unseen cameras than to the couple. "Let them see what they've been fighting for."

Steve and Peggy looked up at him with expressions that saw too much, understood too well.

"I need to check the perimeter," Jack said abruptly, needing distance from emotions he wasn't prepared to feel. "Make sure we're still alone."

Steve nodded once. "Don't go far."

Jack circled their small camp, claiming to search for threats while actually using the time to steady himself. His hands were shaking, he realized with distant surprise. Career tributes didn't shake. They didn't feel overwhelmed. They certainly didn't help bring babies into the world.

Yet his hands remained stained with the evidence of exactly that.

When he returned, Steve was carefully helping Peggy deliver the afterbirth—a necessary but messy process Jack was grateful to have missed. Little Sarah slept peacefully in the crook of Peggy's arm, swaddled in the warming blanket.

"Everything secure?" Steve asked.

Jack nodded. "As it can be." He hesitated before adding, "We should move soon. The other Careers had orders to attack after the show ended.” 

"Peggy needs rest," Steve countered.

"I need to be able to walk," Peggy corrected him firmly, though exhaustion lined her face. "Give me an hour, then we move."

Jack settled beside the fire, positioning himself against a tree trunk where he could watch both the new family and the surrounding jungle. His mind raced with the events of the past hours and the enormity of what they had just accomplished. Out of habit, his fingers found the knife at his belt, tracing its familiar shape.

For the first time since entering the Games, Jack Thompson wasn't thinking about survival or victory.

He was thinking about bluebells and nurseries painted the color of dawn. About tiny fists clenched in defiance of the cruel world they'd been born into.

And he was thinking about which side he was really on.

Chapter Text

Jack's legs burned with exhaustion, but he pushed onward through the dense jungle foliage. Behind him, Steve moved with surprising agility for a man of his size—especially while carrying both his wife and newborn daughter. Peggy had insisted on walking, but post-labor shakes, as Rogers had called it, had claimed her strength. Now she cradled Sarah protectively against her chest while Steve carried them both (lucky little bastard).

"How much farther?" Jack called over his shoulder, voice barely above a whisper.

"Just over that hill" Steve replied, his breath coming in controlled, measured bursts.

Jack reached the crest first, scanning the terrain below. A bed of rocks and gravel indicated a dried up river. On the other side spread dense vegetation, except a small clearing where Barnes and Stark were waiting. 

Jack turned to Steve when he caught up, surprised by his own confidence as he said, “Give me the baby.”

Peggy's arms tightened instinctively around the sleeping infant. Her eyes, though drained, flashed with protective fire.

"It'll be easier for Steve to carry just you," Jack explained, keeping his voice neutral and gesturing to the steep terrain of where they were headed. "And if anything happens... we should be spread out."

The gravity of their situation hung heavily between them. They didn't know when the Careers would make their move or what that move would be. Clustering the entire Carter-Rogers family into one convenient target was practically begging someone to eliminate all three of them at once

Peggy and Steve exchanged a look—one of those married conversations without words that Jack had always found puzzling. 

After a moment, Peggy nodded. "Here," she whispered, carefully moving Sarah from where she was secured against her chest.

The baby squirmed as Jack awkwardly accepted the tiny bundle, her face scrunching in momentary protest before settling back to sleep. She weighed almost nothing in his arms—a fragile whisper of life that somehow felt heavier than any weapon he'd ever carried.

"Support her head," Peggy instructed.

Jack adjusted his hold, cradling the newborn's head in the crook of his elbow. He'd never held a baby before. The realization struck him with unexpected force—in One, children were future tributes, assets to be trained and shaped. Not tiny humans to be cradled and protected.

"I've got her," he assured Peggy, surprised by the fierceness in his own voice.

They descended the hill carefully, Jack leading the way while Steve followed with Peggy in his arms. The night had grown colder, and Jack found himself pulling the warming blanket more securely around Sarah's tiny form. The baby's soft breaths against his chest created a strange, unfamiliar tightness in his throat.

"About time," Stark hissed as they approached. "We were starting to think—" His eyes widened at the sight of Jack carrying the baby. “Well, that was quick.”

Peggy let out a strained laugh. “It certainly did not feel quick.”

Barnes moved forward, his expression unreadable as he studied the baby in Jack’s arms. "You named her yet?" 

“Sarah Cynthia Rogers,” Steve said in a breath tinted with pride despite his exhaustion.

Jack raised an eyebrow, the first time hearing of her middle name. “Who’s Cynthia?” 

“Like wood hyacinths,” Peggy hummed. “Bluebells.” 

So that’s what they’d been whispering to each other about during the walk. Jack swallowed away whatever emotion was suddenly thick in his throat. 

Stark gestured impatiently toward the dense wall of foliage before them. "We’re at the edge of the Arena. I've created a disruption in the electrical field large enough for us to slip through." He held up a crude device assembled from arena scraps. "This beacon will guide the extraction team to our location."

"And they'll be waiting?" Steve asked, carefully setting Peggy down on her feet. She swayed slightly but remained standing, one hand braced against his arm.

"If D's worth half his reputation," Barnes confirmed. 

Up close, Jack could see the subtle distortion overlaying the wall of plants before them, like heat rising from sun-baked stone. He glanced at the baby in his arms, then at Peggy, who was visibly struggling to remain standing. The blood on her thighs, which had yet to be cleaned from the night’s earlier affair, seemed fresher now than it had been before the hike.

He wondered if her stitches had torn. 

Steve had only been able to place two, before they were both shaking too hard to continue—Peggy from the pain, and Steve from the horror of causing her to scream like she was on the receiving end of Capitol-grade torture.

"Carter goes first with the baby," Jack said, decisively. 

"No," Peggy said, her voice sounding far stronger than her weakened state would suggest "Howard first—he needs to guide the extraction team. Then you, with Sarah."

"Peggy—" Steve began.

"It's the logical choice," she cut him off. "Howard knows the technology. You and Barnes are the strongest fighters if the Careers catch us up. Sarah needs to get out." The cold pragmatism of her words reminded Jack why Peggy Carter had been a victor in her own Games. 

“Bucky, I want you right after Thompson,” Steve said quietly, exchanging an entire silent conversation with Barnes with just a glance.

“Hang on…” Jack frowned, slightly aghast. Peggy, by all means, shouldn’t trust him like this. He shouldn’t even be a candidate for such personal responsibility—especially not one that included the very life of her newborn daughter.

He opened his mouth to protest the plan but Stark interrupted.

"I can keep this window open for five minutes!" he adjusted his device which beeped softly before the light flickering from green to blue. "Maybe six if we're lucky, but—"

The bolt whistled past Stark’s head so close it ruffled his hair, embedding itself in the tree trunk behind him with a solid thunk. 

Jack’s reaction was a fraction of a second behind Steve’s, his entire body coiling like a spring as his eyes snapped to the top of the hill.

Frost emerged with her next bolt already nocked. The other Careers flanked her on both sides—Rumlow with a tactical blade in each hand and Underwood with no weapon at all.

"I can’t say I'm not disappointed, Thompson," Rumlow was the first to break the tense silence. "But I can’t say I’m surprised either."

“Surprised by what?” Jack swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. "That I’m the one who’s holding the Rebellion’s greatest weakness?”

Peggy’s head snapped to stare at Jack with an understandably terror-stricken expression that made his stomach drop to his toes. He held her gaze for a moment (perhaps a moment too long in retrospect), praying that she and Steve would trust him long enough to not kill him before the Careers did, then met Frost head on.

“Well, aren’t you a clever dog?” Whitney slowly smiled, making sure to show her teeth like her press agents always encouraged. It was a camera ready smile and it only served the malevolent air it came with. “Are you going to be a good boy then and finish fetching my new toy?”

“What—” Jack put a foot forward but froze, arms tightened instinctively around Sarah, who chose that moment to let out a soft whimper. “What do you mean new toy ?”

“He didn’t get the new orders,” Rumlow’s short laugh was closer to a territorial bark.

“Color me shocked,” Underwood deadpanned.

“Tick tock,” Stark whispered

"They’re going to take us alive," Jack said suddenly to Barnes’ back, the realization crystallizing with horrifying clarity. The Capitol had to have either stopped broadcasting the Games or Schmidt wanted the public to witness whatever was about to unfold. Jack wasn't sure which possibility promised a worse outcome. 

“We only need the Shepherds and their little lamb.” Underwood must have been already creeping forward because she was suddenly almost on top of Jack. She leaped at him, but Barnes was faster pummeling into her mid-air. They both fell to the ground in a series of thuds and grunts. 

Rumlow used the distraction to charge for Rogers, knives slashing. Steve caught him by each wrist, shifting his oncoming momentum to throw Rumlow to the dirt.

Jack felt Peggy’s hands on his shoulders before he even registered the sound of Whitney’s crossbow firing. She pushed him hard, much harder than he expected she even could in her postpartum state. 

He stumbled backwards in time to see the bolt fly over his head. The arm that wasn’t holding Sarah shot out reflexively to catch himself, only to hit Stark in the face and cause them both to topple through the Arena barrier. A strange sensation washed over Jack, like sliding through electrified honey—every hair standing on end. 

Then as quickly as it came the feeling was gone, replaced by open air and solid ground slamming into Jack’s back as he and Stark landed. The dark sky was clear and cold. Real stars with the real moon, just a thin sliver nestled in the black sea above. Crickets or some other insects chirped idly in the distance, individual in their songs unlike the Arena recordings which looped every hour. 

“We’re out.” Jack scrambled to his feet, shifting Sarah in front of him to look her over. She fussed at the movement, but seemed otherwise unbothered by the whole ordeal. He privately resolved to have her checked by a doctor as soon as possible, assuming the Rebellion had that kind of resource.

Stark was already standing, pointing his device towards the boreal forests that stretched for miles around the Arena. It beeped in a steady rhythm and the light flickered with changing hues. He shook his head, furiously pressing buttons and twisting knobs. “Save your applause. I haven’t caught Dugan’s signal yet.”

Jack turned back to the dome to see Barnes and Underwood grappling dangerously close to the forcefield’s unstable opening, Barnes’ metal hand closed tight around Underwood’s throat

With a vicious elbow to Barnes' ribs, Underwood twisted in his grip and kicked him off of her. 

Barnes tumbled through the barrier in a crackling burst of energy, landing hard on the ground beside Jack and Stark.

"The barrier's destabilizing!" Stark shouted, his device now emitting an urgent, high-pitched whine. "Steve! Peggy! Get out of there!"

Rogers had gotten Rumlow onto his back, straddling the Career's chest. Rumlow gripped Steve’s wrists, but it did nothing to slow him down. He grabbed Rumlow’s head and slammed it against the rocky riverbed. Jack could hear the sickening crunch of Rumlow’s skull against the stones

Underwood dashed for the barrier. Peggy lunged at her with an impressive burst of strength, catching her around the waist. Both women crashed through the arena border. They struck the ground hard enough to send them rolling in opposite directions.

Peggy grunted as she landed against the base of a tree. She instantly curled in on herself, arms clutching her abdomen in obvious pain. Whatever battle she was fighting against her body, she'd obviously lost now. But Peggy must have known that before throwing herself at Dottie. 

Disoriented from the fall, it cost Dottie precious seconds to find her feet—seconds that Barnes used to launch himself at her. Dottie went down again, Barnes easily wrestling her back to the ground.

“How long—” Jack turned to Stark only to realize the man had already fled from the violence, waving his device frantically in the air like it was a magic wand that would make the trees start speaking.  

“Shit,” Jack whispered, then winced and looked down at Sarah. “Sorry. I didn’t mean— Fuck .” 

Jack hadn’t meant to swear again, but Peggy had gone still under the tree.

“Peggy!” Jack’s legs were moving before he had made the decision himself. He was by her side in seconds, shaking her shoulder urgently with his free hand. 

She groaned, opening her eyes only to squint at the apparent brightness. “Sorry,” Peggy croaked. 

Jack wasn’t sure if his sigh of relief was audible, and at this point he didn’t care. 

He took her arm and carefully helped her sit up against the tree. Both of them were breathing heavily by the time she leaned back against the trunk. She looked frightfully pale as she tried to focus her eyes on Sarah. She gave up after a few attempts, squeezing her eyes shut and focusing on breathing. 

“Something's wrong,” Jack gasped. His knees were wet from where he kneeled but the moisture seeping through his trousers was too warm to be water.

Peggy was bleeding.

“No shit,” she whispered, still managing to sound sardonic despite the circumstances. 

A cannon boomed, audible even to the tributes on the outside the Arena.

Peggy’s eyes shot open and her head snapped towards the barrier. 

Jack watched with his own horror as the pool of blood grew steady beneath her.

Even Barnes paused to look up, although it seemed—from the way Underwood squirmed beneath him, his knee in her back and his hands gripped unwavering around her wrists—that he could afford to.

Rogers stood panting from where he’d apparently (and very permanently) just won his brawl with Rumlow, the other man remaining face down against a gruesome looking rock. Steve spun, and Jack saw the exact moment he registered the reality of his situation: alone without his allies in the arena. And with Frost already nocking back another arrow. 

Steve made his choice before Jack could even calculate the options—breaking into a sprint towards their temporary exit.

“NO!” Carter and Barnes’ simultaneous screams of unadulterated terror was enough to know that Rogers hadn’t been fast enough. His cry of pain as Frost’s bolt lodged itself into his back was just confirmation.

Steve collapsed to the ground just short of escape, grunting and twitching as he tried to process and overcome the sharp pain at the same time. 

Frost was suddenly over him, digging her heel into his back. She wrenched her arrow out of his back—earning a sharp cry from the man—and reloaded the bloody thing into her crossbow. 

“Nobody moves an inch!” she ordered, her voice carrying impressively as she leveled the weapon at Roger's head.

Everyone obeyed, even Underwood who seemed equally as alarmed as the everyone else. 

A laden pause elapsed in which Frost took her time to look each one of the Rebels in the eyes, assuring she had their undivided attention, eyes eventually landing on Jack. “I think we can all agree, for a moment, not to spill any more blood than absolutely necessary—yes?”

Nobody dared answer. No one dared to move either.

“Good. Then, let’s skip the pleasantries. You know what I want. I know what you want. I suggest fair trade.”

Jack looked desperately at Barnes. Barnes stared back, though quickly shifted to look at Peggy, where Jack’s gaze landed as well.

Carter looked seconds away from blacking out—even without being asked to choose between her husband and her newborn daughter. She stared at Steve, who’d manage to turn his head and stare back.

Something unspoken passed between them. One of those married conversations without words Jack was starting to think of as a tactical advantage. 

Peggy met Frost's gaze as she ordered, “Jack, help me stand.”

“What—”

“Now, Thompson!” There was no room for argument. 

Jack exchanged hesitant looks with Barnes as he helped Carter get both legs under her, albeit with generous support from the tree. 

Frost grinned approvingly and addressed Barnes. “You, let her up.”

Barnes looked somewhere between furious and horrified as he looked desperately back to Carter. Peggy nodded her permission and Barnes stepped back, hands shaking slightly as they balled into fists at his side. 

“Now,” Frost gestured with her weapon to Jack. “Hand the kid over.”

Peggy stepped forward and Jack pulled her back with concerning ease.

“What are you doing?” Jack hissed, skipping over horror and diving headfirst into anger.

“ Jack ,” Peggy’s eyes bore into his, willing him to understand… something. One of those conversations without words that she apparently thought he could read. Even though they weren’t married. Or even family. And he certainly didn’t love her—he wasn’t sure if he even liked her. 

But he trusted her, and maybe that was it.

Jack supported almost all of Peggy’s weight as they limped to where Underwood now waited.

“Hand Sarah over.” Peggy spoke each word as though they would slice her tongue if said them with any ounce of willingness.

Jack swallowed, praying his faith wasn’t misplaced as he lowered the baby into the Career's waiting arms.

“Sarah, is it?” Dottie held the baby in front of her with an uncharacteristic gentleness, studying her with disconcerting curiosity. The name felt wrong from her mouth, like she was defiling something sacred just by speaking.

Carter suddenly let go of Jack’s support. She charged into Dottie with an outburst of energy she shouldn’t have been able to summon. The both of them fell back into the arena, Sarah sandwiched between them.

At the same time, Rogers rolled suddenly and knocked the weapon out of Frost's hands. He flung it aside and grabbed Whitney by the waist, easily throwing her to the ground. Rogers scrambled to his feet without giving her a second glance and spun to face Peggy and Dottie.

Peggy had slumped over Dottie, unconscious and ghostly pale. 

Underwood had struggled to sit up whilst pushing Carter off to the side and keeping Sarah securely in hand, but Steve was already on her. 

He grabbed the baby out of her arms and rushed for the forcefield.

Then Sarah was airborne—probably for only a second—but it might as well have been an hour for the way time slowed down. Jack’s body moved ahead of any conscious thought as he rushed to catch her.

A thunder-like boom split the air at the same moment Jack caught Sarah (with a thankfully gentle landing.) 

Their window had closed.

Rogers’ forward momentum sent him straight into the barrier with a slam, only to ricochet him backwards with the resulting shock of electricity. He landed heavily on the ground next to Carter, still as stone.

Frost had regained her footing and her crossbow by now, quickly checking both the Shepherds for a pulse before straightening up and looking out at Jack. 

Stark returned at the same time, a trail of half a dozen men (and one woman with strikingly red hair) in tow. 

Jack could hear Barnes breathing hard, or possibly snarling, somewhere behind him. He didn’t dare break eye contact with Whitney as they studied each other. 

“Two in the bush,” Frost muttered, eyes flickering to Sarah. 

“At least Schmidt will be pleased,” Underwood grunted, getting to her feet. 

Jack held Sarah closer as the truth crystallized with brutal clarity. Steve and Peggy had known—they'd both known this might happen. That's what those wordless conversations had been about. Not just tactical decisions, but the terrible mathematics of love and sacrifice. The baby in his arms wasn't just a refugee in this war, she was a deliberate act of defiance.

"He wants your Shepards alive, you know," Frost called out conversationally, "But he didn’t care what happened to her .”

“You seem to have your own agenda,” Jack bit back, though a cold chill ran through him which had nothing to do with the cold night. 

Whitney didn’t say a word.

Instead she smiled her camera-ready smile. All teeth. All poise. All promising that whatever was about to happen, this was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

“Ana and Edwin Jarvis,” said Howard as he waved his hand over a panel in the wall. 

The metal door slid open with a hiss to reveal a couple in the center of the undecorated sleeping quarter’s they’d been assigned to. Despite their apparent composure, Jack didn’t miss the tension in their bodies, the way they seemed to draw closer to one another for lack of other comforts in the room. 

As soon as Jack stepped into the room, however, their eyes instantly locked on the bundle in his arms and their expressions flickered with that same strange uncertainty that seemed to strike everyone who saw Sarah.

Hope. Or its predecessor, at the very least.

The woman, Ana apparently, stepped forward. Her green cardigan and bright yellow dress weren’t typical of the grey jumpsuits everyone was wearing here, but they’d only recently arrived along with some other survivors from Ten. Time here would dull her, Jack could only assume. 

Five weeks in this uninspiring grey hole that housed the entirety of District Thirteen was even getting on his calloused nerves. He wanted to see something green other than the digital forests that illuminated the screened walls in each room. Fresh air and a run—that always picked him right up. He’d settle for just a ray of real sun, something to make him feel human instead of like the automaton he was starting to become.

Mrs. Jarvis’ accented English was hesitant as she asked, “This is her?”

Jack cleared his throat, glancing between the couple and Howard—who gave a silent and solemn nod. 

“Sarah,” Jack said, almost a whisper. “Carter and Rogers’ daughter.” 

He tried to ignore how light his arms felt without Sarah in them as Ana took the baby with and showed her over to Mr. Jarvis. 

The man tugged nervously at his tie—another colorful article doomed to be replaced by government issued jumpsuits—and acknowledged the baby with an apparent lack of experience. “Miss Sarah, it is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance.”

