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Coral would very much like to maul a man.
One of these damned Capitol Peacekeepers, specifically.
Or multiple Peacekeepers. She’s not picky.
Unfortunately, there are chains digging into her wrists, heavy and cold and binding, and she’s given no such chance. She glances over the other tributes as they’re herded away from the filthy trains that brought them here, and towards an equally filthy truck. Her only reprise is that at least she and Mizzen look a sight better than some of the others here. She considers some of the more physically-built tributes and tries to work out how they might react to being approached for an alliance.
Mizzen has fallen a step behind when Coral’s gaze catches on a tiny boy near the back—he’s missing an arm, awkwardly clutching the chains with his remaining hand. There’s a fury burning behind his eyes that might have been scarier on a larger person. It’s notable, though. He looks desperate, wild, like a fish thrashing against the net that had caught it.
Before she can fully process what he’s planning, the boy bolts.
It takes a couple seconds of incomprehension before the Peacekeepers break into shouts, their voices sharp and angry. Coral’s heart pounds as two of them break off in pursuit of the boy sprinting away, their hands already going for the guns at their hips. But just as they start after him, she sees Mizzen—quick as a shark—stick his foot out. One of the Peacekeepers goes down hard, stumbling into the other with a shout.
Her breath catches in her throat. Mizzen. What he’s done hits her like a wave crashing into rocks along the shore. He’s dead once attention is turned back on him. But they’re all dead—all except one—in a few days anyway. Her thoughts race, faster than her rapid heartbeat, and she knows what needs to happen.
“Go!” she hisses, shoving him forward.
Mizzen doesn’t question her, doesn’t look back. He runs.
Coral watches him sprint, lunging for the ladder ahead of him like a lifeline. The Peacekeepers scramble up from the ground, yelling orders to each other, calling for backup. But Mizzen doesn’t slow down—he grabs the ladder without pausing and shoves it hard. It crashes down with a deafening clang, knocking the Peacekeepers off balance again.
They’re furious now. But their backup is too busy corralling the rest of them into the truck. Less Peacekeepers chasing Mizzen. That’s good. Coral is pushed forward, and the walls of the truck block Mizzen from sight, but there are still shouts from outside. No gunshots. And though her chains rattle, though the fear claws at her chest, she can’t help but feel a wave of relief.
Maybe, just maybe, he’ll make it.
It’s a chance. She hopes.
***
Bobbin hadn’t thought it would actually work.
Actually, Bobbin wasn’t thinking much at all when he ran.
He’d been focused on the biting edge of the chains that bound him, one clasped around his left wrist and another tight against the stub of his right arm. Wovey had been beside him, her small, trembling hand trying to reach for his. Her wide eyes looked up at him, silently pleading for something—reassurance, safety, anything. Bobbin had started to reach back, hand stretching toward hers, but she was yanked forward before he could grasp her, her tiny frame jerking forward with the force of the Peacekeeper’s shove.
She stumbled, nearly falling before catching herself, forced into a line ahead of him. He could only watch as she tried to keep her balance, her chains rattling as her gaze darted back toward him in fear. His heart twisted, but there was nothing he could do. No words to say. No way to promise her it would be okay when it wasn’t. When it couldn’t be. He’d been trying to focus on her, on keeping her safe, because that’s what he was supposed to do, wasn’t it? She was just twelve. She didn’t deserve this.
Bobbin looked around: ahead, to the truck that the Peacekeepers were herding them all towards, to the side where there’s a gap between two buildings, a large ladder leaning against one, the gap blocked by a dumpster. His eyes lock onto it, and already, he knows it won’t work. And yet—he glances back to the two Peacekeepers nearby, the guns strapped on them but not held, and his feet are moving for him with a sudden, reckless impulse.
Run.
He pushes off into a sprint, and in the several seconds before shouts break out behind him, he’s off in a mad dash towards whatever lies beyond that one blockade. He ignores the shouts that call for him to stop, the angry commands for the present Peacekeepers to take action. He knows they are much larger than him, that they could easily physically overpower him, that they are right on him, closing in. But then—
CRASH, goes a clatter of metal behind him.
Bobbin hears the Peacekeepers shout again, but this time in pain. The ladder hits the ground with a jarring clang, and his stomach twists with apprehension and what he doesn’t dare to call hope. Not yet. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even glance back to see what happened. He lunges for the dumpster, he’s awkwardly swinging his arms up so he can grab onto the edge, hauling himself up, forward, over—
Almost, almost, almost there.
His legs scramble for purchase, and the dumpster shakes beneath him, but he makes it over the top. His body lands hard on the other side, breath coming out in ragged gasps. He rolls, pushing himself back to his feet, too aware that it’s not over yet. His lungs burn, straining at each gasp of air. His protesting body reminds him of the days spent in the train car that brought him here, with no food, no water, and no real rest.
Bobbin stumbles back into motion.