Jack wanted to smile, but whatever expression he made probably looked more like a grimace. Howard chuckled in amusement as he patted Jack on the back and said, “Peggy listed them as next of kin before she went into the arena. It’d probably be her brother but—” 

Jack cut him off with a glare so sharp that Stark visibly winced. 

“Anyways,” he cleared his throat and turned to leave. “You guys can work out the babysitting rotation. Thompson, the meeting is in thirty minutes. Don’t be late this time.” 

Jack watched Howard’s retreating form, fighting to see the man in front of him and not the ghost of his own knife buried in his back. In Michael's back.

He didn’t realize he’d been clenching is jaw so tightly until Mrs. Jarvis touched his arm. He wrenched his attention away from the painful memory—a moment from his first games that unknowingly changed the course of Panem history.

“We saw the broadcast before it was cut,” Ana whispered. Jack didn’t need to ask what she was referring to. “Thank you for helping them. I know it wasn’t easy.”

“Anyone would’ve done it.” Jack lied, keeping his eyes on Sarah. He wasn’t special, he was just the wrong guy in the wrong place at the wrong time. If he had just killed that girl from Eight instead of hesitating, would he even be in this mess?

“I’m sorry about Ten,” he whispered. “They shouldn’t have—none of you deserved that.”

“Mrs. Jarvis and I have found,” Mr. Jarvis said with calculated politeness, “that dwelling on what is ‘deserved’ or ‘not deserved’ is a fruitless endeavor. We survived. We are here now. That is what matters now, is it not?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Jack rubbed the back of his neck. He didn’t want another ‘stop feeling sorry for yourself’ pep talk after Barnes had chewed him out that morning for complaining about the food.  “Um… she’s had a lunch bottle. Been changed and burped. She’ll probably sleep for the next hour—won’t sleep for more than two hours at a time. She likes nursery rhymes, though. Calms her down when she’s fussy and nothing else is working.”

Recognition shone in Ana’s eyes as she dolefully said, “Mrs. Carter sang to her. Before she was born, that is. During bedtime but also if she was kicking too much.”

Jack smiled sadly at the image that came to mind—Peggy in an empty nursery humming to her growing belly and swaying to her own tune. Practicing for a bedtime routine that never came. “I’m sure she sounded a lot better than I do.”

Edwin rubbed his ear nervously and Ana barked out a short laugh. “Not at all, Mr. Thompson. Mrs. Carter is a terrible singer.”

This time, the smile reached Jack's eyes as his mental image changed to Steve wincing at Peggy’s horrible rendition of… something. He only knew one children’s song and he was half sure that Sarah was sick of hearing it by now. “You guys have the same songs we have in One?”

“That depends if you sing about sheep and cows, Mr. Thompson,” Mr. Jarvis answered.

Jack shook his head. The song he knew was about twinkling stars that compared to diamonds—values indoctrinated into District One’s children from birth. 

Sarah began to fuss in Ana’s arms and, as if on instinct, the woman began to sing, “Sarah, sweet, come feed your black sheep—all on a misty morning… Come get your dinner, girl, come. Come. Come. Or else there will be nary a crumb. ”

Sarah calmed instantly and Jack wondered if she had any memories of her mother’s voice singing this particular tune, however out of tune it would have been coming from Peggy.

“I’ll check in after the meeting, see how you’re settling in,” he promised before escaping back into the hallway.

The meeting room was down five levels and two sectors over from the Jarvis' temporary quarters. Every corridor looked the same—grey walls, grey floors, grey doors with simple number and letter designations. If it weren't for the color-coded stripes painted along the baseboards, he'd have been lost a dozen times over by now.

Jack checked his watch. Five minutes to spare. Not early enough to make anyone happy, but not late enough that they could berate him for it.

The double doors to Command slid open as Jack approached. Inside, familiar faces were already gathered around the large conference table. On the far wall, a massive screen was split into four quadrants showing different news feeds from across Panem.

"Thompson," acknowledged Roger Dooley, a stocky man with thinning grey hair and permanent frown lines. As president of Thirteen, Dooley carried himself with the weight of responsibility that came with leading the last hope of rebellion against the Capitol. "Nice of you to join us before we started for once."

"Don't get used to it," Jack replied, taking his seat next to Howard, who was already scribbling something in a notebook.

Across from them sat Daniel Sousa, head of logistics and the first victor to come from District Twelve. His cane rested against the table edge. Jack knew the story—a Career had shattered Sousa's leg during his games, but he'd still managed to outlast everyone. Now he commanded supply lines and resource allocation for the entire rebellion with ruthless efficiency.

"Kid settling in with her new kidnappers?" Sousa asked with thinly veiled hostility.

Jack's jaw tightened. Five weeks in and Sousa still couldn't resist taking jabs at him. "The Jarvises have her now. She's fine ."

"She’ll have to be more than fine to make it in this place," Sousa muttered, just loud enough for Jack to hear.

Jack's hand clenched into a fist under the table. He said nothing.

The doors slid open again, and Natasha Romanoff entered, her red hair a stark contrast to the uniform grey of Thirteen. As head of military operations, she carried a tablet under one arm and nodded tersely to the room. Behind her, a group of men that Jack recognized as his rescuers from the Arena. The Howling Commandos—Thirteen's elite tactical squad. Dum Dum Dugan with his ridiculous mustache and strange hat; Gabe Jones, whose language skills had saved their asses more than once; Jim Morita, silent and watchful as always; and Jacques Dernier, who could turn household items into explosives.

"We're all here," Dooley announced, standing at the head of the table. "Romanoff, queue up the latest broadcast."

“Where’s Barnes?” Jack asked, glancing around the table. 

“Sitting this one out. Something about not wanting to see this again,” Romanoff answered, tapping on her tablet to change the main screen to a single frame—the familiar Capitol seal giving way to Calvin Chadwick’s glittering silver hair and unnaturally white smile. 

"Citizens of Panem," Chadwick’s recorded voice rang with its usual theatrical flair, "we bring you an important message from our beloved Capitol."

The camera panned to reveal Steve Rogers, dressed impeccably in a white suit, sitting stiffly in an interview chair. Jack's jaw tightened. To anyone else, Steve might have looked healthy, even strong. But Jack saw the subtle signs—the dull glaze in his eyes, the almost imperceptible flinch when Chadwick placed a hand on his shoulder. The slight tremor in his own hands.

Jack couldn't help but remember how those same hands had steadied him when they'd worked together to deliver Sarah in the arena. The whole of Panem had watched that birth—had seen their teamwork—and now the Capitol was twisting everything with a little careful editing, just like they had with Jack’s first games.

"Mr. Rogers.” Chadwick smiled tightly. "It’s lovely to have you here with us again, tonight in our magnificent Capitol.”

“It’s lovely to be here,” Steve replied hollowly. 

“It is just amazing how you continue to stand strong for your family, even torn apart as you are.” Scripted words that had been playing since the Arena. Every week, twice a week, clips from their last few hours that had been cleverly crafted to show Jack Thompson doing what he did best: running away. With the newborn Sarah Rogers. 

“Tell us about your thoughts on the unfortunate unrest in the districts," Chadwick prompted.

Steve's voice was steady, too steady. "Violence solves nothing. The districts need to lay down their weapons and trust in the Capitol's mercy."

Beside Jack, Howard snorted quietly.

Steve continued in the recording, "President Schmidt has assured me that all who surrender will be welcomed back as citizens of our great nation. The alternative..." He paused, just a fraction too long. "The alternative is unthinkable destruction. I just want my daughter back from the Rebels who stole her."

As Steve spoke, Jack cataloged the signs that were adding up to paint a gruesome story of Steve’s off-camera reality: the careful way he held himself to avoid showing pain, the mechanical delivery of lines clearly written for him, and most telling—the way his eyes never quite focused on anything.

"They've been working him over," Jack said as the video continued. "Probably sleep deprivation, sensory manipulation. Who knows what kind of drugs. He looks thin."

"We don't need your expertise on torture techniques, Thompson," Sousa cut in coldly. "Some of us have experienced Capitol hospitality firsthand."

"Quiet," Romanoff warned, silencing them both.

When the broadcast ended with Steve's plea for surrender, Dooley muted the screen. "Notice what's missing?"

"No Peggy," Howard stated flatly.

"Four weeks of Capitol broadcasts," Romanoff added, standing to address the room, "and not one appearance from Carter. Rogers is being paraded out every few days with increasingly desperate messages, but his better half is conspicuously absent."

"They know the districts would rally behind her," Howard said. "She’s an all around catch! Ten's first and so far only volunteer—went into the arena at twelve years old after watching her brother… pass away the year before." He didn't look at Jack as he said this, but everyone felt the weight of the unspoken accusation.

Jack kept his expression neutral despite the guilt churning inside him. Michael Carter's death had been as he could make it, but the circumstances had been long buried by the Gamemakers. Michael was dead. That was all that had mattered in the end. To Jack, to Peggy, to all of Panem.

"Why keep her hidden?" Jack asked, though he had his suspicions.

Romanoff’s eyes met his. "Several possibilities. Either she's not cooperating—"

"That’s our Peggy," Howard interjected, amused.

"—or she's in no condition to appear on camera," she finished. 

"If they haven’t shown her off yet, then they’re using her for something else. Maybe a bigger operation." Sousa said, leaning forward. "Conditioning her—making her believe what they want. Like their narrative about what happened in the arena.”

"The edited footage," Jack hissed, stomach sinking. The Capitol's broadcast of the last hour in the arena had shown him snatching Sarah from Peggy's arms and fleeing, cutting out the truth—silencing the screamed instructions from desperate parents as they put themselves between their daughter and the Careers who were really after her. 

Take Sarah and run. 

"They're brainwashing them both," Howard said simply. "Making ‘em believe Jack kidnapped their baby. Among whatever other drivel they can come up with."

"That might explain why Steve keeps looking at the camera like he wants to reach through it and strangle someone," Dugan observed.

Sousa shook his head. "They're probably using Peggy to control him off-camera too. Threatening her to make him comply with these broadcasts."

A heavy silence fell over the room. Jack tried not to think about what the Capitol might be doing to Peggy Carter. He'd seen enough in his time as a Career to know the depths of their cruelty. At least, that’s what he used to think. Now, he wasn’t sure he could stomach imagining something worse .

Dooley cleared his throat. "Which brings us to our response. We need to counter this propaganda. Show the districts that their Shepherds aren't singing the Capitol's tune willingly."

"The Shepherds," Jack repeated with a bitter smile. The symbol had emerged just days after their reaping—two tributes from the livestock district had become the ones leading the masses toward rebellion. 

"We need our own broadcast," Howard insisted. "Something that shows we're strong despite not having Rogers or Carter."

"What about the baby?" Dugan suggested, his voice surprisingly gentle for such a large man.

Jack's head snapped up. "No. Absolutely not."

"We don’t need to show her," Romanoff clarified. "But let people know she’s safe. That there's a next generation worth fighting for. Maybe clear up the kidnapping thing while we’re at it."

Howard turned to Jack. "You helped Peggy give birth. You got Sarah safely here. Don't you think they'd want her to be part of what they started? The daughter of the Shepherds—the story practically writes itself. Pure poetry."

“What happens when Schmidt traces the signal?" Jack challenged. "He’ll come for us. He’ll come for Sarah."

Howard gestured to his notes. "You think I don’t know how to cover a broadcast signal? I’m insulted, Thompson.”

Jack worked his jaw, trying to come up with a valid excuse to keep Sarah away from the limelight, but came up blank. She was already a key character in the Capitol’s story. Everyone knew her face, her name, who her parents were—the only thing that remained a secret so far had been her first smile, which Jack had caused by a complete accident after spilling her bottle everywhere last week.

“Fine.” Jack was outvoted, even by his own logic. 

"We'll need someone to speak," Romanoff said without looking up from her tablet. "Someone the districts will respond to."

All eyes turned to Jack.

"No," he shook his head. "I'm not a speaker. I'm not a leader. I'm just—"

"A Career who turned on the Capitol to save two lowly tributes from Ten," Dooley interrupted. "The man who helped deliver their baby on live television."

"Same man who killed Peggy Carter's brother," Sousa added sharply.

"The pretty boy from One," Howard looked almost dreamily at whatever fanfare his imagination was showing him. "Capitol citizens adore you almost as much as they love Rogers."

"And they saw what you did before they changed the footage," Jones added. "Everyone watched you talk Carter through the pain. They know the Capitol's footage is a lie."

Jack looked around the table, meeting each gaze in turn. Finally, he sighed loudly and scrubbed a hand over his face. "What do you want me to say? Don’t tell me I have to come up with the speech."

Dooley leaned forward. "The truth. That Rogers and Carter fought for something bigger than themselves. That the Shepherds' child is safe and well. That the districts aren't alone."

"We'll film tomorrow," Romanoff decided. "Stark can handle the tech. The Commandos will secure a broadcast signal that can override Capitol frequencies."

"And if this makes things worse for them?" Jack asked, the question directed at no one in particular.

Silence. 

Then Sousa met his eyes from across the table. "It can't get much worse, Thompson. Trust me. I know what Schmidt does to people he wants to break."

"Right," Dooley finally said, breaking the tension. "Romanoff, start working on security protocols. Stark, get your broadcast equipment ready. Sousa, I want an assessment of which districts might respond most strongly to this message. And someone find Barnes—If we can get the broadcast to the Capitol then maybe we can send a message to our missing victors. He’ll know what to say." 

As the meeting devolved into planning, Jack found himself staring at the frozen image of Steve on screen. He thought of the baby now sleeping in Ana Jarvis' arms, and wondered if she would ever know her parents—or if, like so many children in Panem, she would grow up hearing only stories of those who had sacrificed everything for a better world. The Shepherds of District 10, who had led their flock toward freedom.

Outside the room, Romanoff caught Jack by the arm before he could get far. “Hey. Can I walk with you?”

Jack nodded silently. He hadn’t shared more than strategic information with the woman since arriving here, but it seemed more due to her own focused nature than anything Jack was doing socially wrong. Despite her appearance of professional detachment, she seemed to know every face who walked by them. She gave acknowledging nods to Clint Barton—a man from Seven who had managed to get himself and his whole family across the borders. He wasn’t an official soldier, but never said no to a task if they really needed the extra muscle; Maria Carbonell from Three—a brilliant mind Howard seemed to have known from university. Or a club. Or some press conference? Stark’s story changed every time; Rebecca Barnes—Bucky’s sister who arrived just a week after they did. She was the only known survivor from Eleven they knew of (just another reason Barnes had been so quiet since the Arena.) 

Twelve, Eleven, and Ten. Gone. 

Three districts blown to dust in the span of a few weeks. 

Between anticipating Nine’s demise and figuring out how to make any real progress against the Capitol, Dooley was going to be bald by the end of the month.

Natasha stopped them about half way to Jack’s room. She glanced down the corridor before pulling him into a small maintenance alcove. The narrow space forced them to stand closer than either would normally prefer, but privacy mattered more than comfort.

She showed him the tablet. 

“The tribute center?” Jask whispered, glancing between her and the documents.

“Confirmed location this morning.” She looked pleased with herself, like a cat who’d caught a mouse. “That’s where they’re being kept. And the other tribute from Eight, we think.”

“You didn’t say at the meeting…” Jack tried to keep his voice level, ignoring the way his heart picked up speed. “Does Dooley know?

“Yes,” she answered simply. 

Jack shoved the tablet back at her, nostrils flaring at the implications. “Then why the hell isn’t he doing anything?”

"He is doing something," Natasha replied, her voice lowered to barely above a whisper. "Just not the something you or I would prefer."

Jack's jaw tightened. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"It means," she said, scrolling to another document, "that Dooley believes a rescue operation is too risky with our current resources. The official stance is to continue with propaganda efforts and strengthen our position in the remaining districts."

"While Rogers and Carter rot in the Tribute Center?" Jack hissed. "While they turn them into weapons against us?"

A hint of a smile touched Natasha's lips. "I never said I agreed with the official stance."

Jack studied her face, understanding slowly dawning. "You're putting together an op."

"Off the books." She nodded, expression serious again. "But not without a good plan. And an even better team."

The tablet now showed a detailed schematic of the Tribute Center's security systems.

Jack recognized Howard's handiwork in the annotations. "Stark's in on this?"

"Howard has certain... feelings about leaving friends behind." Natasha swiped to reveal the team roster. "The boys too, though Dooley doesn't know that. Yet."

Jack scanned the list. Six names including Natasha's. No mention of his own.

"I'm not on here," he said, trying to keep the edge from his voice.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "Your job is to keep the kid safe, be the face of our broadcast. If something goes wrong—"

"If something goes wrong, Rogers and Carter deserve to know someone's looking after their daughter," Jack cut in. "But nothing's going to go wrong because I'll be there to make sure it doesn't."

"Pretty confident for someone who spent most of his time in luxury before all this."

"I was a Career, Romanoff. I know how the Capitol thinks, how they move. I know the Center better than anyone here except Barnes." Jack held her gaze. "And I owe them."

Natasha was silent for a long moment, assessing him with those unreadable green eyes. 

Finally, she nodded once. "We move in four days. After the broadcast. Memorize these and then delete them. We meet tomorrow at 0200 in sublevel C, storage room 12. Don't be late."

"Who else knows?"

"Barnes. He's not sitting out meetings because he's traumatized—” Jack raised eyebrow and Natasha amended with a shrug, “Well, he is. But he's planning the infiltration routes, too." She started to move past him out of the alcove, then paused. "One more thing, Thompson."

"Yeah?"

"If Dooley asks—"

Jack gave a humorless laugh. "I know nothing. Just focusing on my speech like a good little propaganda piece."

Natasha's lips curved in the ghost of a smile. "Maybe you're smarter than you look."

Chapter Text

Jack let his finger rest on the trigger of the rifle they'd given him. Standard issue like the rest of the team (save for Stark who manned their tech safely from the get-away jet.) The weapon felt heavy in his hands, its presence another bleak reminder of how much had changed. The last time he'd been inside the Tribute Center, the most dangerous thing he'd carried was a flute of champagne and perhaps too much hubris.

His footsteps felt unnaturally loud against the marble floors, each step a betrayal in the suffocating silence. Jack remembered these halls filled with the constant hum of activity—clinking glasses, boisterous laughter, and the perpetual buzz of excitement as Gamemakers and Capitol elites discussed the spectacle they were orchestrating. Now, the absence of sound pressed against his eardrums like a physical weight.

Jack tried to keep his eyes forward as they crept by familiar rooms that he once was able to find while blindfolded. Conference rooms where strategies were plotted over lavish meals now sat dark and abandoned. Kitchens that once bustled with servers preparing extravagant displays stood cold and lifeless. 

They approached a set of grand glass doors, easily twice his height, which led into one of the ballrooms. Jack remembered these doors constantly swinging open and closed, attendants rushing to accommodate the steady stream of guests. Now they stood partially open, forgotten sentinels to an era rapidly crumbling. He gestured silently to the team, and they cut through the space, feet echoing on the lacquered wooden dance floor.

This room should be deafening with music and conversation, glasses clinking in toasts to the Games. Even now, the scent of stale luxury still hung in the air—expensive perfumes and polished wood mingling with a new undercurrent of dust and neglect. 

He flinched as someone's foot crunched over glass, realizing it was his own. 

He paused to look down. 

An ornament from one of the chandeliers that lined the ceiling had fallen, several in fact littering the ground. The broken crystal caught the faint emergency lighting, scattering tiny pinpricks of light across the walls like distorted stars.

When he was younger, he used to think the glass was glued on for safety—another item for the growing list of things Peggy Carter had proved Jack wrong about over the years. Although, in defense of the chandeliers, Peggy hadn’t been a fully grown adult when she managed to climb up the fixtures unnoticed. She’d been thirteen years old and ‘slippery as a damn eel,’ so her minders constantly complained. 

The youngest Victor to ever win and no one could find her at her own party.

The first pendalogue to drop had landed in Jack’s wine (being seventeen didn’t seem to discourage anyone from serving him alcohol during a party.) The second, on his cheek as he looked up to investigate the unexpected precipitation, leaving a shallow scrape. Peggy had seemed chuffed to have missed his eye, but disappeared into the vent system rather than taking a third shot at him.

Jack didn’t ask the band of peacekeepers and hosts (and lone medical tech) who proceeded to swarm around him who the girl was. He recognized Michael’s eyes, even in the form of a sister staring him down from some ten feet above. 

"East wing clear," Romanoff's voice came through the comm unit in his ear, the soft electronic buzz startling in the quiet. "Moving to position."

A distant metallic groan echoed through the building, making Jack tense. In the old days, such a sound would have been swallowed by the cacophony of celebration. Now it stood out like a gunshot. He glanced at Jones, who nodded slightly—they'd all heard it. The building itself seemed to be mourning its abandonment, settling into disuse with creaks and sighs.

He stepped carefully around another fallen crystal ornament, the silence wrapping around him like a shroud as they continued deeper into the building. Most Gamemakers and staff had been reassigned to propaganda efforts after the failed Quarter Quell. The skeleton security team—all that remained after the reassignments—guarded the medical wing where intel suggested Steve and Peggy were being held. 

Jack really ought to be saving his anxieties for when they were a little closer to their mission targets, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Not just observed, but stalked. Herded like a barn animal. 

They approached a junction in their route. Natasha signaled for the team to halt.

"Split," she whispered, voice barely audible even in the silence. "Me, Jones, Dugan—right. Thompson, you're with Barnes. Left."

Jack nodded, watching as the other half of the team slipped away like shadows, their movements fluid and practiced. Bucky motioned for him to follow, and they pressed on through the darkened hallway.

This path would take them past the administrative offices. Jack tried to focus on the mission, on the path ahead, but his eyes kept drifting to the nameplates on the doors they passed. Names he knew. People he'd grown up around, watching from a distance as they orchestrated death for sport year after year.

They turned a corner, and Jack's steps faltered.

"Thompson," Barnes hissed, noticing his hesitation. "Keep moving."

But Jack couldn't. His feet felt rooted to the floor as he stared at the nameplate on the last door of the corridor: THOMPSON, SECURITY OPERATIONS.

His father's office.

The door was ajar open, a sliver of dim light spilling into the hallway. Before he could process what he was doing, Jack had pushed it open and stepped inside.

"Thompson! What the hell—" Barnes' angry whisper faded as Jack moved deeper into the room.

The office was small and utilitarian, nothing like the opulent quarters of most Capitol officials. On the desk sat a framed photo, face down. It was the only obvious decoration piece in the whole room.

Jack picked it up, his breath catching—a younger version of his father stood beside a younger Schmidt, but there was something off about their expressions. His father's eyes held a coldness Jack had never seen directed at family.

The rest of the office was in disarray—drawers pulled out, papers scattered across the desk. His father must have left in a hurry when the evacuation orders came. Jack's eyes scanned the chaos, landing on a black leather-bound notebook lying open on the desk.

On the cover, the conspicuous gold emblem of District 13.

His limbs froze. The world around him seemed to contract, narrowing to just that notebook. He moved toward it as if pulled by an invisible force, barely aware of Barnes slipping into the room behind him and quietly closing the door.

The notebook was filled with his father's precise handwriting. Diagrams. Notes. Lists of names with notations beside them. And there, circled in red ink several times over: QQ , draw from victor pool—save J? 

Jack's ears began to ring, a high-pitched whine that seemed to block out everything else. He tried to make sense of what he was seeing—tried to fit pieces together that refused to align, like forcing a square peg into a round hole.

"Thompson," Barnes's voice sounded distant, underwater. "Jack, we need to go. Now."

Jack couldn't tear his eyes from the notebook. There was a photograph clipped to one page—his father standing with a group of men Jack didn't recognize. Except one. The man on the far right, with his arm around his father’s shoulders. Roger Dooley.

“Last warning.” Barnes’ bruising grip on his shoulder only barely grounded Jack back to reality. “We’re going to miss the extraction window.”

He finally looked up, meeting Barnes's indignant gaze. "He planned it," Jack whispered. "They planned everything."

“This is my shocked face,” Bucky deadpanned. He spared the quickest glance at the book before tearing it from Jack’s hands and shoving it into his own pocket. “You get this back if you don’t get us fucking killed.”

“Hey!” Jack instinctively reached for the notebook but Bucky slapped Jack’s hand away with his metal one considerably harder than necessary. “What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” Bucky was already moving back towards the door, giving the hallway a quick visual to confirm they were still alone. 

“I’m not—” A hundred comebacks on the tip of his tongue but none of them left Jack’s mouth. “This is my father’s office. He was—”

“Don’t care. I told Nat I didn’t want to get stuck babysitting the pretty boy.” Bucky’s back was to Jack now as he studied the hall with the same vigilance that had kept him alive in the arena. “I’m not risking Steve’s life for your guilty conscience.” 

And then Barnes was gone. 

Jack stood frozen in the empty doorway for a long moment, the shock of Barnes's abrupt departure washing over him like ice water. One moment the soldier had been there, the next—gone. Vanished into the shadows with his father's notebook.

"Barnes," he hissed into the darkness, but there was no response. Just the unsettling silence of the mostly abandoned building pressing in around him.

Alone. He was alone in enemy territory.

The reality of his situation crashed down on him. They had a mission—a critical extraction—and he'd let himself get distracted by... what? A desperate need to understand his father? To find some explanation that might absolve the Thompson name of its complicity? 

"Idiot," he muttered to himself, anger rising hot and sharp in his chest. He threw his gun to the ground and ran his hands through his hair, his fingers trembling slightly. 

Barnes was right to leave him behind. Jack was a liability. He couldn’t even call himself a Career anymore. Not a Victor. Not a Rebel, despite the last many weeks of trying to be. He was just the pretty boy from One who couldn't follow simple instructions and couldn't set aside his personal feelings for the greater mission.

They’d put their trust in a nobody . 

A sound from the hallway jerked him back to attention—footsteps approaching at a measured pace. Jack felt a surge of relief. Barnes had come back for him, despite everything. Of course he had. The soldier might be cold, but he wouldn't abandon a team member, no matter how much they deserved it.

Jack stepped toward the doorway, ready to apologize, to promise he'd stay focused from here on out.

"Barnes, I—"

The words died in his throat as two uniformed guards rounded the corner, their weapons raised. Not Barnes. Definitely not Barnes.

Time seemed to slow. Jack registered several things at once: the guards' expressions shifting from surprise to recognition, the slight adjustment in their stance as they prepared to fire, the cold certainty that he'd made his last mistake.

His hand moved toward his knife, but it wouldn’t have mattered. One of them already pulled the trigger.

The sound was oddly muted—a soft pfft that seemed incongruous with the explosion of pain in Jack’s stomach that followed. He felt the impact like a hammer strike, the force of it sending him stumbling backward into his father's office.

He didn't remember falling, but suddenly he was on the floor, looking up at the ceiling. Curious patterns of light danced across the surface—reflections from something outside, somewhere. They were strangely beautiful.

This was a fitting end, Jack decided. Not going down in some glorious battle or heroic sacrifice, but bleeding out on his father's office floor because he couldn't get his head straight. Because he couldn't let go of the past long enough to secure the future.

Carter would be disappointed. No—she would be furious. He could almost see her standing over him, hands on hips, that familiar look of exasperation and annoyance warring on her face. " Really , Jack? This is how you go out? Not dignified at all, is it?"

He wanted to tell her he was sorry. For this. For everything. For not being strong enough or good enough or brave enough when it mattered most. 

For lying to her about her brother.

The guards were speaking as they approached him—something about checking his pockets—but their voices were fading now, growing distant as darkness crept in at the edges of Jack's vision. 

Peggy’s phantom form sighed and walked away from him wordlessly, heels clicking as if she walked on a hard surface instead of the carpeted floors of the office. 

Around him the air was saturated with the new smell of cow manure, though the scents seemed to change with each breath—sweet like Capitol perfume, then metallic like blood. 

He sat up, scrambling to his feet on a wooden stage. The Capitol anthem rang in his ears, though it kept distorting, stretching like taffy until the notes became unrecognizable. 

His stylist had dressed him in a deep blue suit with gold accents—District One's colors—and he could feel sweat trickling down his back despite the cool air of early spring. The sweat felt wrong somehow, too thick, too warm, as though his body was trying to purge something more substantial than water.

Jack straightened his tie.

Sixteen years old and a victor. That's what they called him now, the word "victor" seeming to echo back at him from invisible walls, multiplying until it became meaningless noise.

The mayor finished his introduction, and Jack stepped forward to the microphone on cue. The distance to the microphone kept shifting, forcing him to take three steps when it should have been one. Before him, the people of District 10 started with hollow eyes and tight expressions. They didn't applaud. They never did in the outlying districts. His mentor, Vernon, had warned him about that before the first speech in Twelve. The crowd's silence was deafening, a physical pressure against his eardrums, and their faces began to blur together into a single, judging entity.

Jack straightened the note cards in his teenage hands. 

The words were not his own. They never were. A Capitol speechwriter had crafted every line, and Jack had spent hours memorizing them under Vernon's watchful eye. One wrong word, one deviation from the script, and there would be consequences. As he spoke, he could feel invisible strings attached to his jaw, puppeteering his mouth into shapes not of his choosing.

"People of District 10," Jack began, his voice wavering despite weeks of practice. The words emerged visible from his mouth, hanging in the air like frost, before shattering into glittering dust. "I am honored to stand before you today as victor of the 59th Hunger Games."

On two raised platforms, perfectly symmetrical in their enormity, stood the families of the fallen. The platforms seemed to grow taller as he watched, stretching impossibly toward clouds that hadn't been there moments before. 

A large cluster of women stood beneath the portrait of District 10's female victor. The Griffith family, someone had reminded Jack before stepping off the train. In his distorted memory, their ages kept shifting, young and old blurring together. Each time he tried to count them he came up with a different number. 

The family below the boy’s picture was small, just two stiff-backed adults and a young girl with dark hair in neat braids. She looked barely old enough to be reaped and her eyes burned into him with an intensity that made Jack's stomach twist into a firm knot. As he watched, her eyes literally smoldered, tiny flames dancing in her irises, casting flickering shadows across her face.

His own eyes darted upward, where giant screens displayed the faces of the fallen tributes. The screens pulsated like beating hearts. The Griffith girl’s image showed a round-faced woman with a hesitant smile, her portrait clearly taken just after the reaping. But as he watched, her expression changed, her smile turning to a grimace, her eyes blinking slowly as though she could see him. But it was the other image that made Jack's breath catch painfully in his chest.

Michael Carter stared out over the square, his features magnified to ten times life-size. The Capitol had chosen a shot of him from the interview night—confident, handsome, with that half-smile that had made the audience lean forward in their seats. His blonde hair was swept back, eyes alert and intelligent, but a thin sheen of sweat was collecting on his forehead the more Jack watched. 

Fever. Jack knew it with every bone in his body. “It’s infected,” he told the screen with concern. “I can’t save you.”

"Then, talk to me. Distract me," said Michael without moving his lips. His voice wasn’t his, but a woman’s. Heaving breaths like he had been exerting incredible amounts of energy. 

Like she had been pushing for too long. 

Beneath Michael’s image, the little girl with braids had aged a decent few years—the circles under her eyes darker but the hatred no less firm. She held in her hand a piece of glass meant to hang on a chandelier and without warning threw it at Jack and cried out his name. “Thompson, wake up!”

The shard went right through his core, putting him on his back again and sending fresh waves of pain through his abdomen. 

Arms cradled his crumpled form. He looked up to see Peggy Carter, jumpsuit dirtied from days trying to survive an arena and eyes unnaturally violet, like a coming dawn.

With a grunt, Jack yanked metal forceps out from where they’d lodged in his abdomen. “I didn’t mean to—”

“There’s another way, Jack,” Peggy whispered in Michael’s voice. “Not a way home. But a way out.” 

She raised her hand high, pointing at the sky, which had changed to the color of bluebells. The clouds formed accusatory faces—all people Jack recognized from the Games, tributes whose names he'd memorized and whose deaths he'd witnessed. Some he'd killed himself.

Then, without warning, her hand came down to strike.

The sharp sting of a palm against his cheek brought Jack back to consciousness. His eyes fluttered open to see Barnes leaning over him, face streaked with blood and grime. For a moment, Barnes's features blurred with Michael's, the two faces superimposed in Jack's confused mind.

"About time," Barnes muttered, relief barely visible beneath his scowl. "Can you stand?"

Jack tried to push himself up, only to collapse back with a strangled cry as fire lanced through his side. Looking down, he saw his shirt soaked with blood despite the hasty field dressing which hadn’t been there before.

"Guess that's a no," Barnes said grimly. "We've got a problem."

Jack's vision cleared enough to see they weren't alone. A thin woman with matted brown curls sat slumped against the wall, her tribute outfit torn and stained. Her eyes, though glassy with exhaustion, held a sharp awareness.

"Martinelli," Jack whispered, recognizing the girl from Eight. Angie Martinelli had won her Games three years ago by outlasting the others in a flooded arena—the only victor in recent memory who hadn't killed a single other tribute to win.

"Hey there, handsome," she managed, her voice hoarse. "Fancy meeting you again."

"Where are the others?" Jack asked, gritting his teeth against the pain which seemed to pulse in time with the memory of Barne’s previous abandonment.

Barnes checked his watch. "Extraction point. Evac leaves in five minutes—with or without us. Got Rogers and Carter out. They're alive. I doubled back for you when you didn't show."

"And her?" Jack nodded toward Angie.

"Found her locked in one of the labs." Barnes looked between them, his expression grim. "Can't carry you both."

The implication hung in the air. Someone would have to stay behind. 

Jack felt a surge of relief rather than fear—perhaps this was his chance to balance the scales, to make one thing right among so many wrongs.

"Take him," Angie said, struggling to her feet. "I'll create a diversion."

Jack stared at her in disbelief. Guilt swelled inside him, a living thing with teeth and claws, threatening to tear him apart from within. He deserved to be left behind. Deserved worse. "No. No, you go. I got myself into this mess."

Angie gave a hollow laugh. "Are you kidding me? I saw your broadcast, Mr. World Class Traitor.” Thirteen’s counter propaganda had aired just two days prior despite Jack’s protests about showing Sarah’s face. “You’re the next pretty face of the Rebellion.”

It wasn’t meant as an insult, Jack was almost sure, but the words stuck deeper than his apparent bullet wound. Traitor . Yes, he was that—to Michael, to the Career pack, to the Capitol, and now to this woman who offered to die in his place. 

"I let everyone down," Jack argued, the pain making his vision swim. "I wasn't there when they needed me. I was distracted, selfish—"

"Oh, put a sock in it," Martinelli said with surprising force. "You think you're the only one with regrets? I've been watching you Careers strut around like you own the place for years. But you—it’s different. You're somebody in this war. You can still use that."

"And what are you?" Jack challenged, desperate for her to understand that his life wasn't worth saving. The masks he wore for the cameras and crowds were just that—masks hiding the coward beneath.

Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "I’m a nobody , kid. You think my win was anything but dumb luck? I didn't kill anyone—just climbed higher than the others when they flooded the arena. I wasn't supposed to be on that stage. Wasn't supposed to win. When they called my name for the Quell, I knew what everyone else knew—I was never part of this script."

Barnes glanced anxiously toward the exit. "We don't have time for this."

But Angie continued, her words tumbling out like she'd been holding them in too long. "You know what I did in that arena while all you Careers were hunting each other? I made traps. Dozens of them. Nothing lethal—just enough to keep people away from the Shepherds—to do my part. Keep you distracted."

Jack's eyes widened as realization dawned. "Those trip wires near the stream… The false tracks leading north when they were heading south…" Even in his Games, other tributes had been working toward something larger while he had focused only on survival. On winning. 

"You're welcome," she smiled, this time to herself, laughing at her own joke. "Someone had to look out for the pregnant lady."

Barnes checked his watch again. "Three minutes. I swear to god you’re gonna get me killed." He impatiently grabbed Jack’s arm and hoisted the wounded man over his shoulders. 

“Wait!” Jack cried, half for the woman they were leaving to the wolves and half because the movement was almost enough to make him pass out again. “We can’t just—

“Go on, hot shot,” Angie rolled her eyes, but he could see the wetness on her cheeks. “This ain’t the time to start worrying about little old me.”

“Buck, you have to do something,” Jack groaned weakly. He wasn’t going to stay conscious much longer.

“The hell you want me to do, mercy kill her?” Bucky growled.

A beat of silence passed. 

Angie pointed to one of the pistols at Bucky’s sides. “Gimme that.” 

A quick shuffling of Jack’s weight, then Barnes dropped the loaded gun into her hands. 

Jack managed to turn his head to hold Angie’s gaze for a moment. Her eyes held no accusation, no blame—just quiet resolution. It was worse than hatred would have been. Jack wanted to apologize, to thank her, to promise her sacrifice wouldn't be wasted like Michael's had been. But the words died in his throat, choked by guilt thick as blood.

As Bucky moved them away, breaking into a sprint that sent jolts of agony through Jack, they heard the sound of a single shot being fired.

Chapter Text

The Tribute Center's Grand Viewing Hall buzzed with the controlled chaos of Capitol attendants flitting between clusters of victors, sponsors, and various high class civilians. Crystal glasses clinked, pungent perfume mingled with overpriced cologne, and forced laughter echoed off marble walls. 

Screens lined the perimeter, each tuned to a different district's reaping ceremony.

Jack adjusted his tie, an uncomfortable Capitol-issued affair in District 1's signature deep blue with gold accents. He knew as well as any Career that he would never be allowed to pass up the “opportunity” to represent his district at the Opening Ceremonies. This had been his life for the last six years and would be for the foreseeable remainder—if the presence of seventy-something year old Victor Ambraham Erskine was any hint. 

Jack wondered if he’d make it to such an age and what he would possibly do with all the time if he ever did. Erskine, unlike the Victors who wasted their days with increasingly creative forms of intoxication, had thrown himself towards the betterment of his own district with agricultural innovations that had doubled Ten’s grain production. 

Unfortunately, the line between a brilliant scientist and a mad one was paper-thin in the eye of the Capitol. Erskine's ever tightening leash made morphling seem like a better option to Jack. 

"Thompson," called Rumlow from across the room, raising a glass. "Come join us. We've got the good stuff."

Brock Rumlow had won the 57th Games at seventeen by setting elaborate traps that brutally dismembered his victims. Like most victors from Two, he embraced his role as Capitol darling with apparent enthusiasm. 

Jack made his way over, accepting the offered drink.

"Quite the turnout this year," Rumlow commented, gesturing around the room where victors from all twelve districts mingled uneasily. "Even got Erskine out of his home-lab."

Erskine had been the youngest Victor to win until Peggy Carter’s impressive sweep five years ago. Now that she had been saddled with mentoring each subsequent female tribute from Ten, Erskine and Phillips flipped a coin each year to see who took care of Ten’s male.

Chester Phillips, winner of the 12th Games and Peggy’s own mentor, hadn’t made it to the party this year. Reports of a heart attack came last week, but Ten’s remaining Victors hadn’t said anything about it, yet.

Seemed they weren’t saying much of anything this year, since Jack hadn’t even laid eyes on Peggy since her supposed arrival a few hours ago. 

His gaze followed Rumlow's nod to where Erskine stood watching the Reaping, near the District Ten screen. As Jack watched, a few people shifted revealing a young woman standing next to the old man. 

“Think of the devil and she will appear,” he muttered to himself.

Peggy, with her hair longer than Jack had ever seen it, looked nothing like the painted doll of last year’s party. She wore a simple blue dress, modest by Capitol standards, and she was listening intently to whatever Erskine was saying—posture tense.

"Trouble in cattle country?" Rumlow chuckled, noticing Jack's stare

Jack made himself look away, forcing a laugh into a sip of his drink.