He’s running past unfamiliar streets, so unlike home. He does not know these roads. He doesn’t know where to hide. His heart spikes with fear at the scuff of hurried footsteps behind him, but when he risks a look over his shoulder, eyes already wide in anticipation of what he expects to be a Peacekeeper, his gaze lands on another tribute on his heels. It’s another tribute, a boy with dark brown hair and stars sewn on his clothes. His eyes lock on Bobbin with urgency, not breaking his pace.
“Keep going!” the boy snaps.
Bobbin doesn’t spare the breath for a response, chest heaving from the effort of pushing forward. He ducks into the first gap he sees between two buildings, something too narrow to call an alleyway, the edges of the walls barely wider than himself. He makes it past as quickly as he is able, aware of the other boy behind him, and they reach the other side. He uses his left hand to grasp onto as much of the chain between his hands, trying to lessen the noise of it, and can hear when the boy following him does the same.
Then, they’re both tearing down the newest street, to the end of it, and turning the corner. His foot slips on loose gravel, and a hand darts out to catch him, tugging him up before he falls and pulling him forward again. Bobbin nods at him as the other boy takes the lead, and the boy makes a gesture towards a haphazard stack of crates a ways ahead, before he squeezes behind them.
Bobbin follows suit, dropping to his knees to crawl, wedging himself into the tight space, the wood pressing against him, and his heart pounding against his chest. It’s cramped, but he fits beside the other boy, just barely. He tries to quiet his breathing by pressing his face into his knees, stiffening when he hears heavy footsteps of boots against the pavement. He can hear frustration in the Peacekeepers’ voices, the insistence.
“They can’t have gotten far. Sweep the area.”
He presses his mouth shut, and sees a shadow passing by in the corner of his eye. He doesn’t dare lift his head, fearing that a sound or slight movement might give him—give them—away. But the Peacekeepers don’t linger. He hears one grumble about “slippery brats,” but the footsteps fade away, as do the voices barking orders, and Bobbin keeps his breaths shallow until the boy behind him shifts.
Bobbin dares to look at him, and watches the way he lets out a long, quiet breath. Relief is filling him in the same way. He exhales shakily, his body finally relaxing from the tight ball he’d held himself in. In the dim light under where they’ve hidden, he notices the boy rubbing his wrist. No cuff.
Bobbin squints at him, whispering, “How’d you—”
“Slipped out of it,” the boy whispers, holding up his bare wrist. “These things are crap. Tugged hard enough while running, and it just came loose.” His tone is quiet but smug. He holds up his other wrist, gives a demonstrative yank, and just like that, his other hand is free too. “Guess the Capitol can’t hold us that easy.”
Bobbin huffs softly, though it’s not quite a laugh. He looks down, shifting his left wrist, testing his own restraint. It holds firm, the edges biting into his skin. “Lucky you,” he mutters. “This thing won’t come off that easy.”
The boy’s grin fades as his gaze drops to Bobbin’s other arm—specifically, the stub where his right hand used to be. His expression tightens, but he doesn’t say anything about it, instead reaching toward Bobbin’s cuffed wrist. “Let me see.”
He shifts to let the boy do so.
“Yours is strapped differently. Guess they thought you’d be more trouble.”
Bobbin offers a wry smile in return. He knows very well that most people assume the opposite because of his small size. But the other boy isn’t even looking at him, leaning back to pull something out of the pocket of his pants—a thin bit of metal, bent slightly at the edge. It almost looks like a needle, if not slightly longer.
“You’ve been carrying that around?” whispers Bobbin.
“Got it from the train car. It’s saving you now, isn’t it?”
Bobbin huffs. He’s not been saved yet.
He holds up his left wrist when the other boy motions for it, watching and waiting as the boy pokes the metal into the clasp of his cuff. It takes less than a minute before it pops open, and the chain falls loose. Bobbin flexes his hand, ignoring the red marks it left behind in favor of the delight rising in his chest. It’s only a few moments more for the boy to unlock the cuff on his right arm, then—he’s free.
Free.
Bobbin holds onto the word as it rings in his head, echoing like a distant bell. It spreads through him like fire, stoking a feeling that he’d thought died at the Reaping—the faintest flicker of hope. He clutches it tightly, afraid it might slip through his fingers, but it’s there, still there. His thoughts race ahead of him, beyond his reality.
Home. He could go home.
For one dizzying, breathless moment, he lets himself imagine it.
The streets of District Eight, familiar and worn, his brother’s face and the disbelief that would cross it as Brocade dared to believe that Bobbin had returned, that he’d escaped, that he’d made his way back. And Wovey—she’d be there too, safe and whole, because he’d have to get her out too. He’d—Bobbin snaps back to reality. He’s getting ahead of himself. He’s still in the Capitol. He’s still being hunted.
But, even still, he’s no longer in chains.
Bobbin looks to the other boy, and what else is there to say but, “Thanks.”
“That’s it?” says the boy, but he’s broken into a grin so bright that it may as well be lighting up their hiding place. He kicks at the discarded chains a bit. “No, c’mon. Like, ‘Wow, Mizzen, you’re so amazing, how’d you do that?’” He pauses, then adds, “You know, something like that.”
“Wow, Mizzen,” Bobbin repeats dryly. “You’re so amazing, how’d you do that?”