On the other side of the room, he spotted Dottie Underwood, his district partner in mentoring. Just a few years older than Jack, Dottie had terrifyingly won her games with her bare hands, and was now happily filling the role of Schmidt’s favorite toy. 

She caught his eye and raised her glass with a predatory smile. Jack nodded politely but made no move to join her.

On screen, Ten’s annual escort—a woman with skin dyed an unnatural shade of green—was reaching into the female tribute bowl. Jack watched Peggy's shoulders tense further as a name was called: "Colleen O'Brien!"

The camera panned to a thin girl with stringy blonde hair, maybe fifteen, who walked toward the stage with leaden steps. No volunteers. Jack wasn't surprised—Ten’s one and only volunteer was clinging to Erskine’s arm with white knuckled anxiety. 

The moment the name "Steven Rogers" echoed through the speakers, Jack saw Peggy's composure crack. She all but fell into Erskine trying to keep her knees from buckling. 

Jack frowned to find his feet already taking him in Peggy’s direction before he had decided to go to her. 

The camera panned to a scrawny blonde boy, smaller than he probably ought to be. 

As Rogers approached the stage Jack approached Peggy. He could hear fragments of her urgent whispers to Erskine.

"—can't be him, Abraham, please—"

"—nothing to be done now—"

Jack circled behind them, pretending to be interested in Eleven’s Reaping playing on the adjacent screen. In the corner, he noticed Barnes: Eleven's “Winter Victor”, named due to his success in an arctic arena the year before Jack’s. The man was known for his controversial mentoring style which included no actual teaching—a stance rumored to stem from his barely-private belief that the Games were rigged against the outlying districts.  

Barnes seemed to be watching Peggy’s behavior as closely as Jack was. She was clinging to Erskine now, her usual composure completely abandoned.

"He won't last a day," she was saying, voice barely audible. "His asthma alone—"

"I know what he means to you," Erskine replied, equally quiet. Jack had to strain to hear. "I promise I will keep him safe."

Peggy pulled back slightly, studying Erskine's face. "You can’t promise—"

" Trust me , Margaret." Erskine's voice took on a strange intensity and dropped even lower, causing Jack to only hear. "I know—” and “—commissioned to design it."

Jack shifted closer, but Frost's sharp laughter from across the room drew both his and Erskine's attention. 

Whitney Frost. Victor of the 54th Games. Comfortably (if not strategically) married to its long term host, Calvin Chadwick. The glamorous personality she presented belied the sharp mind she used to win her Games. Her time was now poured into whatever scientific advancement the President deemed most pressing—mostly splitting her energy between Districts Three and Five as a consulting engineer, despite her origin in Two.

Erskine’s eyes narrowed in her direction before he smoothly guided Peggy away toward the refreshment table, away from prying eyes.

Away from Jack’s prying ears, as well.

For the rest of the evening, he watched them from a distance. Peggy discreetly dabbed at her eyes a few times, but kept herself steady even if her hands trembled while shaking hands with various somebodies from the Capitol. Her eyes frequently darted to the replay of the Rogers kid taking his place as a tribute, prompting a sip of her drink each time. Erskine remained at her side, occasionally whispering something that would steady her when she seemed ready to crumble again.

Vernon Masters, Jack’s original mentor, appeared at his side at some point during the night. Masters had grown into his name since his win over fifty years ago. He was considered One’s best military asset, having maintained the best Victor to Tribute ratio of any mentor.

"Careful where you cast your attention, son," Masters murmured, his voice carrying the weight of his decades-long record in the Capitol's favor. "Some interests are more dangerous than others."

Jack kept his expression neutral. "Just sizing up the competition."

Masters smiled thinly. "See that it stays that way. One doesn't survive this long without knowing which games are worth playing. Your father certainly knows that." He patted Jack's shoulder with a grip that was still surprisingly strong and moved away to charm a group of potential sponsors.

It wasn't until the formal viewing concluded that Jack managed to corner Peggy in the hall outside, guests filtering around them as people trickled from the room. 

"Carter," he called, catching up to her a few strides from the door. "Wait up."

“Thompson.” She turned, mask firmly back in place. "Don't tell me—you think I’m going to get lost on my way to bed without you?"

"Cut the act," he said quietly, pulling her to the side for a semblance of privacy. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I often wonder the same about you,” she glared, then added after earning Jack’s offended scoff, “You’re going to have to be more specific.

“I heard him.” Jack prompted and let out an involuntary grunt of frustration when she didn’t respond—he couldn’t just repeat it in the middle of the hall where anyone could hear. “Erskine promised you—Wanna tell me bout that? Hmm?"

“I didn’t peg you for an eavesdropper, Thompson.” Peggy's expression hardened, hands clenching at her sides. “Abraham promised to mentor Steve because it’s his job . That’s all."

"No," Jack raised his hand to point an accusatory finger. "There was more to it than that. This Rogers kid—you know him?"

A few guests filtered by them, laughing drunkenly with each other, before Peggy spoke.

"Yes. I know him," she said tersely. "Wouldn’t be the first time they’ve reaped someone I’ve known."

Jack ran a hand through his hair. "Carter, you can't get attached to tributes. Remember how Sharon turned out—"

“I was thirteen years old!” She snapped at him loudly enough that Jack instinctively reached out to cover her mouth. She slapped it away and continued hotly, “I was thirteen and she was my cousin. What were you doing at thirteen, Jack? Getting lessons on which spoons go with which knives?”

He squared his jaw, fighting the urge to check behind him.  “I’m just trying to look out for you. Whatever Erskine is planning—"

"He's planning to teach, just like every other damn year we’ve been dragged to this place." She interrupted firmly. "Let it go, Jack."

Jack studied her face, searching for the truth. He should report this—this obvious emotional entanglement. Erskine's cryptic promises. Any hint of collusion between a tribute and a mentor warranted investigation. Mentor to mentor, however, had always been a little more grey on what was strictly allowed.

Certainly not this.

“Look,” Jack sighed. “Whatever this is, just be careful. Looks weird when you get too buddy-buddy with the crazy old guy.”

Peggy rolled her eyes. “Says Master's lap-dog.”

“Watch it,” he warned as he turned to walk away.

The Capitol's Grand Ballroom was a testament to excess, all gold and crystal and strategically placed cameras. Jack had spent six years pretending to enjoy these events, but tonight his attention was fixed on something other than schmoozing sponsors.

District 10's tributes had arrived with the others by train that afternoon, and the transformation was already well underway. The stylists had been working overtime—even the scrawny Rogers kid looked marginally less pathetic in formal attire, though the suit hung from his bony shoulders like it belonged to someone else.

Jack leaned against a marble column, nursing his second whiskey of the evening. The mandatory dance portion of the night was underway, mentors paired with their tributes to demonstrate Capitol civility before the arena's barbarism. 

Dottie was already dragging their fledgling of a male tribute through an elaborate waltz, her smile dazzling and utterly false. Jack would be expected to do the same with the girl soon enough, but for now, he watched.

Specifically, he watched Peggy.

She moved across the floor with surprising grace. The Rogers boy could barely keep up, his breathing labored even at this gentle pace. Jack saw him stumble twice, but Peggy steadied him each time with apparent ease, as though she'd done it a hundred times before.

"Quite the curious pair, aren't they?"

Jack turned to find Erskine beside him, crystal tumbler in hand, eyes fixed on Rogers and Carter.

"I didn't hear you approach," Jack said, straightening slightly.

Erskine's lips quirked into a small smile. "Not all victories are won through strength, Mr. Thompson." He nodded toward the dance floor. "Some are won through perseverance."

Jack followed his gaze back to the couple. There was something in the way they moved together—a familiarity that went beyond mentor and tribute. Beyond friends, maybe. Rogers said something that made Peggy laugh, a genuine sound that Jack had never heard from her before. Her hand brushed the boy's hair from his forehead with an intimacy that made Jack's chest tighten.

"They know each other," Jack said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes." Erskine sipped his drink. "Steve has been a friend to Margaret for many years."

"That's a conflict of interest."

"Is it?" Erskine asked mildly. He pushed his small round glasses further up his nose, light catching and obscuring his eyes as he added, "The Games conflate so many interests, Mr. Thompson. I find it difficult to keep track."

The music shifted to something slower, and Jack watched as Rogers faltered, clearly exhausted. Peggy moved closer, supporting more of his weight, turning their dance into something more like an embrace. For a moment, they simply swayed together, foreheads nearly touching.

"She'll get herself killed," Jack muttered. "Or worse."

"Perhaps." Erskine's voice had dropped lower. "But some things are worth the risk. Even in a world such as ours."

The old man's eyes held a strange intensity when Jack turned to look at him—the same intense expression he'd worn when making those mysterious promises to Peggy the previous night.

"What are you planning, Erskine?" Jack asked bluntly.

"Planning? I'm simply mentoring my tribute." Erskine smiled thinly. "As I have done for the last sixty years. Give or take"

"Bullshit. I heard you last night. You promised her something."

"I promised to keep him safe," Erskine acknowledged. "As any mentor would."

"Mentoring 101," Jack sneered. "No one makes that promise. Especially not you outlier Victors.”  

On the dance floor, the music ended. Peggy and Rogers separated, but their hands remained clasped between them for several seconds longer than necessary. Jack saw Peggy's thumb brush across the boy's knuckles before they finally parted.

Jack felt the familiar prickle of eyes on the back of his neck and spared a glance over the room to find President Schmidt’s calculating eyes locked onto Carter and Rogers.

Erskine followed Jack's gaze and sighed deeply. "Tell me, Mr. Thompson—what would you risk for someone you loved?"

Before Jack could answer, Erskine drained his glass and set it on a passing server's tray. "A question for another time, perhaps. If you'll excuse me, I must speak with my tribute."

As Erskine walked away, Jack's attention returned to Peggy. She stood at the edge of the dance floor now, watching Rogers with undisguised concern as Erskine led him toward a quiet corner of the ballroom. Her shoulders were rigid with tension, hands clasped tightly at her waist.

Jack once again found himself moving toward her before he'd consciously decided to do so.

"You're being obvious," he said quietly, stopping beside her.

Peggy didn't look at him. "I don't care."

"You should." Jack nodded toward a cluster of Capitol officials watching the proceedings. "They do."

"What do you want, Thompson?" she asked, finally turning to face him.

Jack smiled thinly and offered his hand. "Dance with me."

Surprise flickered across Peggy’s face. "Why?"

"Because right now, everyone in this room is watching you watch him." Jack kept his voice even. "And some of them are wondering why. Including me."

Peggy's eyes darted around the room, noting the attention they'd drawn. After a moment's hesitation, she placed her hand in his.

As he led her onto the dance floor, Jack caught sight of Erskine and Rogers deep in conversation. The old man's hand rested on the boy's shoulder, his expression one of profound compassion as Rogers spoke animatedly about something, blue eyes bright despite his apparent frailty.

"He won't survive," Jack said softly as he guided Peggy through the opening steps of the dance.

"He will." Her voice was steel.

"Carter—"

"He will survive," she repeated, fingers tightening painfully around his. 

"You're in love with him," Jack realized aloud.

Peggy missed a step, then recovered smoothly. "My personal feelings are irrelevant."

Jack almost laughed at that. "Why don’t I ask Schmidt to replay his Reaping for you and then we’ll see how relevant your personal feelings are.”

Peggy stopped their movements suddenly. "Are you threatening me, Jack?"

Jack grabbed her hands and pushed her hurriedly back onto the beat, guiding her through a turn and using the movement to scan the room to see if anyone had noticed. 

Barnes was watching them with unnerving focus. Rumlow from Two was deep in conversation with Frost, both occasionally glancing toward Erskine and Rogers.

"I'm trying to understand," Jack said finally. "What's so special about this kid that has both you and Erskine acting so stupid?"

For a long moment, Peggy said nothing. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible. "I think he might be the only truly good person left in Panem."

The music ended before Jack could respond. Peggy stepped away from him immediately, her mask of Capitol-appropriate civility sliding back into place with ease. She nodded politely, as though they'd just shared a pleasant dance rather than a charged exchange of veiled threats and half-confessions.

"Thank you for the dance, Mr. Thompson," she said formally.

As she walked away, Jack saw her path angle subtly toward where Erskine still stood with Rogers. The old scientist caught Jack's eye across the room and nodded once—acknowledgment or warning, Jack couldn't tell.

“Is that a wig?” was Jack’s first question when Peggy found Jack alone in the viewing room. Her hair, now strikingly blonde, had been straightened and extended to end just above her waist. The makeup, heavy around her eyes and cheeks, was almost enough to disguise her teenage brass—her face a little longer, each feature a little sharper. Her gold lamé dress hugged tight to her waist while the sleeves draped a ways off her shoulders, leaving very little of her figure to the imagination. 

The fabric rustled as she sat down stiffly next to him, turning almost silver in the pale light of the digitized arena. Each screen section remained dedicated to live footage of its specific tributes. 

The room was long empty of any party guests, just the two of them who probably ought to be anywhere else. Jack kept finding himself back in here since the starting cannon went off a few hours ago—waiting for the other shoe to drop. By watching Rogers.

“Unfortunately not,” Peggy muttered. She didn’t look at Jack, eyes locked into Steve immediately. The kid was trying to start a fire. “Special request. From Governor Brandt.”

“That dress special request, too?” Jack sneered but quickly regretted his tone when Peggy's head snapped up to meet his stare. Despite the make up, he could see her eyes were puffy and now blazing with a strange, miserable fury.

“I didn’t ask for his company,” she hissed. “He said he would sponsor Steve. Three gifts in exchange for—” Peggy abruptly cut herself off, looking away again. “Doesn’t matter.”

“No good deed goes unpunished,” Jack hummed knowingly into his beer. 

They watched in tense silence for a while as Rogers finally got his fire going and settled with his back against a wall. This year's arena was a kind of abandoned cityscape, industrial from the looks of it. The Gamemakers had promised with wicked enthusiasm to ‘redefine the struggle for survival,’ whatever the hell that meant. 

“You got any money on yours this year?” Jack asked conversationally. 

“I don’t bet on human lives,” said Peggy. 

“You’re betting on Rogers, aren’t you?” 

Peggy stood up so suddenly Jack was surprised the dress didn’t rip with the movement. She spun to stand in front of Jack, blocking the screens and casting a shadow over him. Her previous forlorn expression was now sharp with anger pointed right at him.

Jack had seen that face too many times to humor her with flinching. 

“Do you have any idea,” she growled, “what it’s like to watch the man you love fighting for his life while you can do absolutely nothing about it?” 

Jack took a silent breath in.

He managed to hide his initial expression with another swig of his drink—a completely fake sip since he didn’t trust the feeling twisting suddenly in his gut.  

“Believe it or not, Carter, I do have life experience that you don’t know about.” He put the glass down without breaking eye contact. “If you wanna play pin the tail on the governor while your little boyfriend starves to death, that’s your business. Don’t take it out on me because you can’t handle playing with the big kids.”

“The big kids?” she echoed in disbelief. “You don’t know a damn thing that goes on in this place, do you?” 

"I know enough. You think you can change the game if you bat your eyelashes hard enough? Because Erskine has a soft spot for teen-romance? Seen it a million times and I’ll tell you now—it won’t work. You can make your dresses tighter, your hair blonder, but your people will still die just the same."

Jack heard the slap before he even felt it, the sound cracking through the room like a whip. He didn't move, just turned his head slowly back to face her, a red mark blooming on his cheek. "Feel better?"

“I’ll feel better when I don’t have to act like a pawn in someone else’s game of chess.” 

“Careful there, cowgirl,” Jack mumbled, rubbing the initial sting out of his cheek. “You don’t want the wrong people to hear you saying that.”

Her fists clenched and unclenched at her sides. “Maybe I don’t care who’s listening to me anymore.”

Jack's eyes narrowed as he studied Peggy's face. There was something different about her now—beyond this grown up woman veneer—something in her eyes that hadn't been there during last year’s Games. "What did Erskine tell you at the Reaping?" he asked, not so much a question as it was an accusation. 

Something flickered in her expression, barely perceptible. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You do.” Jack lowered his voice, glancing behind him for a brief moment. 

"I’m sure that I don’t," she replied smoothly.

Jack glanced at the ceiling, pressing his lips together as he prayed for patience. "Look, Carter, I know what road you’re going down, and trust me, you don’t wanna go there. The Games are brutal. I get it. But they're supposed to be. It’s the natural order of things."

"Natural?" Peggy scoffed. "There's nothing natural about people— children —killing each other for entertainment."

"Lower your voice," Jack hissed. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her back down to the seat beside him. "You think I don't understand? My tribute this year is twelve . A twelve year old who saw your Reaping and thinks he can do what you did and volunteer without training.”

She yanked her wrist forcefully away from his grip, but remained sitting. “So it’s my fault that your tribute has spunk?” 

“It’s your fault if you think you can just do whatever you want without consequences. How many times do I have to explain that to you: Being a Victor means the rest of your life is written for you. You don’t get to decide who wins or who dies. You get to show up every year, and you get to smile, and you get to remember that this show doesn’t stop when the Games are over.” 

A sudden commotion on screen drew their attention. Steve had encountered another tribute—the girl from Two, armed with a deadly-looking mace. Peggy's breath caught in her throat.

"He's good," Jack admitted reluctantly as they watched Steve dodge the first swing with surprising agility. "Better than I expected."

"He's always been underestimated," Peggy murmured, knuckles white as she gripped the armrest.

They fell silent, watching the fight unfold. Steve was outmatched in terms of weaponry but used the urban environment to his advantage by leading the Career tribute into a narrow alley where her mace had less room to swing.

Steve managed to disarm the girl and pin her against the wall, knife at her throat. Then, to both Peggy and Jack's surprise, he released her with a warning and disappeared into the ruins.

"Did he just... let her go?" Jack asked, bewildered.

"That's who he is," Peggy replied, a mixture of pride and fear in her voice. "He won't compromise who he is. Not for anyone."

Jack shook his head. "The Capitol won't like that. Mercy doesn't make for good television."

"Perhaps that's exactly why they need to see it," Peggy challenged. She turned fully toward Jack now, the fight momentarily gone from her voice. "I know, Jack. I know what I’m expected to be now. I've spent five years playing their game, dressing how they want, saying what they want, sleeping with who they want—" She stopped herself, blinking rapidly. “Am I selfish for wanting something for myself?”

“And what is it that you want, Carter?” It sounded like he was asking her to confess. “You want Rogers to win the games so you two can go live happily ever after? You can’t go skipping into the sunset with him. Even if he wins—That’s not how it works.” Jack's jaw tightened and he lowered his voice again. “The two of you together are a threat and you have no idea what the Capitol is capable of."

"And they have no idea what I'm capable of," Peggy whispered into the room. 

Before Jack could respond, the viewing room door slid open with a soft hydraulic hiss. Both victors turned to find Dr. Arnim Zola, Head Gamemaker, standing in the doorway. Two Peacekeepers in their pristine white uniforms flanked him.

"Miss Carter," he said, voice smooth as polished stone. "Governor Brandt has been looking for you. He seemed... concerned about your absence."

Jack saw Peggy's spine stiffen, her chin lifting slightly. "Please inform the Governor that I'm fulfilling my mentoring duties at the moment."

Zola smiled tightly at her. "I'm afraid I can't do that. Your presence is required." His gaze shifted to the screens where Rogers had finally fallen into a fitful sleep. "I assure you, your… tribute will still be alive when you return."

One of the Peacekeepers stepped forward, clearly intent on lifting Peggy from her seat. She stood before he could, but he took her arm anyway. 

"I can walk myself," she said coldly, pulling away from his grip. As she moved toward the door with her unwanted escort, her eyes met Jack's briefly. In that moment, he saw something that unsettled him more deeply than her anger had—resignation. 

Jack rose to his feet, something unfamiliar but instinctual waging war against his Career training. "Peggy—"

"Ah, Mr. Thompson." Zola turned to him as if just noticing his presence. "How fortunate. President Schmidt requires your attendance as well."

Jack felt his stomach drop to his knees. "Does he."

The second Peacekeeper moved to Jack's side, not touching him but making it clear he was expected to follow.

Jack followed them into the corridor where he caught sight of Peggy being led in the opposite direction. She didn’t look back.

"I wouldn't worry about Miss Carter," Zola said, noticing Jack's gaze. "Governor Brandt is a generous patron. And I'm certain President Schmidt merely wishes to discuss your district's promising tributes this year."

Jack fell into step beside the Gamemaker, the Peacekeeper a silent shadow behind them. "Of course."

"Though," Zola added casually, "if there's anything about District Ten's… mentoring strategy you feel compelled to share with the President, I'm sure he would be most attentive."

The invitation to betray Peggy and Erskine's plans—whatever they might be—couldn't have been clearer.

"I focus on my own tributes," Jack replied evenly.

Zola’s smile tightened imperceptibly. "A smart choice, Mr. Thompson.”

Their destination was the Strategy Room, an access-controlled area hidden under the Tribute Center. Holographic maps of the current arena covered one wall, colorful markers tracking each tribute's location in real-time. Another wall displayed biostatistics—heart rates, body temperatures, specific chemical levels. The third wall was all false windows, offering a digital panoramic view of the Capitol's glittering skyline.

President Schmidt stood with his back to the door when Jack entered, his attention fixed on a bank of monitors displaying close-up feeds of several tributes.

"Mr. Thompson," Schmidt said without turning. "Thank you for joining me."

Zola moved past him to get back to his seat, but Jack remained near the door. "I was told my presence was required, sir."

"Indeed it was." Schmidt finally turned, his face a mask of genial authority. "I wanted you to be among the first to witness history being made." 

He gestured to the screens. 

Jack recognized the feeds immediately—Two’s massive male tribute stalking through an abandoned factory, Four’s female wading through what appeared to be a flooded subway tunnel, and... Rogers. He was huddled in what looked like an old storefront, shivering violently.

"I don't understand," Jack said carefully.

Schmidt's smile widened. "Of course you don't. Not yet. Tell me, what do you see?"

Jack studied the images on screen for a long moment. Two’s male might have been a brute, but it seemed his eyes and nose were running with mucus. A run-in with the wrong kind of plants? Or perhaps allergic to the dust in the factory he stalked through. Four’s girl had red blotches over most of her visible skin—something in the water, maybe. Even his own young tribute was hunched over and throwing up something vile. 

"Tributes who won't last another day,” Jack croaked. 

"Precisely!" Schmidt clapped his hands together once, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "Objectively defective specimens. Take District Ten’s male tribute for instance. Asthmatic. History of scarlet fever, pneumonia, recurrent sinusitis... Partially deaf in his right ear—a childhood syndrome, we think. Dr. Erskine said his heart is weak from it."

The clinical assessment of Rogers' ailments sent a chill down Jack's spine. This wasn't casual observation—this was detailed medical knowledge. 

"With all due respect, sir," Jack said, "why tell me this?"

Schmidt's eyes gleamed. "Because in approximately three minutes, Mr. Rogers is going to showcase something revolutionary." He gestured to another monitor Jack hadn't noticed—a biochemical readout labeled 10M: SERUM ACTIVATION.

"Serum?" Jack asked, a sinking feeling in his gut.

“Dr. Erskine's masterpiece, with extensive modification for the Games thanks to our esteemed Dr. Zola." Schmidt nodded to the Gamemaker from where he worked at a central desk.

Jack's mind raced back to the Opening Ceremony—Erskine’s whispers. Commissioned to design it.

"You let Erskine experiment on the tributes," Jack stated flatly, unable to keep the shock from his voice. “He doesn’t seem like the type…”

“Let him?” Schmidt laughed, the sound devoid of warmth. "No, Mr. Thompson. I encouraged him. Dr. Erskine’s research is wasted on horticulture. Our nation’s food supply is fine as is, no need for a mind like his to rot his life away trying to change that when he could be doing this .”

On screen, Roger’s shivering had progressed into convulsions, his back arching unnaturally as he fell to the floor of his shelter. His mouth opened in a silent scream—the Capitol had muted the audio, Jack realized with growing horror.

"What's happening to him?" he demanded. 

"Transformation," Schmidt replied simply. "Pain is necessary for rebirth, Mr. Thompson. Surely your father taught you that?"

On screen, Rogers' body contorted again. Even without sound, Jack could see the agony etched on the boy's face. His limbs jerked spasmodically, muscles visibly shifting beneath his skin.

"My God," Jack whispered.

"Science, actually," Schmidt corrected. "Though I understand the confusion."

Jack couldn’t help but wonder if Peggy was watching her boy’s horrific metamorphosis. Brandt usually kept his screens on when he had visitors to mask the sounds. Maybe she would convince him into a position where she could see the footage and hide her face at the same time—not that the Governor ever complained about positions. He was a generous patron, after all. 

“I still don’t understand,” Jack whispered. He had come up next to Schmidt now, bracing his hands on the rails which separated their view point from the rest of the room. 

“Watch,” Schmidt ordered tersely. 

“Chadwick live,” one of the workers announced. “In three… two… one…”

Each tribute-dedicated screen flickered to the familiar, brightly lit newsroom of Calvin Chadwick. The Game Host smiled wide and uncanny as he always did, teeth polished to a glaring shine. “Panem,” he began, eyes focused on the teleprompter surely behind the camera. “It is once again my pleasure to introduce you to this years’ exciting new Game feature coming to you hot from our brilliant Gamemakers in our great Capitol. Each one of your tributes has been given a special concoction to help their odds. It should be kicking in any minute now.”

The screens each flashed back to their tribute, revealing that each one had begun to writhe and convulse as Rogers was doing. Two looked like he was choking on thin air, spittle and foam flying from his mouth with each gasp. Four fell forward, unable to keep her legs under her. The water swallowed her, sloshing while she thrashed under the surface until it stilled again. 

A cannon went off. 

“Ooh.” Chadwick winced playfully. “I suppose not everyone gets a lucky start. Aha-ha! Now, some of you at home may be asking what exactly is happening here and for that, Head Gamemaker Zola has written a few words I will share with you now.” He ceremoniously pulled out a note card from his breast pocket and cleared his throat loudly. “The Serum of Rebirth—such a clever name—will enhance the intrinsic strengths of any given subject, thereby changing selected physical phenotypes for battlefield advantage. Now that is poetry, if I’ve ever read it.” 

Chadwick's smile widened as he leaned forward slightly, as if sharing a secret with the audience. "But wait, there's more! Our Gamemakers have added a final twist to truly test our tributes' survival instincts."

The screen split to show multiple tributes in various stages of transformation—some writhing in pain, others beginning to stand with newfound strength. Rogers was among the latter, his body no longer frail but powerful, muscles rippling beneath his torn shirt as he stared at his hands in disbelief.

"While the Serum of Rebirth grants extraordinary abilities," Chadwick continued, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, "it comes with a rather fatal catch. The transformation is temporary—and toxic. Without the antidote, which has been placed somewhere within our arena, every tribute will succumb to the serum's poison within forty-eight hours."

Jack felt his stomach turn. "Two days" he whispered, unable to mask his horror.

"An unavoidable parameter," Schmidt replied calmly, eyes fixed on the screens. "Erskine was unable to create something with permanent effects, but after last year’s lengthy conclusion we are not particularly disappointed by this."

On screen, Chadwick was explaining the rules with evident glee. "The location of the antidote will be revealed through a series of clues scattered throughout the arena. Only one dose exists for each tribute still in play—but the clock is ticking! Will they use their new abilities to hunt each other, or will they race against time to save themselves? The choice is theirs!"

Jack watched as Rogers looked up at the artificial sky, clearly hearing the announcement. The camera zoomed in on his face, showing the determination hardening in his eyes.

"What happens if they don't find it in time?" Jack asked, already knowing the answer.

Zola finally spoke from his console. "Systematic organ failure. My personal touch to our fascinating experiment. Quite spectacular, actually—a poison that will show symptoms exactly as the Serum begins to wear off. We've engineered it to be... visually impactful for our audience."

"You mean painful," Jack said flatly.

"Entertainment requires conflict, Mr. Thompson," Schmidt replied. "And nothing raises stakes like a countdown."

On another screen, Jack saw the Career from District One already using her new strength to scale a building with ease, her eyes scanning the horizon with new, predatory focus. The boy from District 7 was testing his enhanced reflexes, dodging falling debris as he navigated through a collapsed structure.

"Erskine doesn't know about the poison, does he?" Jack realized. "That's why he was so willing to help."

Schmidt's smile never reached his eyes. "Dr. Erskine believed he was creating a permanent enhancement. A way to strengthen his districts' populations against disease and other such hardships. So noble, so short-sighted." He turned to face Jack fully. "Are you familiar with Victor Carter, Mr. Thompson?”

“Sir?” Jack felt a rush of cold fear burrow into his gut. Schmidt already knew the answer to that question, he was positive. 

“She seems not herself since the unexpected passing of Victor Phillips.” Schmidt's voice was light, conversational, but his eyes were cold. “And her attachment to this tribute,” he gestured to Roger’s screen, “is most unfortunate. I fear Miss Carter will simply be facing too much heartbreak to cope. Grief makes one… irrational, doesn’t it, Mr Thompson?”

Jack swallowed but carefully schooled his features. "You’re worried about her?”

“I worry after all my little Victors,” Schmit hummed, placing his hand on Jack’s shoulder.  “Do you not worry about your friends?” 

Jack forced an uneasy laugh. "With respect, sir, we're not friends."

“Coworkers? Allies, perhaps,” the president corrected. “Allies are only useful when you share a common goal. Do you know her goal, Mr. Thompson?”

On screen, Rogers was now moving with purpose, heading for high ground with impressive speed. He would run into One’s female in no time.

“Same as the rest of us, I would guess,” Jack said carefully. “Serve the Capitol how we can. Bring honor to our Districts. That sort of thing.”

 “She has not expressed anything… else?”

 “Well—” Jack hesitated, glancing around the room. Schmidt knew as well as he did that something off about Ten’s Victors this year. As hot headed as the seventeen year old could be, Peggy hadn’t yet done anything that couldn’t be undone. She was playing her part. Poorly, but she was playing it. 

Erskine on the other hand, was asking for trouble with a bespoke lovenote. 

“You’re right about Rogers,” Jack admitted. “He and Carter are down bad for each other. Seems Erskine’s got a soft spot for the pair.”

“How so?” Schmidt prompted. 

“Saw him and Carter at the Reaping. He was comforting her, telling her about this serum twist you had planned.” Jack looked at the floor and slipped his hands into his pockets so they wouldn’t see how hard he was digging his fingers into his palms. “He promised to keep the kid safe, but he was just trying to make her feel better. She was pretty torn up about the whole thing. Like you said, he couldn’t have known about the poison. Right?”

“Of course not.” Schmidt’s smile seemed to be aiming for comfort but landed somewhere in the vicinity of predatory. He exchanged an unreadable glance with Zola.

Jack swallowed and took a silent breath. “It doesn't matter anyway. No way that kid is gonna survive. Carter’s a big girl, she’ll get over it.”

“Certainly.” Schmidt waved dismissively and his Peacekeeper escort was suddenly at his side again. “Give your father my regards when you see him. Tell him: Thompson Industries has a very… promising future.”   

Jack was dismissed shortly after, his footsteps echoing hollowly through the corridor as he made his way back to the viewing room, thankfully without an escort. His father had always taught him that loyalty to the Capitol was non-negotiable—the only path to survival in a world designed to break anyone who stepped out of line. Yet as he pictured Peggy's face, that moment of resignation before she was led away, something twisted painfully in his chest.

He had given Schmidt just enough truth to satisfy him for now, but Jack wasn't naive. Erskine was as good as dead the moment the Games concluded, maybe even before. His scientific brilliance was no longer worth the liability of his conscience. 

As for Peggy—Jack shook his head, trying to brush the thought away, unsuccessfully.  She had volunteered and won the Games after brother’s death. If Rogers died in that arena, she just might burn the whole world down.

Chapter Text

Pain was the first thing Jack registered as consciousness returned to him—a steady, throbbing ache in his abdomen that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. The second was the distinct smell of antiseptic that could only mean one thing: he was in Medical.

Jack's eyelids felt impossibly heavy as he forced them open, squinting against the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. The grey ceiling of District 13's medical ward came into focus first, followed by the undecorated walls and the machinery quietly monitoring his vitals. He tried to shift his position, only to wince as fresh pain shot through his side.

"Nope. Bad idea," he muttered to himself, his voice rough from disuse.

Jack lifted his head slightly, taking inventory of his surroundings. Some kind of clear fluid hung on a pole next to him, the other end of its tubing disappearing into the crook of his arm. Monitoring equipment. A chair pulled close to his bedside that showed signs of recent occupation—a crumpled jacket draped over the back, a half-empty cup of something on the small table beside it.

Someone had been keeping vigil. 

As if summoned by Jack’s thoughts, the door to his room slid open with a pneumatic hiss. Jack turned his head, expecting a doctor or maybe even Howard. Instead, he found himself staring at Bucky Barnes—disheveled, unshaven, and cradling a tiny bundle against his chest.

"About time," Barnes grunted, stepping fully into the room. "Almost two days is a hell of a nap, Thompson."

"Two—" Jack broke off, coughing as his dry throat rebelled.

Barnes crossed to the bedside table, awkwardly balancing his bundle while pouring water from a pitcher with his metal hand. He held the glass out to Jack, who took it with trembling fingers.

"Small sips," Barnes instructed. "You haven’t had anything by mouth since you got shot."

Jack complied, letting the cool water soothe his parched throat. Only when the glass was half-empty did the full reality of what he was seeing register in his mind.

"Is that—"

Barnes shifted the bundle in his arms, revealing Sarah's peaceful sleeping face. "She's been fussy. Walking her around helps, I guess. I don’t sing."

Jack blinked slowly, trying to reconcile the image before him—the otherwise despondent Victor cradling an infant with surprising gentleness—with everything he thought he knew about Bucky Barnes. 

"Why do you have her?" he finally managed. "Where are the Jarvises?"

"Busy," Barnes answered, his expression giving nothing away.

A dozen questions fought for priority in Jack's mind, but one pushed its way to the forefront, urgent and demanding. 

"Carter and Rogers," he said, struggling to sit up straighter despite the pain. 

“They’re here.” Barnes's face remained carefully neutral. "They're alive."

The clipped response and conspicuous lack of elaboration sent ice through Jack's veins. "Barnes—"

"It's bad," he cut Jack off, adjusting Sarah as she began to squirm. "They're alive. But it’s… it’s gonna take them a while."

“What does that mean ?” Jack almost growled. Asking Bucky about apparently sensitive topics was a completely new territory and evidently just as difficult as pulling teeth.

Bucky looked down at Sarah, then back at Jack before unceremoniously depositing the baby into the wounded man’s arms. 

“Hey!” Jack scrambled to hold Sarah correctly, grimacing as the fast movement caused fresh pain to ricochet through him. “What are you doing?”

Sarah whined until Jack started a meager rocking motion, just enough that she would settle without him having to move as much.  

“I need to get back to Steve.” Barnes said flatly. “I don’t think Mr. Jarvis is as much a comfort to him as he is to Peggy. He’ll do better with me there.”

“Mr. Jarvis?” Jack was reeling, trying to understand anything from shreds of context Barnes was throwing at him. “But—wait, you said the Jarvises are busy.”

“They are busy.” Barnes didn’t roll his eyes, but he might as well have. “Talking Peggy down from…” He paused and shook his head. If Jack didn’t know any better, he’d say there was anxiety under that mask of impatience. “Look, Sarah can’t be in there right now. We tried. So why don’t you make yourself useful for once and keep an eye on her here while the real adults fix this.”

Jack didn’t have time to argue. He didn’t have time to shout or curse or demand more information. No negotiation. No nothing.

Bucky was gone again. 

Jack stared at the door, distorted memories from his father’s office giving him an unsettling feeling of deja vu. He briefly wondered where his father’s notebook ended up, but his mind could only focus on trying to piece together the last few minutes, quickly darkening with the possibilities of what condition the Shepherds might be in. He'd heard rumors of the punishment techniques used in rebellious districts: isolation tanks, electroshock, experimental drugs, sensory manipulation—and those were just the things the public knew about. 

Sarah hiccuped and a new wave of anxiety rushed through Jack as he remembered the disheartened ‘we tried’ explanation for her not being with her parents. He placed the baby down on his lap, quickly untucking the blanket from around her to check her over for any injuries. 

The door slipped open again as Jack deemed Sarah free of harm, the newcomer chuckling at the sight of him fussing over the baby. 

“I guess congratulations are in order?” joked the stranger. Her blonde hair was pinned neatly up off her neck and a stethoscope hung around her neck. The badge hanging off her scrub top read Violet, RN.

Jack blinked, realizing he looked more like a patient in a maternity ward than one in a critical care unit. He wrapped Sarah back up snuggly (something he had learned how to do fairly well in the weeks he’d helped care for her) and gave the nurse his full attention. “She’s not mine.”

“I know,” said the nurse casually. She walked up to one of the machines displaying a smattering of numbers and wavy lines and pressed a button on the screen. The cuff around Jack’s arm inflated slowly—he was starting to realize just how many things were attached to him—then deflated and a new number appeared on the screen. 

“Your blood pressure is good,” she said, producing a small notebook and writing it down. “How’s the pain?”

“Not great,” Jack grimaced.  

“This should help.” She produced a vial from her pocket along with a needle and syringe. Jack watched as she expertly drew the medicine out of the bottle and transferred it into the IV tubing already hooked up to him. “Morphling. You can have another dose in four hours.”

“Thanks,” he muttered absently, then raised his eyebrows in shock as the realization dawned. “Wait, four hours? I’m supposed to just sit here for four hours?”

“You’re supposed to sit here for a lot longer than that.” Violet tutted, amused. “You’ve been shot, Mr. Thompson. No organ damage, thankfully, but the bullet nicked your renal artery. You’ve still got a lot of recovering to do. That means rest.”

As if to prove her point, she pulled his blankets down and his hospital gown up to reveal an impressive gauze dressing held fast to his skin with some kind of transparent film. 

Jack’s finger’s reached instinctively for it, but Violet ushered his hands away.

He sighed and gently lay back. He adjusted Sarah carefully to lean against his chest and stared hard at the ceiling. “How long until I’m better?” 

“Hard to say. Everyone’s a little different when it comes to healing up.” Violet shrugged. “You’re young and healthy. I’ve seen soldiers walking within a few days, if they have a good pain regimen, but full recovery takes weeks.” 

“Weeks,” Jack echoed in disbelief. “But Carter—”

“I can’t discuss other patients’ information with you, Mr Thompson,” Violet interrupted, polite but stern. “Mrs. Carter and her husband are getting the best care we can give them, same as you. Let us handle it. Your job is to recover.”

She reached over him and grabbed a remote that had been sitting on the bedside table, handing it to him. “Call bell, if you need anything. It also does the TV.”

“Thanks,” Jack muttered as Violet turned to leave the room. 

He closed his eyes as the door clicked shut, trying to get the pieces to fall into place, though the morphling was making his thoughts start to blur at the edges. Carter and Rogers had gone through something in the Capitol, that much was obvious. Rogers, Jack already had a few guesses from what he’d seen of the broadcasts. 

His father had once told him that they used tracker-jacker venom to induce state psychosis. It’d been a strange dinner conversation some time after Erskine’s disappearance—Jack’s father had been uncharacteristically shaken by the event and wouldn’t stop talking about Capitol punishments. 

“Not just punishment, but corruption,” his father had said. “They’ll take what you are and flip it upside down. Turn your mind inside out ‘till you don’t know your own son from your worst enemy.”

Jack shifted Sarah and stared at her tiny face, so peaceful and unaware of the nightmare unfolding around her. The morphling was dulling his pain but doing nothing to quiet the roiling anxiety in his gut. What had they done to Carter and Rogers? To be so bad that Barnes—the most taciturn, emotionless bastard Jack had ever met—had seemed genuinely unsettled?