“I learned it myself!”
“Did your District teach you that?”
“I’m from Four.”
“Four teaches cuff-escaping?”
Mizzen shrugs, an easy smile still on his face. “Where are you from?”
“Eight. Name’s Bobbin.”
“Well, Bobbin,” Mizzen says, then grins. “How about we get out of here?”
***
Coral glances toward the blond Capitol boy.
He’s trying to make conversation with the girl in the rainbow dress, even though it’s so clear to her and everyone else in this Panem-forsaken truck that he doesn’t want to be here. After the boy from Eleven had slammed him into the wall with a threat for his pompous attitude, he’s been tense. More tense. Clearly, it’s just processed in his tiny, Capitol brain that being here was a bad idea. She guesses that he couldn’t see past his privilege to understand why he could possibly be disliked by the District kids he was helping send to slaughter.
Her muscles stiffen as she stays standing, fighting every urge to attack him, to make at least one person in the Capitol pay, but the rainbow girl was right. If she does, there’s too much to lose. Coral might already be good as dead, but back home—she can’t risk her actions coming back to hurt them too. She stumbles as the truck comes to a sudden stop, and before she can regain her balance, the floor steepens, sending them all tumbling down, down, down, scraping against rocks and rolling into dirt.
She looks up to a clamor of voices.
There’s metal bars separating her and a crowd of Capitolites, gawking at them all like a particularly interesting attraction. Beyond them, several Peacekeepers stand, just as armed as the ones at the train station had been. Around her, the other tributes are regaining their bearings. Coral’s gaze flicks over the others, then out into the crowd, searching for any sign of a struggle. She’s looking for one person: Mizzen.
She doesn’t see him.
Good, she thinks, and hopes, desperately, that he’s not with them, that he managed to slip away while they were distracted, or better yet, that he’s already far out of their reach. She knows, deep down, that the fact Mizzen isn't here doesn’t mean safety. It means he could have been caught and held somewhere else. Or that he’s dead.
She’s not sure which thought is worse.
Coral looks over to the crowd beyond the bars, to the rainbow girl and her melodic voice, to the Capitol boy beside her, trying to present her like a particularly impressive catch. She shuts her eyes, trying to block it out. She’s not going to waste another second thinking about them. Not right now. Mizzen’s out there, somewhere. He has to be. He’s fast, he’s smart, he’s resourceful. If anyone’s going to survive this, it’s him.
Coral has to believe in that, at least.
***
Bobbin doesn’t want to say what follows is easy, but—well.
It is. It really is. He’d been filled with so much fear during that initial escape, but once they’d ditched their chains under the crates they had hidden under while the Peacekeepers passed them by, there was a surprising lack of trouble. Mizzen had used the same trick that got Bobbin out of his cuffs to get into a house, peeking through the windows to make sure no one was home before they snuck in, and they had grabbed some new clothes. There had to have been food in there too, but the house was so big. Bobbin didn’t want to risk wandering. It turns out that there was no reason to worry though.
Mizzen finds a place to stash their clothes, they change into their newly acquired disguises, wiping away dirt with clothing they can’t wear—that are too big to fit—and that’s that. For all their caution, no one even looks twice at them. There had only been one woman who even talked to them, and she’d only approached to tell them that they looked like such upstanding boys. Did they attend the Junior Academy? She wouldn’t keep them too long, she knows they simply must be heading off to class.
And Bobbin had put on his best Capitol accent, the one he knew how to do because he’d mocked enough Capitolites under his breath on bitter days after the ‘accident’ at the factory had taken half his arm at just four-years-old, and told her, exactly the responses he knew she wanted to hear. Yes, they were students. Oh, what’s that, be careful? An announcement? Danger warning? Tributes on the loose? Of course they’ll be careful. Of course they’ll be watching the broadcast.
She’d taken great lengths to ‘assure’ them that of course their capable Capitol Peacekeepers would catch those terrible, terrible District savages. There was nothing that good, well-behaved children like them would ever need to worry about. They had nothing to worry about; the Hunger Games would proceed once they’ve been caught, wasn’t that assuring? Bobbin marveled at her ability to say that and mean it. Mizzen looked like he was debating between laughter and anger. He stays silent, though.
“Oh, yes,” Bobbin told her. “We’re just so excited for these new Hunger Games!”
And the woman had chattered on about how so was she because she’d heard they were doing something new this year, something something Academy, something something zoo. Bobbin fixed a tight smile on his face and tried to remember what his mother told him about keeping his temper in check. And then—that was it. She’d gone off on her own way, leaving them be with parting words to, “Ask your parents to take you. It’s a real attraction, I hear.”
So, they’ve got a goal.
Find this zoo, get their District partners out.
Still, just to be safe, they decide it would be best to hide out for one night and go looking the next morning. Bobbin guesses that Mizzen must be feeling a bit of the same way he is—disbelieving. It’s been a bit too easy, and even giving the Peacekeepers the slip, he doesn’t want to risk being careless and letting it all fall apart.
In just a few hours, they’ve acquired a variety of food to last them at least a week, tucked away in the same place that hides their real clothes, and they find a spot to hide out for the night nearby. Mizzen is breaking bits of bread off a loaf they’d pilfered, handing him pieces to share, eating in amicable silence.
“I worked on the docks, back home,” says Mizzen, his voice low. He doesn’t look up from the bread in his hands. It’s the first bit of real information he’s shared about his life. Even with the alliance-friendship they made over their escape, they don’t really know anything about each other, besides their names and District.
“Really?” asks Bobbin, when Mizzen slips back into silence.
Mizzen nods. “I used to unload crates. Fish, mostly. Coral too, sometimes. She worked nearby, hauling nets. That’s how we got to know each other.”
“You ever fish yourself?”
“Nah.” Mizzen shakes his head. “I learned to swim like the rest of them, but my job was more...on land. It’s fine, though. As long as you worked, you made enough to eat.” He passes Bobbin another piece of bread. “What about you? What did you do...before all this?”
Bobbin stares down at his hand, flexing the fingers on his left. He can sometimes still feel the sensation of the right one, like it’s still there. He thinks of the hum of the machines, the choking heat, the endless hours. But he doesn’t tell Mizzen that.
“Factory work,” Bobbin says instead, brushing crumbs off his lap, and isn’t that something? They’ve got so much food, he can afford to not savor every crumb like he won’t see another. “Textiles. You know. Same as everyone else in Eight.”
Mizzen hums quietly, like he’s trying to picture it. Bobbin tries to picture what kind of work Mizzen did too. He tries to imagine water so vast that boats are needed to cross it, and all the creatures that could hide within. He can’t quite manage it.
“Was it boring?”
Bobbin pauses. “Boring’s not the word I’d use.”
He picks at a loose thread on his pants, thinking about the way the looms rattled and buzzed, the way the floor always smelled like dust and dye. He thinks about a time way back, when he had been small and had more siblings than just Brocade. His father had taught him how to spot when a thread was badly spun, the signs that it would probably snap before it made it to clothing, and had made it into a game to catch it. Quality control, except quality only mattered when it came to the Capitol’s clothes. Too bad their clothes were pretentious and ugly, no matter how nice the fabric that made it up was.
“Then what?”
He takes a breath, then decides to speak of Wovey instead. “I didn’t know her before this. She’s from a different sector in Eight—the Selvage. But, I don’t know, she’s—” What to say? Little? Younger? Shouldn’t be here? She was as young as it got for tributes, and she’d told him about her older brother, a boy Bobbin’s age. Woof, if he’s recalling correctly. Wovey didn’t deserve to be Reaped. Bobbin didn’t think he deserved to be Reaped either. Neither did Mizzen. “I want to get her out too.”
“We can break Coral out too,” says Mizzen, like it’s that easy. Given their past day, it may as well be. “I—” His smile fades. He sighs. “I miss my sisters.”
“Me too,” says Bobbin. “They’re,”—Broidery and Barathea were long dead, who knows where his mother had abandoned him to—“well, I’ve only got my brother back home.” Did Brocade even believe that Bobbin would make it this far?
“What’s he like?”
Bobbin shrugs. Brocade loved him by working himself into exhaustion, by folding grief into the back corner of his mind and pretending it didn’t exist. Bobbin hated him for that. Hated the way Brocade seemed to shrug off everything that hurt, as if ignoring it would make it go away. Meanwhile, Bobbin had clung on, trying to hold on to some sliver of their parents, even though it felt like dragging a needle through his chest, trying to sew those fading memories into his heart like he could keep them that way.
They’d fought about it, too—about how Brocade handled everything, about how Bobbin didn’t handle it at all. They resented each other in the way only family can: painfully, deeply, and without escape. But they loved each other like that, too. Brocade called it survival. Bobbin called it running. And somehow, they both hated that the other wasn’t coping the same way. And yet, Brocade still looks at him sometimes with that strange, soft expression—the one that makes Bobbin feel like a kid again, a proper kid that he never quite got to be—like Brocade’s not just his brother but something more.
Like Bobbin is his son.
But Brocade’s not his dad.
He never was, and he never will be.
“He’s...fine,” Bobbin says finally. “Works too much. Worries too much.”
Silence lapses between them.
“So,” he says, desperate to turn his thoughts elsewhere. “Your sisters, then. What are they like?”
Mizzen turns to him, smiling as if the mention of his sisters had just made the world brighter. “Oh, they’re great,” he says, the words spilling out fast, like he can’t help it. “Marina is the oldest. She’s tough, but she’s got a soft spot for me. Doesn’t show it much, though. She’s always busy, like keeping the whole family running. And then there’s Mags—she’s a couple years older than me, real clever. She works at the docks like Coral and me. She’s got these old fishing books she says won’t let anyone borrow. She says they’re her special things, but she’s always letting me look at them when Marina’s not around.”