"Your daddy's tough," he whispered to her, wondering what could break a man who had already had his body turned inside out against his will. "Your mom, too. Toughest woman I've ever met."

What if Rogers couldn't recognize Sarah? What if Carter couldn't remember who she was to her? The thought made Jack's chest tighten painfully, his breath coming shorter. He forced himself to inhale deeply, trying to keep his composure for Sarah's sake.

Sarah squirmed at the movement, threatening to wake from her sleep, and Jack realized he'd tightened his grip. He immediately relaxed, gently bouncing her. "Sorry, kiddo," he whispered. "Your Uncle Jack's just worried about your folks."

He tried to imagine what it would take to keep Carter and Rogers from their daughter. Carter would crawl through fire to get to Sarah—unless she couldn't recognize her. Unless she thought Sarah was someone, or something, else. Worse still, what if she thought Sarah was safer away from her?

A dull throb of pain from his wound brought him back to the present. He glanced down at where his gown covered the bandages, wondering briefly if he'd torn something during his conversation with Barnes.

It didn't matter. His mind was made up.

Disconnecting himself from all the wires was easy once he turned the machines off to keep from beeping. Getting dressed was an exercise in agony, each movement sending fresh waves of pain through his abdomen. Vital organs aside, the bullet has still torn through muscle and tissue which protested violently as he grabbed the standard grey jumpsuit someone had left folded on a chair.

By the time Sarah was comfortable in her makeshift jumpsuit-sling, sweat beaded on Jack’s forehead and his breathing came in shallow gasps. He leaned against the wall, waiting for the room to stop spinning around him before shuffling toward the door

He needed to see Peggy. Needed to understand exactly what had been done to her. Needed to witness the price she paid to save his sorry ass in the Arena. He needed to do something that didn’t involve breaking her family apart again.

He could give her just one piece, now. Sarah would be enough. She had to be.

The corridor outside was dimly lit and mercifully empty. Jack oriented himself—Carter couldn’t be far assuming she needed as much, if not more care than he did. He wasn’t sure he could manage stairs if she were elsewhere.

With Sarah supported by the sling , Jack used one hand to support his wound, the other trailing along the wall as he followed the signage toward a more secure section of Medical, where they kept patients who were either a danger to themselves or to others. 

Jack wasn't sure which category Peggy fell into now, but he was determined to find out.

The security door at the end of the corridor bore a simple keypad, the same type scattered throughout the logistics wings of the district. He leaned against the wall beside it, catching his breath as he mentally ran through possible combinations. 

He punched in the security override for Logistics, praying it was the same, and felt a surge of satisfaction when the lock clicked open. Adjusting Sarah against his chest, he stepped into a hallway more spacious than the area he’d woken up in.

Jack moved slowly, peering through each window as he passed. Most rooms were empty—sterile and waiting, their beds made with military precision, IV stands pushed against pristine walls like sentinels. Others contained patients he didn't recognize: a young woman strapped to her bed, staring vacantly at the ceiling while monitors beeped a steady rhythm beside her; an older man whose arms were wrapped in thick bandages, his breathing shallow and labored; a soldier whose face was so badly burned Jack could barely make out his features beneath the web of scars and healing skin.

The faces of the broken and damaged stared back at him or through him, making Jack's skin crawl. Was this what awaited the Shepherds? A lifetime of vacant stares and restraints?

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in harsh white light that made the patients look even more ghostly. Jack caught glimpses of medical charts clipped to the foot of each bed, filled with notations he couldn't decipher. Some rooms reeked of antiseptic and something else—something organic and unsettling that made his stomach turn. In one room, he noticed restraints hanging loose from a bed's railings, as if someone had recently been freed—or had freed themselves.

He continued his painful journey down the corridor, his breathing labored and sweat beginning to dampen his white hospital gown. Each step sent jolts of pain through his abdomen, but Jack wasn’t turning back until he found at least one of them. 

He paused at each window, squinting through the reinforced glass before moving on. The sling over his shoulder felt heavier with each empty room or unfamiliar face, and his pace quickened as much as his body would allow.

Then, at last, he saw her.

Peggy Carter sat rigid on the edge of her hospital bed, her shoulders squared and hair a mess of matts. He couldn’t quite decipher what expression was on her face—something completely devoid of emotion, except for her eyes, which dark circles hung beheath. They darted around the room as if tracking invisible threats.

Most of her visible skin was colored with a strange network of thin, pink scars. Jack couldn't place exactly how she must have gotten them. They weren't the classic marks of blades, electrocution, or even burns. It was as if someone had made her walk through cobwebs but each silk thread had made permanent home under her skin.

Bruises in various hues of greens trailed up her arms though Jack wasn't sure if they were gifts from the Capitol or from failed attempts to start an IV here. She’d ripped some of them out, if the fresher marks were any hint.

Jack couldn't seem to tear his eyes away, bare feet rooted to the cold floor. This wasn't the Peggy Carter he knew—the woman who could command a room with a single glance, who faced down Capitol officials with unwavering composure. This broken figure before him seemed like a cruel parody, a twisted reflection of someone he'd once thought untouchable—it was all wrong. 

Fundamentally wrong.

Ana Jarvis sat across from Peggy in a metal chair, speaking with animated gestures though he couldn't hear her words through the thick glass of the window. A tray of untouched food rested on a table between them.

He shifted, grimacing as his wound protested, and the new angle revealed more of Peggy. A tremor rippled through her at irregular intervals. Involuntary.  

Ana reached out to take Peggy's hand—missing fingers, Jack immediately noted—and Peggy flinched violently, scrambling backward on the bed until her back hit the wall. 

Ana immediately withdrew, raising both hands in a placating gesture.

Jack watched as Ana slowly pulled something from her pocket—a photograph. She held it out, not trying to move closer to Peggy, just offering it from where she sat. Peggy stared at it with naked suspicion, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

After what seemed like an eternity, Peggy extended a quivering hand, taking the photo by its very corner as if it might burn her. She looked down at it, and something in her expression shifted—not softening exactly, but a flicker of recognition pierced through the cloud of fear and confusion.

Peggy's lips moved, forming words . Jack couldn't hear. Ana nodded encouragingly, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears. Peggy looked back at the photo, tracing a finger over it with excruciating gentleness. 

A photograph of Sarah, Jack decided. Had to be. 

Then, as quickly as the moment of clarity had come, it vanished. Peggy's expression hardened, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. She thrust the photo back at Ana, shaking her head vehemently. Her lips moved rapidly now, color rising in her cheeks as she gesticulated angrily.

Ana took the photo back and Jack was able to catch a glimpse of the portrait. A young boy met his gaze from the paper before it disappeared into her pocket.

Micheal.

Dizziness hit Jack suddenly—he couldn't tell if it was the morphling still coursing through his veins or just a gut reaction to the image. He leaned heavily against the wall, careful not to crush Sarah. The baby shifted in her sleep, her tiny hand escaping the folds of the makeshift sling to rest against Jack's chest.

As he watched, Peggy seemed to withdraw further into herself, her gaze fixing on a point in the middle distance. Ana rose slowly, gathering her things with the deliberate movements of someone afraid to make any sudden gestures. She spoke again, and though Peggy gave no indication she heard 

A goodbye, Jack understood, as Ana moved to the door and opened it.

“—shall come by tomorrow. I’ll bring—Mr. Thompson!” She cut herself off with a gasp as she spotted Jack. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Peggy’s head snapped up at his name, her gaze locking onto him with sudden predatory focus. 

For one breathless moment, Jack thought he saw a flicker of recognition—the old Peggy looking out at him through eyes gone feral with pain.

Then her lips peeled back in an utterly inhuman snarl.

"Miss Carter, no—" Ana started, but it was already too late.

Peggy launched herself from the bed with a speed that defied her wounded state, a blur of hospital gown and rage. Ana jumped out of the way but Jack had no time to shield Sarah before Peggy slammed into him with the force of a freight train, the hallway wall meeting his back with unforgiving force.

White-hot agony exploded through his abdomen as his surgical wound tore open. Jack gasped, trying to push her off and keep Sarah from getting squished between them, even as Peggy's forearm pressed against his throat. Her face hovered inches from his, close enough that he could see the broken blood vessels in her eyes. 

Jack tried to speak, but Peggy silently increased the pressure on his windpipe. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision. Both hands gripped each side of Peggy at the ribs, using all of his limited strength to keep the baby from getting completely crushed.

Sarah began to wail, her cries muffled against his chest but the baby seemed invisible to Peggy. Irrelevant in comparison to whatever threat she thought Jack posed. 

The more Jack struggled, the more he realized there was no thought behind this attack.

He'd been in combat. He'd faced down killers and psychopaths. But nothing in his experience had prepared him for the absolute certainty of death he saw in Peggy Carter's eyes. This wasn't anger or even hatred—this was the cold calculation of a predator who had identified its prey and would not stop until it was eliminated.

"Someone help!" Ana cried. Jack could feel her grabbing onto Peggy’s shoulders and trying to pull her away. “Please, Miss Carter! He’s got Sarah!”

The name seemed to catch her attention, causing Peggy to marginally lift her weight from Jack’s larynx as she tried to incorporate the information into whatever distorted context she had of the situation. Her eyes, pupils contracted into fine points, flickered down to the baby between her and her target—as if only now just noticing the screeches coming from the infant.

"Peggy—" he gasped, "please—Sarah—" Jack's vision began to tunnel. Sarah's cries seemed to be coming from far away now. Through the haze of pain and oxygen deprivation, he was dimly aware of approaching footsteps, a warm wetness spreading across his abdomen, and metal fingers curling around the back of Peggy’s neck.

"Peggy." Barnes' voice was low and steady, cutting through Sarah's wails like a blade. His fingers tightened fractionally against the base of Peggy's skull—not enough to hurt, but enough to get her attention. "Look at me."

Peggy's head turned slightly, her grip on Jack's throat loosening just enough for him to drag in a desperate breath. Her eyes found Bucky's face, and for a moment, confusion flickered across her features.

"That's right," Bucky continued, his voice taking on the same tone Jack had heard him use with Sarah—calm, reassuring, but with an undercurrent of absolute authority. "You know me. Steve's friend. Your friend."

Peggy's breathing grew suddenly harsh and ragged, her whole body now trembling with the effort of holding Jack pinned. But she wasn't pressing down on his throat anymore, her attention now completely focused on Bucky.

"Thompson's not the enemy," Bucky said quietly. "He's hurt. See? He's bleeding."

Jack felt Peggy's gaze shift down. Skipping over Sarah to where the red bloomed across the white fabric of his hospital gown.

"The baby," Ana whispered from somewhere behind them. "Miss Carter, please. You’re scaring her."

 Her eyes moved to the bundle pressed between her and Jack, and her grip on him loosened completely. The predatory focus wavered, replaced by something that looked almost like recognition.

Abruptly, Peggy jerked back, stumbling away from Jack so quickly that she would have fallen if Bucky hadn't steadied her with his flesh hand. 

Jack slumped down to the floor, gasping.

"No—" her voice cracked. She stared at Sarah with growing horror, her hands shaking as she raised them to look at her own fingers as if she'd never seen them before. "That’s not—she’s not—"

"You're sick," Bucky said firmly, moving to block her view of Jack while Ana rushed to his side. "They got in your head." 

Peggy's eyes darted between Sarah and Jack, her breathing becoming more erratic. The brief moment of clarity that had pulled her back was already fragmenting, replaced by something darker and more twisted.

"No, no, no." Her hands twisted into her hair, nails reopening the welts that had barely started healing. Blood trickled down her forehead, dripping from the end of her nose. 

Her gaze fixed on Jack with renewed intensity, but this time there was something different in her expression—not just the predatory focus from before, but a terrible acrimony Jack hadn’t seen from her in years. "I know what he did to her."

"Pegs—" Bucky started, but she was already moving.

She lunged forward again, but this time Bucky was ready. His metal arm caught her around the waist while his flesh hand gripped her wrist, stopping her just short of reaching Jack. She thrashed against his hold with surprising strength, her own hospital gown tearing at the shoulder.

"I know what he did to her!" she screamed, her voice raw and desperate. The words echoed off the sterile walls, making Sarah's cries intensify. “I saw what you did! I saw it—”

"Peggy, stop!" Bucky said firmly, using both arms now to restrain her as she fought to break free. "Sarah’s okay! I promise she’s okay!”

Peggy she wasn't listening. Her eyes were wild, completely focused on Jack as if he were the source of every nightmare that had been planted in her mind. 

Ana pressed herself against Jack, trying to shield both him and Sarah as Peggy continued to struggle against Bucky's grip. Blood was seeping through Jack's gown at an alarming rate, and his vision was starting to blur.

Jack held Sarah firmly against his chest, not daring to move.

The door burst open and two medical technicians rushed in, one carrying a syringe. Bucky shifted to give them access while still maintaining his hold on Peggy.

"I've got her," he told the tech. "Make it fast."

The technician moved quickly, sliding the needle into Peggy's arm despite her continued struggles. 

Peggy thrashed at the sting, her eyes widening with panic. "No—please no, I won’t—you can’t—please, don’t—” Her movements became sluggish, though she still tried to reach toward Jack with weakening determination. "Don’t let them.” 

Jack tried to speak, to say something, anything , but the combination of blood loss and the adrenaline was overwhelming his system. The edges of his vision went dark, and Sarah's cries seemed to fade into the distance as Bucky lowered Peggy gently to the floor.

Chapter Text

Jack's consciousness returned in waves, pulled back to the surface by the steady beep of monitors and the familiar ache in his abdomen—worse now, deeper and more insistent than before. His mouth felt like cotton, and when he tried to swallow, his throat protested with a raw burn that made him remember Peggy's forearm pressed against his windpipe.

Sarah.

The panic hit him before his eyes even opened fully, the monitors around him picking up his elevated heart rate. His hands instinctively reached for where Sarah had been pressed against his chest before, but his arms found only empty air and the scratchy hospital blanket.

"She's fine."

Jack's head turned toward the voice—Violet, the nurse from before, checking something on one of his monitors. Her expression was professional but gentler than it had been during their first meeting.

"Where—" His voice came out as barely a whisper.

"With the Jarvises," she said, anticipating his question. "Mr. Jarvis came to collect her about an hour ago. She wasn't hurt, Mr. Thompson. You kept her safe."

Jack nodded weakly, relief flooding through him even as fresh guilt took its place. He'd put Sarah in danger by bringing her there. Put all of them in danger with the delusion that he knew better than the real heroes around him.

"You tore your stitches open with all that movement," Violet continued, her voice carefully neutral. "If you want to get out of bed you’ll need a wheelchair now and a supervisor."

As Violet left the room, Jack became aware of voices in the hallway outside. Low, urgent conversation that carried the weight of serious discussion. One voice he recognized immediately—Barnes’ distinctive gravelly tone. The other was higher, feminine, with an accent that reminded him of the outer districts.

"—can't keep doing this to yourself, James."

Jack turned his head toward the door, squinting through the small window. In the hallway, Bucky stood with his back partially to the room, talking to a woman. It took him a moment to place her, but the set of her jaw and the way she held herself was soon a clear resemblance of her brother.

Rebecca. Barnes’ sister and only known survivor of the bombings that had ravaged District Eleven.

The doors in this section of Medical were thinner than the reinforced ward Peggy was kept in, allowing Jack to hear the Barnes’ conversation.  

"I know what I'm doing," Bucky was saying, but there was something different in his voice—a rawness that Jack had never heard before, a crack in the careful control that he'd always maintained.

"Do you?" Rebecca's voice carried the particular sharpness that only siblings could manage. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're trying to hold together three broken people while you fall apart yourself."

Three? 

Jack glanced to the bedside chair where his apparent vigil-keeper’s jacket still hung, forgotten. 

Bucky's shoulders tensed. "They need—"

"They need professional help. Not you playing nursemaid to people who don't even know who you are half the time." Rebecca stepped closer to her brother, lowering her voice, though Jack could still make out her words. "Steve tried to bite a doctor yesterday. Peggy just attacked someone holding her own baby. And you look like you haven't slept in a week."

Bucky ran his flesh hand through his hair—a gesture so uncharacteristically vulnerable that it made Jack feel like he was intruding on something private.

"What am I supposed to do, Bec?" The words came out harsh, almost angry, but Jack could hear the desperation underneath. "Leave them? Let them wake up alone and scared, not knowing where they are or who to trust?"

"You're supposed to let the doctors do their jobs," Rebecca said firmly. "And you're supposed to take care of yourself so you don't end up in a bed next to them."

Bucky turned slightly, giving Jack a better view of his profile. The man looked haggard—dark circles under his eyes, stubble that suggested he hadn't shaved in days, clothes that he'd clearly been wearing too long. But it was the expression on his face that caught Jack off guard. Bucky Barnes, who'd faced down armies and assassins with cold efficiency, looked utterly lost.

"I can't—" Bucky's voice cracked slightly. "I can't lose them too, Becca. Not after everything."

Rebecca's expression softened, and she reached out to touch her brother's arm. "You're not going to lose them. But you can't save them by destroying yourself."

"I should have been there," Bucky continued, as if he hadn't heard her. "In the Capitol. I should have—"

"You should have what? Got yourself captured too? Got yourself killed?" Rebecca's voice was gentle but firm. "Jamie, you did everything you could. You got them out. You brought them home."

"Home to what?" Bucky gestured vaguely toward the surrounding hall. "To this? Steve doesn't know me half the time. He flinches everytime I move. And Peggy—" He stopped, shaking his head.

Jack knew that Rogers and Carter were in bad shape, but this was Bucky. He'd been through his own hell and come out the other side, and seeing him so shaken made something twist in Jack's chest.

Rebecca studied her brother's face for a long moment, then stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. It was clearly not something Bucky had been expecting—he went rigid for a moment, as if he'd forgotten how to accept comfort. But then his shoulders started to shake and he buried his face against his sister's neck.

Jack looked away, feeling like he was witnessing something too private for an audience. But he could still hear Rebecca's voice, soft and soothing.

"You're allowed to fall apart sometimes, you know," she murmured. "You don't have to be strong for everyone all the time."

"I don't know how to do this," Bucky admitted, his voice muffled. "I don't know how to help them when I can barely—"

"Ask for help, dummy," Rebecca interrupted. "Let me help. Let the doctors help. Let the people who actually know what they're doing take care of them while…”

Jack couldn’t tell if Rebeca’s voice had grown too soft for him to hear, or if the pain killers had won their battle against his focus. Either way, his bed seemed suddenly much more comfortable than it had a moment ago and the room blurred into pleasant, warm summer clouds.

When he woke again, the nurse was still gone and Barnes occupied the seat next to his bed. He had leaned back in the chair, hands clasped over his chest as if he’d fallen asleep. 

Jack knew he wasn’t.

“Barnes,” Jack whispered, somewhat surprised he was able to form a word with how raw his throat felt. 

“Thompson.” Barnes sat up in a rush, all hints of worry quickly eclipsed by irritation. “Are you fucking stupid?”

“Only when I’m awake, apparently,” Jack muttered. He didn’t need Barnes berating him for his actions when his own brain was doing a plenty good job of it. 

“I told you to watch Sarah,” Bucky hissed.

“I did watch Sarah. Watched her mom almost turn her into pie filling, too.”

This seemed to strike a nerve, causing Bucky’s expressen to harden further. “Do you have any idea—”

“What does she think I did to Sarah?” Jack interrupted. There was no telling how long Barnes would stay now that Jack was awake, and he wasn’t going to risk the man running off again before he got some real answers this time.  

Barnes bristled. “She hasn’t really told anyone…” 

“Bullshit.” Jack grappled for his bed rails for a moment before finding a control button, raising the back of his bed so he was sitting up properly. “She trusts you, Barnes. She must have told you something .”

Jack was met with glowering silence that only confirmed his suspicions. 

Bucky’s fists clenched and unclenched in his lap. He glanced towards the door, then back to the floor. 

“Look,” Jack started, wincing as he poured himself some water from the pitcher on the table, wishing it was whiskey. “I’m not going to pretend I’m an expert on whatever the Capitol does when they rearrange your brain, but I can help, you know.”

“You can’t—”

“I can ,” Jack snapped. “If you tell me about the messed up shit they did, then I can. And maybe if you tell the doctors, they can do something more. But you have to start talking.”

He half expected Barnes to bolt out of the room then and there, but instead he raised an eyebrow in apparent amusement. “Did you have to practice that?”

Jack glared and threw his blankets off in a move to stand up. “I’ll just go back and ask her myself—”

“Sit down, Jack!” Bucky stood so quickly his chair tipped over, clattering to the ground with a raucous. He grabbed Jack’s leg, effectively stopping the injured man from leaving his bed. “Hell, you’re just as bad as Carter.”

Jack leaned back against his pillows, satisfied that his theatrics had the intended effect. “I’ve known Carter for fifteen years. Trust me, she’s worse.”

Bucky righted his chair with more force than necessary and sat back down, running both hands through his hair. For a long moment, the only sound was the steady beep of Jack's monitors.

"She had a pretty bad infection by the time she arrived in the Capitol," Bucky finally said, his voice low and careful. "From the delivery, probably. Got septic before they could stabilize her."

Jack waited, not daring to interrupt now that Barnes was finally talking.

"Pumped her full of antibiotics, got her well enough." He didn’t look at Jack as he spoke. "Then moved her to the confession booth."

"The confession booth," Jack echoed. He’d thought it was just a rumor to scare people into compliance. What the room actually looked like Jack didn’t know, but the principle behind it was simple: complete isolation where the only way to get anything (be it food, water, clothes, or even sleep) was to give up information. Banal on paper, if you’d never met someone who’d come out the otherside of the ordeal.

"Yeah." Bucky's jaw tightened. "They figured she knew more about the rebellion than she actually did. District leadership, safe houses, contacts in other districts. Problem was, she didn't have much to give."

Jack felt ice forming in his stomach. "So they escalated."

"They always escalate." The words came out bitter. "Started simple—temperature control. Too hot, then too cold. Hours at a time. When that didn't work, they got creative."

Bucky stood abruptly, pacing to the window. "She said they left the door open on purpose, but when she tried to leave something kept stopping her. She couldn't see it, just said that it hurt. Some kind of invisible net? Or electromagnetic bullshit? I think that’s where those marks came from."

“Fleckeri silk.” Jack’s eyes widened with realization. “Zola’s design.”

“The Gamemaker?” Bucky paused, turning to Jack. “I thought he retired.” 

“Only from the top seat, but he still works in the Capitol making new muttinations and crap for the Games. Had my dad and I over for dinner before the Quell was announced—wanted to get approval for some designs, but dad pushed the fleckeri silk back another year.” Jack hesitated, remembering the notebook and how far in advance his father had known about the tribute picks. “I guess he didn’t want me to run into it in the field.”

“What is it?” Bucky asked.

“Uh,” he scrubbed a hand over his face, “I don’t really know how all that science stuff works. He said a lot of big words, but from what I got, he put jellyfish DNA in a spider and now it shits out pain on a string.” 

A noise of disbelief escaped Bucky as he shook his head. Those web-like marks had been everywhere on Peggy, as if she had— “Kept walking through it,” Barnes whispered. “She kept forgetting it was there and trying again and again. They had to pull her out just to stop her from killing herself.” 

“She’s a stubborn bitch, I’ll give you that.”

“They must have thought so, too.” Bucky turned his face toward the digital window. Jack watched the ghost of a smile flit over his face in the reflection of false dusk before it settled back into his typical sulk. “Started changing the game on her. Figured if she wasn’t going to volunteer the information for her own safety, they’d have to threaten someone else’s .”

Jack closed his eyes, trying to process the cruelty of it. "Sarah?"

Bucky was quiet for so long that Jack thought he might not answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "They showed her footage of you with Sarah. Doctored it to make it look like you were hurting her. Made her watch it over and over until she believed it was real." He turned from the window, his expression raw. "They convinced her you were doing some kind of genetic engineering, that Erskine’s serum had been inherited from Steve and…"

The room felt suddenly airless in Bucky’s hesitation. Jack understood now why Peggy had looked at him with such hatred, why she'd attacked him with such desperate fury. He almost wanted the story to end there but he had to know. “And what , Bucky?”

"And they showed her. They showed her…” Barnes pinched the brow of his nose, as if the words physically hurt him to say. “Some mutt, I guess. Barely human the way she described it. If it ever was, I hope it's out of its misery now."

Jack stared at the ceiling for a long time after Barnes finished talking, trying to process the full scope of what had been done to Peggy. The monitors around him continued their steady beeping, the only sound in the room as both men sat with the weight of the Capitol's cruelty.

"A monster," Jack finally repeated, his voice hoarse. "They made her think Sarah was—"

"Yeah." Bucky's word came out sharp, cutting off the thought before Jack could finish it. "They're pretty good at taking what you love and twisting it until it becomes what you fear most."

Jack thought about the way Peggy had looked at Sarah—not with recognition or maternal instinct, but with horror. As if the baby represented something unspeakable rather than the daughter she'd fought so hard to protect.

Bucky returned to his chair, slumping into it with the exhaustion of a man who’d just climbed a mountain. "I think they tried to threaten her with Steve first—obviously they were working on them separately,”

"So Steve is…?"

Bucky's expression darkened further, if that was possible. "They tried a different approach for him. Less psychological torture, more everything else." He paused, studying Jack's face. "You sure you want to hear this?"

Jack shrugged, though he wasn't sure he did. “He looked like shit on camera, even all dolled up. So what—Starvation? Paranoia? Hijacking?”

"Bit of everything." Bucky's metal fingers drummed against his thigh in an unconscious rhythm as he amended, " Lots of everything."

"Worse than Cater?"

"In some ways." Bucky's voice was careful, measured. "Starving him was easier with his metabolism the way it is... but his lucid moments are more frequent than hers. Still paranoid. When the episodes hit..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

Jack shifted in his bed, trying to find a position that didn't aggravate his wound. "I want to see him."

"No."

"Barnes—"

"I said no, Thompson. You've done enough damage for one day."

"I kept Sarah safe," Jack said, his voice rising slightly before he forced it back down. "And maybe if Steve sees her, sees that she's okay, it might help him remember who he's supposed to be protecting."

Bucky was already shaking his head before Jack finished speaking. "You really are fucking stupid, Thompson. You nearly got yourself killed trying that approach with Peggy."

"Carter didn't recognize me. She thought I was the enemy." Jack leaned forward as much as his injuries would allow. "Steve might be different. You said he's clearer—"

"I said sometimes ," Bucky corrected. "But when he's not, he's dangerous. More dangerous than Peggy. He’s weak, but he's still stronger and faster than all of us. He’ll kill you, Jack."

Jack fell silent, considering this. Outside of his room, he could see other patients being wheeled past in the hallway, staff moving with the quiet efficiency of people accustomed to trauma and recovery.

"What if I don't bring Sarah?" he finally asked. "What if it's just me, and you're there the whole time?"

Bucky studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Are you trying to help him or help yourself?"

The question caught Jack off guard. He'd been operating on instinct since waking up—the need to see them, to understand what had been done, to somehow make amends for his role in their capture. 

"They saved my life," Jack whispered finally. "They went through hell to get me out of that arena, and now they're paying the price for it." He met Bucky's gaze. "Maybe if I can help them remember who they are, I can live with the cost of what they did for me."

Bucky was quiet for a long moment, his metal fingers still tapping against his leg. "You gonna try to get up anyways if I say no?"

"Probably," Jack almost smiled. “Yeah.” 

Bucky groaned and stood up, pacing again. Jack could practically see the internal debate playing out across his features—the desire to protect Steve warring with the threat of Jack getting himself into worse trouble.

"One hour," Bucky said finally, not turning around. "You stay in a wheelchair, you don't make any sudden movements, and the moment I say we're done, we're done."

Relief flooded through Jack and he saluted Bucky with two fingers. "Yes, sir."

"Don't get cocky about it," Bucky glared.

Jack had never been particularly good at accepting help or acknowledging his own limitations. The wheelchair forced him to do both. Jack would almost have rather torn his stitches again than go through with it. But Violet had been adamant—no walking, no exceptions—and Bucky had backed her up with the kind of authority that brooked no argument.

Steve's room was in the same secure wing as Peggy's, but closer to the nurses' station. Through the reinforced window, Jack could see a figure sitting in a chair by the far wall, head in his hands. His blonde hair had grown longer, hanging in disheveled strands that partially obscured his face.

"He's been like that all day," Bucky said quietly, keying in the access code. "Stuck in his own head."

The room was larger than Jack had expected, with two chairs and a bed that looked like it had been recently made. Unlike Peggy's room, there were no restraints visible, though Jack noticed the way the furniture was arranged: sparse and heavy. Nothing that could be easily thrown, everything positioned to give clear lines of sight to the door.

Steve looked up as they entered.

"Buck," Steve said, his voice rough with disuse. His gaze shifted to Jack, and for a moment, confusion flickered across his features. "Thompson?"

"Hey, Rogers," Jack replied, relief flooding through him. Steve recognized him. That was more than they'd gotten with Peggy.

Steve's eyes narrowed slightly, his posture shifting to something more alert. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be—" He stopped, pressing a hand to his forehead. "No, that's not right. You were in the arena. You were hurt."

"I'm okay," Jack said quickly. "Still healing, but okay."

"The baby," Steve said suddenly, his head snapping up. "Sarah. Is she—"

"She's fine," Bucky interjected with the thinning patience of someone who'd answered the same question a thousand times. "She's with the Jarvises. Safe."

Steve's relief was visible, his shoulders sagging as some invisible weight lifted. As he leaned back in his chair, Jack got his first real look at what the Capitol had done to him.

The serum had made Steve Rogers into a specimen of perfect health—no, better than perfect. Superior, with his augmented strength and speed. The Capitol had clearly been extraordinarily methodical in their attempts to strip back every advantage they'd given him in his original game. His clothes hung loose on a frame that should have been filled out with muscle. His cheekbones were sharp angles beneath skin that looked paper-thin, and his wrists—visible where his sleeves had ridden up—were barely thicker than Jack's own.

"Hell, Steve," Jack breathed before he could stop himself.

Steve's jaw tightened. "They got creative," he said simply, as if discussing the weather. “The serum means I burn calories faster, so it was a steady diet of water and supplements for me.” He gestured vaguely to his own withered frame. 

The matter-of-factness made Jack's stomach turn. Without adequate nutrition, Steve's body would have begun cannibalizing itself to maintain the serum's effects. His enhanced healing would have worked overtime, burning through whatever reserves he had left until there was nothing left to burn.

Jack watched as Steve struggled to piece together his memories, the effort visible in the way his face contorted with concentration. 

"I saw footage of you," he said suddenly, his eyes locked on Jack with startling intensity. 

"We've talked about this, Steve," Bucky said quietly, moving closer to Steve's chair. Jack didn't miss the way he kept his movements slow and predictable. "It wasn't real."

"I know that,” Steve snapped before his voice faltered. "Sorry. Most of the time, I know that..." His eyes glazed over, staring off to something only he could see. "I know it's not real, but it feels real. It's like I've got two people in my head and one of them can't forget the things they showed me."

The room fell silent except for the quiet hum of the ventilation system. Jack could see the war playing out across Steve's features—his rational mind fighting against the chemical conditioning the Capitol had inflicted on him.

"Have they let you see Peggy?" Jack asked suddenly.

Steve blinked, eyes flickering left and right as he pulled up the memory—not such an automatic process with his wires jumbled. His expression softened for a moment when his brain finally landed on Peggy, but quickly crumpled in as the memory played out with an apparent unhappy ending.

"She didn’t recognize me.”

Jack nodded slowly, deciding that this wasn’t the safest subject yet. “They let you eat again?”

Steve was silent.

"The doctors said his digestive system is basically reset," Bucky explained quietly. "Has to relearn how to process normal amounts of food. Too much too fast and he gets sick."

"They're giving me these protein shakes," Steve added, his voice taking on an almost childlike quality. "Tastes like chalk, but they're supposed to help.” He looked at Jack with eyes that seemed too large for his gaunt face. “Is it working?"

Steve Rogers had faced down packs of bloodthirsty Careers and mutts without flinching and yet here he was, asking for reassurance like a lost child.

"You look alive," Jack said honestly. "And that's more than the Capitol wanted."

Steve's smile was watery but genuine. "Yeah. I guess it is."

A soft knock at the door interrupted them, and Violet appeared in the doorway with a concerned expression. "Mr. Rogers, it's time for your evening medication."

Steve's entire demeanor changed instantly, his body going rigid with tension. "No," he said sharply. "No more chemicals."

"It's not chemicals," Violet said patiently, clearly having had this conversation before. "It's nutrients. Vitamins, minerals, things your body needs to heal."

"No!" Steve shot back, his voice rising. "I’ve heard that shit before. I’m not—I’m not—" He squeezed his eyes shut and hit the sides of his head, as if doing so would stabilize the static like an old television. “I’m not doing it again.” 

"Steve." Bucky's voice cut through the building panic. "Look at me. Look at where you are."

Steve's wild gaze found Bucky's face, and Jack watched him speak softly until Roger's breathing began to slow. It took several long moments, but gradually the tension left Steve's shoulders.

"District Thirteen. Medical," Steve whispered, as if reminding himself. "Not—not the Capitol."

"That's right," Bucky confirmed. "You're safe. We're all safe."

Steve nodded shakily and extended his arm toward Violet, who efficiently administered what looked like a series of injections. Jack noticed how carefully she moved, how she explained each step before doing it. Even the medical staff had learned quickly to work around the trauma.

"I should go," Jack said quietly once Violet had finished. "Let you rest."

But Steve shook his head. "Stay. Please. It helps, having people here who remember... before."

So Jack stayed, and they talked about inconsequential things—what the weather probably was outside, updates from the Jarvises about Sarah's development, plans for when everyone was well enough to join the rest of the District. Normal conversation that felt almost surreal given the circumstances.

But Jack noticed the way Steve's attention drifted sometimes, his eyes tracking movement that wasn't there. He noticed how Steve startled at sudden sounds, how his hands never quite relaxed completely. The physical damage was healing, slowly but surely, but the mental scars ran deeper than any wound the arena had ever given him.

When visiting hours ended, Bucky wheeled Jack back to his own room. He knew he should rest, but his thoughts kept returning to the Capitol's ruthless methodology. They hadn't just tortured Steve—they'd studied him, learned his weaknesses, and systematically exploited them. They'd turned his greatest strength, the serum that had saved his life, into a weapon against him.

"He's getting better," Bucky said quietly as they reached Jack's room. "It’ll be slow.”

"How long before they’re really okay?"

Bucky didn’t answer, offering a hand to Jack to help him back to bed. Jack didn’t take it, but obediently got under the covers.

Bucky paused on his way out, glancing back at Jack with a strange sort expression that almost looked like trust. “Dooley’s going to want to talk to you soon. I gave him that notebook.”

“Figured as much,” Jack nodded. “Am I in trouble?”

“Don’t think so. Seems you might be actually useful for once.” Bucky offered a real smile, so fast Jack wasn’t sure he’d seen it, then left the room.

Chapter Text

Jack shifted Sarah's weight in his arms as President Dooley spread the storyboards across the conference table. The baby made a soft sound in her sleep, and Jack found himself automatically adjusting his hold—an apparent reflex after three months of practice. 

"The messaging needs to be clear," Dooley was saying, his weathered fingers tapping against one of the sketched frames. "Hope. New life rising from the ashes of oppression. We need more to join our cause and we needed them yesterday.”

Peggy sat rigid in her chair beside Steve, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The healing marks from the Fleckeri silk were still visible beneath the sleeves of her District 13 uniform, but had softened to a pearly white scar. What was left of her hair was piled loosely on the top of her head. Ana had been able to save a decent amount from the razor, but the sides and back had been lost to matting. 

 Steve's jaw was set in that particular way that meant he was fighting to keep his temper in check. His anger had never seemed so dangerous to Jack in their mentoring days as it did now.

"You want us to talk about it," Steve summarized in a careful tone, like talking too loud might shatter something. "About what happened there."

"More than talk about it," Dooley replied with more enthusiasm than Jack had seen in weeks. He’d been riding some kind of political high ever since his precious Shepherds had been cleared to start filming—no missions, no exertion, just a little smiling and waving for the cameras. 

At least, that's what everyone thought would be the case at the start of the meeting.

Dooley continued with ever bigger hand gestures, "We want to show it. Recreate the moment that changed everything."

“Which moment are you talking about? When Steve’s heart stopped after he ran into the forcefield?” Howard looked up from his tablet of technical drawings, eyebrows raised. It was obviously a rhetorical question, but that mischievous lilt told Jack that Stark was poking this bear on purpose. “When we fought that giant boar mutt? Oh, how about when Peggy got thrown off the cornucopia and almost drowned?"

Jack caught Sousa's slight frown from across the table. The head of logistics had been unusually quiet during the briefing, which was never a good sign. Most officials had learned to scatter when Dooley got that particular gleam in his eyes that meant another idea for a propaganda stunt was incoming, but Sousa had remained steadfast at his post. Or maybe he just couldn't run away as effectively as everyone else with his bum leg. He had yet to agree on the ‘objective’ brilliance of any of Dooley's ideas.

Anyone who’d attended the President’s frequent motivational speeches knew that crowd pleasing wasn’t exactly his forte and that any feelings he managed to stir were probably the result of Romanoff's careful coaching. Jack privately wondered when Dooley would allow her to show him a thing or two about pandering.

"We've already built the set. Come on, I'll show you." Dooley continued, ignoring the growing tension in the room. 

The walk through Thirteen’s maze of corridors felt endless. Jack found himself studying the back of Steve's neck, noting the rigid line of his shoulders, the way his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. Peggy walked close enough to Steve that their arms brushed with each step, but Steve still moved with the careful precision of someone who didn’t trust what he might do if he lost control of himself.

Peggy and Steve had only been released from Medical a week ago and they had yet to receive anything resembling the schedules of other citizens. They weren't allowed any strenuous work yet, though they were invited to most of the political meetings. The hardest part seemed to be the unpredictability of the recovery. The traumatic episodes came too erratically for Steve and Peggy to resume full custody of Sarah. It was arduous to watch them following behind whichever person had primary care of the child, but the nights proved the hardest. Jack didn't blame them for wanting to keep their daughter close, but the unpredictable outbursts made it a risk to keep Sarah with them overnight. The compromise so far had been Barnes sleeping in their room alongside the family to monitor the situation.

“Incredible attention to detail, don't you think?" Dooley said as they walked into the broadcasting center. 

Jack bounced Sarah gently as she began to stir, making soft sounds that might become cries if he wasn't careful. The baby's presence in this place felt obscene—like a birthday in a mausoleum.

Artificial trees rose toward a false canopy, their leaves rustling in a manufactured breeze. The lighting mimicked the arena's programmed dusk, casting everything in that same silver moonlight Jack remembered. A small clearing had been carved out of the fake jungle, complete with a fire pit and the exact arrangement of roots and fallen logs where Sarah had been born.

Steve froze in place, so still that Jack was sure he could have balanced a book on his nose. Peggy actually spun away from the set, one hand clapped over her mouth and the other gripping Steve's arm tightly.

Dooley's voice seemed to come from very far away. "We had the footage analyzed frame by frame. Every tree, every shadow—"

"You want them to have the baby again?" Howard was the one to interrupt. “For a Propo? What’s wrong with the original footage?”

“The President wanted more control over the scene,” Sousa answered, staring at Dooley with an expression between second-hand embarrassment and ‘I told you So,’ before adding,  “Different dialogue. And different characters.”

“Characters?” Jack scoffed. “Did you write me out or something?”

Much to Sousa’s continued exasperation, Dooley tapped something on his wrist piece and Howard’s tablet lit up. 