Bobbin nods, more than a bit interested in a family that Mizzen can speak so highly of. Mizzen’s voice drops slightly, as if he’s sharing something more private. “One time, I got in trouble for sneaking into one of the boats early in the morning. You know, before the sun even comes up?” He leans in closer, as though he’s reliving the memory and wants to pull Bobbin in to join him there. Bobbin does his best to picture it. “And Mags caught me. I thought I was dead, I really did. Maybe I would’ve been if I’d been found by anyone but her. She just dragged me back home. Didn’t even tell Marina I’d been out, but I think she knew. I wanted to see if I could spot some starfish during low tide.”
Bobbin feels something catch in his throat. Hearing Mizzen talk about his sisters with such easy affection makes him feel like he’s missing something—something that maybe he’ll never have. He loves Brocade, but he can’t imagine sharing stories like this. He doesn’t know if he even has stories like this, with his brother, to share. Mizzen isn’t paying attention to Bobbin’s internal conflict, though, and he’s grateful for that.
“What does that mean?” he says aloud.
“Huh?”
“You said, ‘Starfish during low tide.’”
“Yeah,” Mizzen says slowly, and gives him a strange look. “Starfish.”
He points at a star stitched onto his clothing.
Bobbin squints at it. “That…is a star.”
“It’s a starfish.” At his blank look, Mizzen continues: “They’re these creatures that live in the ocean. They’ve got five arms, or more, and they look like a star.” Mizzen holds his hands up in front of him, mimicking the arms in an exaggerated way. “You know, the shape.”
Bobbin looks from Mizzen to the stitching on his clothes again. “There’s star-shaped animals?” he repeats, trying to make sense of it. He stares at Mizzen for a long moment, who is nodding emphatically, and is still left unconvinced. “Sounds made up.”
Immediately, Mizzen is affronted. “They’re real.”
“Are they?”
“They are!”
“Really? Star animals?”
Mizzen shoves him. “Starfish,” he corrects.
“Starfish,” Bobbin repeats, dryly.
“Come with me to Four, after this. I’ll show you.”
Bobbin pauses at that. Come with me to Four.
Is that really a possibility now?
“Only if you visit Eight after,” he says.
Mizzen grins. “Deal.”
***
Coral can’t say she’s having a great time, but she’s not hating it.
The Peacekeepers here are a bit of a joke, really. There’s so much bluster over their authority, but they’re much less threatening than the ones back home. All of them seem to think that she and the rest of the tributes are too stupid to understand them, so they have no reservations about talking about their issues. Mainly, the fact that Mizzen and the boy from Eight—Bobbin, she learned—are still missing. And they are losing their minds over it. It’s honestly laughable. She doesn’t even bother hiding her grin. How incompetent are they that an entire Peacekeeper force can’t find two boys? Not that she’s complaining.
It seems like the other tributes are catching onto how utterly idiotic they are too, because she’s pretty sure that the pair from Seven already have a plot to get out. Coral has half a mind to approach them to get roped into that escape, because she very much would like to get out of here and meet up with wherever Mizzen has hidden out. She’s pretty confident that if she can get back to Four, she’ll be covered.
Her and Mizzen. Their community won’t snitch.
Coral glances back over to the boy in red trying to coax them with sandwiches. She’s hungry, but she doesn’t trust them. It seems like everyone else has the same opinion. Except, when he catches her eye, he waves her down. Coral lets out a sigh, but wanders over. “Are you supposed to be my mentor, then?”
“Ah,” he says, expression turning awkward. “No, actually. I’m for Marcus.” He nods at the boy from Two, who is glaring back at him. He winces at the hostility, then focuses back on her. “But—you’re from Four, right? Mizzen’s partner? Coral?”
Immediately, Coral is on the defensive. “Why?”
“He’s fine,” he says quickly, voice lowered. Coral’s gaze sharpens on him. “I had two bags of sandwiches and plums earlier.” She glances down. He’s only holding one bag. He smiles, something a bit too pleased. “He grabbed one from me earlier. Ran away with Bobbin.”
Coral stares at him for a moment longer, takes in what he just said. That he’d taken the time to learn Mizzen’s name, to recognize Coral, how happy he looks at admitting that both escaped tributes had essentially stolen from him. “And?” she asks cautiously.
“And I thought you’d appreciate knowing he’s gotten out. I don’t know where they’ve hidden, but I don’t want to tip anyone off by looking. They were wearing Capitol clothes, so—there’s that.”
She lets that sink in. Mizzen is out.
He’s gotten himself clothes to disguise himself. He’s partnered with that other escaped boy, and he now has food. If the bag he took was anything like the one that the Capitol boy in front of her is holding, he’d have more than enough, even if he shares it. That’s good. That’s more than good. That’s more than she could have hoped for.
“Thank you—” she trails off.
“Sejanus,” he supplies.
“Thanks, Sejanus.”
He beams at her.
When he doesn’t leave, Coral asks, “Was there something else?”
“Can you hold out your arms?”
Coral frowns at him, but does so. It’s all the warning she gets before he takes the bag he’d had on his shoulder and hauls it right over the bars of the enclosure. She stumbles a bit to catch it. “What—?”
“Do you mind sharing those?”
She looks between him and the bag he’s just tossed to her, then snorts. “You’re weird for a Capitolite.”
“Probably because I’m not,” he says. “Not really.”
“Really,” she says, disbelieving.
Sejanus’s gaze flicks over to Marcus again. “I’m from Two.”
Huh, thinks Coral. There was a history there, then.
She was definitely going to be confronting Marcus about that later.
“Good to know,” she tells him.
***
Bobbin had planned to get Wovey out that morning.
He had not planned on anyone actually recognizing them on the way to the zoo. In his defense, most everyone hadn’t even given him or Mizzen a second glance, but then there was this older boy in red. He was out and around as early as they were, except he was holding two bags of—what were those? Sandwiches? It was hard to tell from the distance. Bobbin hadn’t thought he’d be a problem.
And really, he was right to think so.
Bobbin had been a bit off put when Sandwich Boy had full-on stopped to look at them, but he hadn’t made any threatening motions other than waving at them. Mizzen waved back. Bobbin smacked his hand down when Sandwich Boy took that as an invitation to approach them. He decides that he really doesn’t want to have to deal with another conversation with a Capitolite, especially if this boy was anything like that woman that had gone on about the dangers of the Districts gone wild or whatever it was.
Sandwich Boy opens his mouth to say something.
Bobbin doesn’t wait for whatever it might be. Instinct takes over. At once, he rushes forward, kicking the boy in the knees the way that has taken down many, many larger people that tried to hassle him back in Eight.
“Ow—” Sandwich Boy yelps, staggering.
Mizzen doesn’t miss a beat. With the reflexes of someone who’s learned how to swim through choppy waters, Mizzen snatches the bag out of Sandwich Boy’s hands. For a second, the boy just stands there, wide-eyed. And then, miraculously, he does nothing.
No yelling, no chasing, no trying to grab them back.
Sandwich Boy just takes a confused step towards them. “Wait—”
“Go!” says Bobbin, and Mizzen’s already moving.
They break into a sprint, running past the Capitolites as they weave through the zoo grounds. There’s a few disgruntled gasps, a few cries of annoyance, but if the past few days have taught him anything, it’s that Capitolites are idiots. Now that they’ve gotten cleaned up and are wearing ‘proper’ clothes, they’re just seen as a few rowdy kids. No one—no one else, anyway—connects them to the escaped tributes.
“Did you see his face?” Mizzen is breathless beside him, but he’s grinning through gasps of air. “He was just gaping there. Looked like a fish out of water.”
“Yeah, well, let’s hope he doesn’t change his mind and come after us.” Bobbin throws a glance over his shoulder, but there’s no sign of Sandwich Boy—or Peacekeepers, for that matter. He still makes sure to check. He knows Mizzen does the same.
“He’s not chasing us,” confirms Mizzen. “Guess he likes his sandwiches, but not that much.”
Bobbin snorts despite himself. “If he wanted them so bad, he should’ve run faster.”
They round a corner and duck into a narrow alley tucked behind a building a street away from the zoo. Bobbin lets himself fall against the wall, catching his breath. Mizzen collapses beside him, still clutching the bag. Bobbin grabs the bag and yanks it open. His fingers brush over the wax paper wrapping a few sandwiches, and nestled beneath them are at least a dozen round, dark purple—he’s not actually sure.
Bobbin pulls one out, and Mizzen snatches it out of his hand.
“Is this—?” begins Mizzen, and he takes a bite. He grins. “Fruit.”
He holds it up like a prize, and Bobbin takes it back to taste it himself. It’s got a unique taste, something sweet and sharp, and bursting with juice. It’s a luxury, one that he’s never seen, much less tasted before now, and they’ve got an entire bag of it to themselves. Fresh produce. Who’d have thought he’d have the opportunity? Certainly not him.
“We’re eating good tonight.” Bobbin says, and for a minute, they both laugh, really laugh, until it feels he might collapse with the effort of it. It’s not just the food. It’s the absurd, giddy relief of getting away with it. It’s the fantasies of the initial escape turning more and more real. “Let’s get this stashed then go back?”
Mizzen matches his smile. “Yeah.”
***
Coral is not very impressed by her mentor, or Mizzen’s.
Festus Creed is one of the most insufferable people she has ever met. He’s loud, arrogant, and overly fond of hearing himself talk, he seems to care more about how she’s perceived than whether any of his ‘advice’ is actually useful in keeping her alive. Coral’s opinion of Persephone Price is equally low. She’s nice enough, Coral supposes, but she also seems to hold the terrible opinion of actually liking Creed. Anyone who voluntarily listens to his endless monologues can’t be trusted.
Still, she doesn’t have time to waste worrying about useless mentors. She’s more concerned with Mizzen’s safety—and with Marcus. Whatever he and Sejanus have going on, Coral wants to know about it, especially if his mentor knows anything about where Mizzen is off to. She’s sure that Creed would kick up a fuss if he was there when Sejanus was talking to her, but Marcus would be able to get that information without raising suspicion.