Jack peered over Stark’s shoulder at the text and gawked. “Oh my god, you replaced me with Barnes.”

Sousa tried to conceal his bark of laughter with a conveniently timed coughing fit. Howard didn’t feign his amusement, patting Jack on the back firmly. “That’s show biz, kid. Who’s gonna be the lucky fella to tell Barnes he’s going to be a star?”

“You won’t be telling him anything.” Steve’s voice cut through the men’s amusement like broken glass. There was no humor in his stringent tone.

Jack’s eyes flicked to Peggy, who still faced the door, her grip on Steve’s hand showing no signs of lessening. He watched her shoulders rise in and fall in steady waves—deep breaths like she’d been working on in Medical to ground through rising panic.

Jack opened his mouth to suggest they all step away, but Dooley stole the airspace first.

"Rogers, think about the impact—" Dooley began.

"The impact?" Rogers whirled to face the president, and Jack saw Howard take an instinctive step back. "You want to use my daughter as a prop. You want my wife to relive the worst night of her life for your cameras. What do you think the impact of that will be?"

Jack felt something cold and familiar settle in his chest—the same feeling he'd had watching Career tributes discuss strategy over the bodies of their victims. The sense that he was surrounded by people who saw other human beings as game pieces.

"The rebellion needs symbols," Dooley said, but his voice had lost some of its conviction.  "The districts need—"

"The districts need to know we're better than the Capitol," Jack found himself saying. Sarah had woken fully now, her blue eyes staring up at him with that intense focus newborns sometimes had, but she didn’t cry. "Not that we're willing to use the same tactics."

"Valuable perspective, Thompson.” Dooley spat. His attention honed on Jack, who had seen it plenty of times when Career packs began to fracture: a so-called leader who lashed out at their teammates rather than admit fault. “I’ll be sure to keep it with all my other brilliant Thompson advice.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, Tiberius didn’t want to take credit for the biggest fuck-up in the history of the Rebellion?" Dooley's smile was more of a sneer, all teeth and no mirth. “Color me shocked.”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Jack hissed. He stepped towards Dooley, but Sousa stepped in front of the President, jaw squared and eyes daring him to come closer.

“Whatever my father did—” Jack started loudly, then paused and took a steadying breath and continued more quietly, “It doesn’t justify this. You want your symbols? Find a way that doesn't require them to open their wounds for your cameras."

The room fell silent except for the artificial rustle of manufactured leaves and the distant hum of Thirteen’s ventilation system. Jack watched Peggy, still turned away from the set, her shoulders moving in those careful, measured breaths. 

"Peggy?" Steve's voice was soft, concerned.

She turned slowly, and Jack's stomach dropped at the expression on her face. Not the anger he'd been bracing for, not the disgust he'd seen directed at him so many times before. Instead, Peggy looked hollow. Like someone had scooped out everything inside her and left only the shell.

"Your father," she said quietly, her voice barely audible over the artificial wind in the fake trees. "What did he do?"

It wasn't a question. The majority of Panem knew that this past summer had been Tiberius Thompson’s infamous debut as head Gamemaker. 

Jack shifted Sarah in his arms, the baby's weight suddenly feeling as heavy as an anchor. "Peggy—"

"It was his idea, wasn't it? Drawing tributes from the Victor pool," she continued, her eyes fixed on the set lit scenically on the other side of the room. "He did it on purpose."

“Not entirely,” Dooley cleared his throat, finally starting to look remorseful—or, at least, remembered that if Carter or Rogers were to snap in this room then he’d be dead before back up would even hear the cry for help. “ I approved the idea. We needed to get you two into the arena without tipping off Schmidt. Extracting you was always the plan, and it would have been amazing for the Rebellion if Tibs did any research first. We would have held off a year if we’d known about the baby.”

Jack hadn't known any more than Peggy at the time, but he couldn't help but feel like he should have. If his father's journal was any indication, then he'd been scheming for years and Jack had never noticed. Maybe if he'd been a bit smarter, a bit more observant... or maybe if he hadn't been so invested in keeping up his own social status.

He leaned over to Howard and whispered, "Find Barnes. Now"

Sousa put a hand on Dooley’s shoulder, eye never leaving Steve’s. “Sir, I suggest you step out of the room to let the Shepherds… digest this information.” 

Dooley studied Carter and Rogers. Steve’s eyes were darting around the room, tracking something fast and non-existant. Peggy’s fingers dug into her palm and into Steve’s hand where she held it fast—dark pink marks blooming on his skin under her nails.

Dooley and Stark left the room quickly, the latter shoving his tablet at Sousa on the way out.

The four remaining adults stared at each other in the deafening silence. Peggy's eyes were sharp when they found Jack, pinning him in place. He unconsciously held Sarah a little tighter, ready to turn his body to shield the baby if he needed to.

Instead, Peggy asked, barely audible, “Did you know?”

“No. Not in the Arena,” Jack whispered, throat suddenly bone dry. “Found dad’s notebook when we got you guys out of the Capitol. He wrote it all down.” 

Peggy took a step forward, then another, until she was close enough that Jack could see the way her pupils had contracted, the slight tremor in her hands. He braced himself for the slap, the shove, the screaming match he knew he deserved.

Instead, she reached out and touched Sarah's tiny fist. The baby instantly latched onto her finger. 

“Why—” Peggy started but paused when her voice caught in her throat and she swallowed back the emotion. “Why didn’t he stop it? Once he knew… once he realized what he was condemning me to?”

“According to his notes, he tried,” Sousa supplied, tapping away at something on Stark’s tablet. His matter-of-fact tone remained in Dooley’s absence, but his posture showed no lapse in his guard. “He tried to bargain with Schmidt repeatedly to get you out, get him to even delay the Games, but it was all getting too suspicious.”

“Schmidt had Dad’s assistant killed as a warning before the Reaping. Strike one,” Jack added darkly. 

“That forced Thompson to volunteer. Strike two.” Sousa pointed out. “But the notes suggest that your pre-game interview, Peggy, might have sealed the deal.”

Jack pinched his nose at the memory of their interview night, just before the start of the Quell. The audience had been simmering already with each Victor’s sob story: Howard’s surprisingly well crafted love poem to someone woman named Maria; Bucky’s colorful cursing as he condemned the government to burn; even Steve’s tearful recollection of the nursery waiting in Ten had all been met with a more robust sympathy than the government was obviously prepared for.

The interviews hadn’t been in ascending numerical order as in previous years, instead by ‘random’ draw that conveniently put Peggy’s interview last. Jack didn't think it possible to turn a tribute-interview into a declaration of war with such devastating grace, but Carter had done it just by silence—refusing to say a single word the whole time.

“Schmidt thought the Rebel plan was to get you in as a Tribute, then use your pregnancy to delay the Games on purpose. A show of power,” Sousa continued to Peggy, eyes remaining on the tablet. “After the interviews, Schmidt didn’t just want you in that Arena to stop that plan, but to punish Tiberius for trying to outsmart him. To punish you for agreeing to it all.”

“But I didn’t agree to any of it! I didn’t—” Peggy’s voice came suddenly strong, riding on a wave of fury. “I wouldn’t—Why would anyone agree to—” She pressed a hand to her forehead, her cheeks reddening as she fought to ground herself. 

“Look, I know that this set wasn’t Dooley’s best idea…” Sousa pressed his lips together glancing at Jack who offered no back up. 

Peggy looked at Sousa with dangerous eyes, voice raising as she spoke, and taking a step towards him with each word. “Thirty-eight hours in one of my worst nightmares, twenty-two of them in labour, shitting myself on live television from pushing, all to have my daughter ripped from my body with bloody salad tongs! How could he think—” She grabbed the tablet out of Sousa’s hands and threw it with impressive strength, and guttural cry, at the prop Arena.

The device lodged in one of the trees with a shower of sparks and a sound like glass shattering. The tree shook violently causing one of the light fixtures to come crashing down with even more sparks which in turn ignited the sparse, false grass.

Peggy stared at the fire for a tense moment before emergency sprinklers activated in the ceiling and began to douse it. 

Then she turned on her heel, grabbed Sarah out of Jack’s arms, and left the studio with Steve in tow. 

The sprinklers continued their steady hiss, turning the arena set into a sodden mess of sparking electronics and soggy artificial foliage. Jack watched the water pool around his boots, the acrid smell of burnt plastic filling his nostrils. The silence stretched between him and Sousa until it felt like a third presence in the room.

"Well," Jack said finally, running a hand through his damp hair. "That went about as well as expected."

Sousa picked up a piece of the shattered tablet, examining it with the same methodical attention he brought to logistics reports. "Actually, it went better than I thought it would. I was expecting Rogers to put Dooley through the wall."

"The day's still young." Jack glanced toward the door where Steve and Peggy had disappeared. "You want to tell me what this is really about? Because that whole dog and pony show seems a little much, even for this place."

Sousa was quiet for a long moment, then moved to a control panel on the wall and shut off the sprinklers. The sudden silence felt deafening after the constant spray.

"We lost control of Four three days ago," he said without preamble.

Jack felt the blood drain from his face. "What?"

"Complete communications black out. We haven’t been able to talk to any of our people inside after they send their last SOS: ‘Position compromised. God save the Shepherds.’" Sousa's voice was carefully neutral, but Jack caught the slight tremor. "We have over two hundred men in the outskirts of the district alone."

"Fuck." Jack sank onto one of the prop logs, his legs suddenly unsteady. "How many districts do we still have?"

"Seven and Eight. That's it." Sousa finally looked at him directly. "One and Two are still under Capitol control despite our agents. Three and Five are... contested. Six doesn’t want any part of this war—but they’re numbers alone could… could be the difference in lives lost by thousands."

The weight of it hit Jack like a physical blow. They were losing. Badly.

"The other districts," Jack said slowly, "they're not just surrendering, are they?"

"No." Sousa's jaw tightened. "Schmidt's making examples. Public executions of anyone who collaborated with us. Entire families. The footage is being broadcast to the remaining rebel districts as a warning. And they’re still using Roger’s face—old clips and new ones they have the technology to fake."

"They coming for us?"

"Maybe. Who am I kidding? Probably.” Sousa rubbed his temples. “I’m betting two months and that’s generous." 

“I told Dooley it was too soon for them to be involved like this.” Jack scrubbed a hand over his face. “They’re not stable enough.”

Sousa was silent for a moment, leaning on his good leg while he adjusted his crutch awkwardly "The thing is, Thompson, morale is collapsing faster than our military position. People joined this rebellion because they believed that the Victors could lead them to something better. Because they saw Rogers and Carter survive that arena and thought maybe they could survive too."

"And now?"

"Now our 'symbols of hope' are having mental breakdowns and refusing to appear in public. The only thing the people are seeing is the Capitol seal on Rogers’ shirt while he tells them to go home and give up." Sousa's tone wasn't accusatory, just tired. "We have the clip of you and the kid but it’s not nearly enough. People are starting to think they've been abandoned."

Jack understood now why Dooley had been so desperate, why he'd been willing to cross every line they had. "You need them back on camera."

"We need them to be functional," Sousa corrected. "I'm not asking them to relive their trauma for entertainment. But Thompson, if they don't start showing their faces soon, if people don't see that their leaders are still fighting, this whole thing is going to collapse from the inside."

Jack studied Sousa's face, noting the dark circles under his eyes, the way his usually immaculate uniform was wrinkled. "When's the last time you slept?"

Daniel laughed, short and bitter. “About twenty years ago.”

“And you’re still jumping through every hoop Dooley asks you to.”

"Dooley means well—"

"Dooley's an idiot." Jack stood up, water squelching under his boots. "But you're not. So tell me what you actually need from them. Not what he thinks would make good television."

“We just need them to talk.” Sousa was quiet for a moment, then pulled out a small device Jack recognized as a secure communicator. "We need them better so they can do some actual work. We've got seventeen different outposts begging for supply drops. Medical equipment, ammunition, basic food supplies. Romanoff’s team is spread thinner than they've ever been.”

"I don’t think Carter and Rogers need me to convince them to help with any missions. But the Propos…"

"You're the only person they trust who isn't their spouse or best friend," Sousa said bluntly. "Barnes won't push them like that. He's too protective. But you... you understand what's at stake here. You've seen how this ends if we lose."

Jack closed his eyes, flashes of Martinelli’s tear streaked face surfacing to mind before he could push the thought down. "You want me to convince them to sacrifice themselves for the greater good. Again."

"I want you to help them find a way to keep fighting that doesn't break them completely." Sousa met his eyes. "Because right now, Thompson, that's the only option any of us have left."

The artificial wind had stopped with the sprinklers, leaving the fake arena eerily still. Jack looked at the burned tree, at the place where Peggy had thrown the tablet, and tried to imagine asking her to smile for cameras.

"If I do this," Jack said finally, "if I convince them to film, you need to promise me something."

"What?"

"No more stunts like this. No more recreating their trauma for propaganda. We find another way to give people hope, or we don't deserve to win this war."

Sousa nodded slowly. "Agreed. But Thompson... we need something from them soon. Romanoff can do a lot, but she’s running out of resources as fast as she can give them out."

Jack looked toward the door again, thinking of Steve's rigid shoulders and Peggy's hollow expression. Of baby Sarah, who would grow up in either a free world or under Schmidt's boot, depending on what happened in the next.

"I'll talk to them," he said. "But Daniel? If this breaks them, if pushing them back into the spotlight destroys what's left of them... that's on both of us."

"I know," Sousa said quietly. "But if we don't try, and everyone else dies because of it... that's on us too."

As he turned to go, Jack noticed Stark lingering by the door. "Need something?”

“Just listening in,” Howard probably should have looked at least a little ashamed as he shrugged and admitted, “Heard you’re in a tough spot… I might have a solution.”

This new conference room was about the size of a broom closet with all of them crammed around the metal table, but it was the only room Dooley had been willing to give up after reluctantly forfeiting his position as propaganda director. It had been Jack’s idea, after that talk with Sousa, to give Stark creative authority over any future broadcast ideas.  

Twenty-fours hours later, a well-groomed man—taller than Stark, with dark hair and caramel skin—from Three stood before them. 

"I'd like you all to meet Kingo Sunen." Stark made no effort to hide his apparent infatuation. "He's going to be handling our visual propaganda moving forward."  

Kingo's smile was practiced, the kind Jack had seen on Chadwick and Frost—bright enough to cover whatever lurked underneath. He addressed the Shepherds as he spoke, extending a hand to them to shake, "Please, just Kingo. I've been following your story for some time now. Quite the romantic tragedy we have on our hands."

Peggy and Steve made no move to shake his hand. Even if Steve hadn't been holding Sarah against his chest, Jack didn't think either would have taken the outstretched hand.

He wondered if they even remembered how.

"Tragedy?" Peggy's voice was carefully controlled. The fingers she’d been drumming against the table stilled. Kingo’s first strike, if the last few weeks had taught Jack anything of Peggy’s warning signs.

"Oh, forgive me—I meant triumph, of course." Kingo's recovery was smooth, professional. He pulled out a tablet, swiping through what looked like storyboards. At least the man could take a hint. “I understand we’re on a tight schedule, so let’s skip the pleasantries. I want to film you returning to District Ten."

The silence that followed wasn’t quite as intense as yesterday’s in the studio, but Jack didn’t miss the way Peggy straightened in her seat. Even Steve had gone still, which caused Sarah to begin to stir.

"What is it with you people wanting to recreate their worst memories?" The words were out of Jack's mouth before he could stop them.

Kingo turned to him with raised eyebrows. "I wasn't aware you had any authority here, Mr. Thompson."

“He doesn’t,” Barnes said. He sat on the other side of Steve looking almost as bored as Romanoff, who stood at her standard post by the door.

"Worst memories," Peggy echoed with disbelief as she turned to Jack. "Tell me, Jack, since you’re such an expert. Which memories do you think are my worst?” 

“Well I…” Jack forced himself to meet her gaze, even as every instinct screamed at him to back down. "I just mean that going to Ten—I don’t want you exacerbating your… You’re still healing.”

"So I'm damaged goods, is that it?" 

Jack nearly flinched. “You think this is a good idea?”

“I think ,” Peggy muttered as she turned her attention back to Kingo, “that we haven’t heard the whole proposition.”

"The plan is to show the districts what hope looks like." Kingo cleared his throat, apparently unbothered by the tension crackling between Jack and Peggy. "If I may—the emotional authenticity of returning to a place of relevance could be exactly what we need. Raw, unfiltered, real." He swiped to another image on his tablet: an image of ruined buildings, though it was unclear where. "Picture this: the camera follows you through the ruins of your home. We see the devastation, then we see you two—survivors of the Games and of Capital punishment.” 

Another picture, this one of Ten’s Victor Village before its recent destruction. Kingo continued, “You walk hand in hand through the district until you reach your home. You’ll search through the rubble and find one of your daughter’s toys—or binky or something. Whatever you have. It’ll be placed for the scene.” 

Jack narrowed his eyes. “You want Sarah in this too?”

“Let the man finish." Stark hissed.

Kingo didn’t seem outwardly bothered by Jack’s apprehension, instead smiling at him with uncomfortable cognizance. “The baby won’t even be on set, Mr. Thompson. Ten may be ideal for a propaganda shoot, but it would be too much of a safety risk for a child.”

“But you’ll risk the Shepherds'.” 

Stark groaned. 

Barnes sighed and sank further into his chair.

“The Comandos and I will be running security,” Romanoff said coolly, any signs of annoyance limited to the lengthy stare she gave Jack. “Already cleared with Sousa.”

Kingo cleared his throat again. “Then we’ll have you start ‘rebuilding’— just a few brick placements. Anything you have to say, say it. I’ve left the dialogue completely open for you.”

Jack looked desperately at Peggy. "Are you seriously considering this?”

“I know being a coward’s son is something of a lifestyle choice for you, Jack,” she answered levelly without looking at him, “but I’m not afraid of getting emotional in front of an audience.”

The room went silent, save for Barnes' involuntary snort of laughter. 

Something twisted in Jack's gut, unhelped by the way Stark tilted his head in agreement with Peggy—though Howard seemed only half-present, his attention on doodling what looked suspiciously like that woman from Three he was always talking about. 

The anger which surged through him was purely reactive, Jack knew, but it burned in his throat, unforgiving and unignorable. “I’m not afraid of you getting emotional on camera.” His voice was almost a snarl. “I’m afraid of that mutt the Capitol put in you coming to the surface again.”

Steve flinched.

Barnes leaned forwards in his chair and stared.

Even Romanoff shifted her weight uncomfortably.

“The only people I’ve been a real danger to in that state are myself,” Peggy turned her head slowly to look at him, her expression completely unreadable, “and you.”

The phantom sensation of Peggy's weight against Jack’s throat made him swallow reflexively.

“I’m nothing but a monster in the closet to you, aren’t I?” she continued, almost a whisper. She held his gaze for a moment then, with an unexpected shout of “Boo!” shot her hands out towards his face with her fingers splayed, stopping before she actually touched him.

Jack leapt backwards, his chair toppling over with a loud clatter. 

Barnes was definitely laughing now. 

“I suggest you stay here, Jack. You can watch Sarah.” Peggy was shaking her head but Jack didn’t miss the dejected wilt of her shoulders. “Wouldn’t want to put your pretty face at risk.” 

Steve silently slipped his hand into Peggy’s once Jack had righted himself in his chair. His heart was still hammering against his ribs as Kingo continued presenting ideas to the group. 

The bruises on Jack’s neck had faded to a sickly yellow-green, but his body remembered every moment of that attack—the detached look in Peggy’s eyes, the way she had found windpipe with deadly precision, the terrifying realization that she would have killed him if Barnes hadn’t stepped in. 

The shame that followed might have been worse than the fear. He knew Peggy wasn't a monster—she was a victim of the Capitol's torture, conditioned to be a weapon against her will. Every time he treated her like a threat instead of an ally, he was letting Schmidt win. He was reducing her to nothing more than the Capitol's programming, stripping away everything that made her human.

Jack didn’t say another word for the remainder of the meeting.