He seems to know what she walks to talk about though, and is frustratingly resistant. She’s already shared most of what was in the bag, not quite offering the fruit and sandwiches to the others, so much as handing out what the rest of them are no longer so hesitant to accept. Marcus, notably, does not move to accept anything, even as his District partner does. With how little food they have, Coral wouldn’t be opposed to keeping the extra that would have been his to herself, but it technically was his mentor that brought the bag. She debates with herself a bit longer, but her need to find out anything on Mizzen wins out.
Coral sidles up to him, and Marcus refuses the sandwich that she tries to share on principle. She lets out a huff of frustration. “Okay, what’s your deal with your mentor?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Coral scoffs, and levels him a look.
“It doesn’t matter. Go away.”
“Doesn’t matter?” echoes Coral, incredulous. “We’re stuck in here, and he’s the only Capitol person,”—or not Capitol, if what Sejanus said was true—“who’s remotely decent. If you’ve got a history with him, I think it matters.”
Marcus doesn’t answer. Coral crosses her arms, her irritation rising. Before she can press him further, the girl from Two, speaks up from Marcus’s other side. “He’s District. The Plinths are from Two.”
“He’s a District traitor,” snaps Marcus. “The Plinths cut a deal with the Capitol. Sold them weapons in the war then left us all behind at the end of it. Whatever you want with him, it’s not worth the risk.”
Marcus seems very certain of that.
Coral disagrees. “I need you to—”
“No.” He’s firm on it.
She stops, scrutinizes him.
Then, Coral takes a risk. “He saw Mizzen,” she says. Marcus and Sabyn are both looking at her now. She’s practically spilled how much she cares about Mizzen, how much she’s willing to chance on what could be nothing. “Mizzen stole a bag from him. He didn’t say anything. Just called me over to say that Mizzen looked okay, that he’s still out.”
Mizzen got away, and Sejanus didn’t say anything.
Coral sees the moment Marcus wavers. Sabyn does more than that.
“They haven’t been caught?” says Sabyn, a bit too loud.
Coral tenses and glances back, but the crowd hasn’t noticed.
However, the pair from Seven do.
Lamina walks up, and Treech falls into step beside her.
“Is there a plot brewing over here?”
Coral isn’t sure if it’s interest or an invitation. It would be better to deny it, to keep everything close to her chest, because the less people that know are less people that could make things go wrong—but Coral has overheard parts of what they intend to do too. She would choose Mizzen over herself, Mizzen over them. But Coral also knows she’d pick them—every single tribute here—against the Capitol.
“Well,” she begins, and a plan begins to unfold.
***
Bobbin is a little more than nervous at how well it’s all gone.
It’s early afternoon once they’re back at the zoo, and a crowd has started to build up. He’s tossed a jacket over his shoulders, the right sleeve tucked into a pocket, and like prior days, no one is looking twice at them. They’re just another pair of kids who’ve ‘come to see the tributes,’ weaving their way through the people. Bobbin glances over to Mizzen, who’s managed to get Coral’s attention, and he turns to search for Wovey. He spots her sitting with a girl in a rainbow dress.
Bobbin waves. He doesn’t get her attention.
The girl in the rainbow dress notices though. Her eyes widen, then she smiles, tapping Wovey on the shoulder, and subtly pointing. Wovey lights up when her eyes land on him, and she’s grinning like this is a reunion years in the making.
“Bobby!” she says, too loud.
His heart nearly jumps into his throat. “Shhh!” He snaps his gaze to the nearest Capitolites, but they don’t hear her, or they don’t care. Someone’s laughing at a boy juggling walnuts, and the crowd has pressed forward, heads tilted toward the zoo cage like they can’t get close enough. Bobbin lets out a shaky breath, the noise swallowed by the buzz of the crowd. Thank Panem.
“You came back.”
“I came back,” he agrees.
Wovey reaches her hand through the bars, and Bobbin takes it on his own. He’s struck with a realization at the same time as the girl in the rainbow dress does. Wovey’s small enough to slip through the bars she just reached her hand past. Bobbin doesn’t protest when the girl in the rainbow dress tugs the coat he’s wearing off him, tossing it over Wovey’s shoulders. In the same moment he gently tugs her forward. She’s out, she’s out, and the jacket covers her clothing, draping over her like a dress. He meets the eyes of the girl in the rainbow dress.
Go, she mouths.
Bobbin does. He threads through the crowd like a needle through thick cloth, holding tight to Wovey’s hand, guiding her away. Every Capitolite here has something ‘better’ to look at than a pair of kids wandering toward the exit, but he can’t let his guard down. This is something riskier than him and Mizzen, he feels. He chances a glance behind him, but he’s lost sight of Mizzen. It’s fine. Mizzen knows where to meet.
He keeps a steady pace until the exit.
And then—they’re free.
“We’re free,” Bobbin says aloud, just to hear the words. “We’re going home.”
He lets out a laugh that is equal parts delighted and disbelieving. Wovey is smiling too, caught up in the mood. She’s repeating we’re going home with an excitement that he didn’t think was possible a mere several days ago. But now—home is so close. Once Mizzen gets back with Coral, they can make their proper getaway.
Wovey tugs on his sleeve. “Bobby?”
“What is it?”
“Can we bring Lucy Gray too?”
Lucy Gray? he wonders. Was that the girl in the rainbow dress?
Bobbin looks down at Wovey, and thinks about how the girl in the rainbow dress—Lucy Gray—must have comforted her when Bobbin had run, when his fate had been unsure, and how she hadn’t even hesitated to help Bobbin get Wovey out. And he knows, in that moment, that he was always going to be doing more.
“Yeah,” he tells her, and he means it.
But not just for Lucy Gray.
Bobbin would go back for all of them.
***
Coral’s heart nearly stops working when she sees Mizzen.
He’s grinning like a cat that snuck into the shipyard, and got into the barrels of fish. It’s like he’s daring the Peacekeepers to notice him. Reckless, she thinks, and her stomach twists with equal parts relief and frustration. He’s alive. He’s alive. But if someone catches him now—if they see him before he hurries back to wherever he’s been hiding—he won’t stay that way for long.
Why did you come back?
Mizzen lifts a hand and waves her over, as if they’re just two kids meeting by the docks. Coral freezes, her eyes darting around to each of the Peacekeepers stationed at the borders, but they’re too busy regulating the crowd of people to care about one kid in the thick of it. She heads toward him, doing her best to keep her movements casual.
When she reaches him, she grabs him by the arm and drops her voice to a hushed whisper. “Are you trying to get caught?”
“I’m fine,” says Mizzen, and he doesn’t look the least bit concerned. “I’ve been fine. Bobbin found a place—” and he rattles off some directions, where they found clothes, food they ‘liberated’ from some boy in red, and yeah, it sounds like Sejanus’s story matches up to what Mizzen is saying. “Nobody’s recognized us.”
“Yet,” she says, voice sharp, but her grip on his arm tightens. She can’t help herself. She’s so angry she could scream—and so relieved she could cry. She swallows hard, forcing herself to focus. “You need to get out of here. Right now. Go back to wherever you’ve been hiding before someone spots you.”
Mizzen doesn’t pull away. “You should join us.”
“You,” she says, voice tight, “need to go.”
“Meet us there,” he insists. She’s about to protest again—this is too dangerous, it’s already a miracle that you got out, don’t risk any more—when Mizzen adds: “Bobbin’s getting Wovey out.”
Coral glances over to where she’d seen Wovey last.
She’d seen the little girl sitting by Lucy Gray, interested in the colors of her dress. But she wasn’t there anymore. Lucy Gray was standing by the bars, and Wovey was nowhere in sight. She had just been there a few minutes ago, Coral was sure, before Mizzen had arrived. And now she wasn’t. All at once, Coral is struck breathless by the thought that it was that easy. She’d seen the Peacekeepers being inept, but this—all her fear is blooming into excitement. She could join Mizzen. She could escape. They could escape.
They could all go home.
“Later,” she tells him. “I’ll meet you.”
Mizzen’s smile widens, and he nods. Then, he slips away, into the crowd, and off to where he’s been. Coral watches him go, then turns back to the others—Marcus, Sabyn, Treech, and Lamina—with a lighter heart and strengthened resolve.
“Change of plans,” she says.
***
Bobbin doesn’t want to wait too long.
It’s only been a few days since they’ve gotten away, but he knows that it can’t last forever. Even if Peacekeepers don’t catch them, the Hunger Games are still happening, which means that any breakouts need to happen before the Capitol decides to throw the rest of them into the Arena. He’s safe, Wovey is safe, but he knows Mizzen would be wrecked if Coral doesn’t make it out. Mizzen, for his part, doesn’t seem too worried, relaying as much to Bobbin with the assuredness that Coral would be joining them soon.
Hours pass. Wovey settles against his side.
“When are they coming?” asks Bobbin.
“She said she’d meet us later,” answers Mizzen.
“Are you sure?” Bobbin doesn’t want to be the one to cast doubt, but the afternoon light is fading away, and it’s just been the three of them, waiting.
“They’ll make it. Coral promised.”
“She promised?”
“Yeah,” Mizzen nods. “Well, not in words. But she’d never leave me behind.”
“That’s not a plan. That’s you hoping.”
“Hope’s better than nothing,” Mizzen shoots back, and Bobbin can’t argue with that. Still, with a glance at the not quite setting sun, Mizzen looks less sure. “If they—” he pauses, and something in his expression changes. “I’ll go back and check on her, then.”
“No,” Bobbin protests. “I’ll go, and you stay with Wovey.”
“What? But—”
“I’ll be able to sneak there better.”
“I can blend in more.”
“Well, I’m older than you.”
“But I’m taller,” says Mizzen.
Bobbin doesn’t have a retort to that.
Low blow. He glares. Asshole.
Mizzen gives him a smug smile in return. “Besides,” he says, and pulls out the little scrap of metal from his waistband and holds it up to Bobbin like a reminder that he’d be able to get past the locks of the cage. “I’d be able to get them out.”
“Kept it, huh?” says a new arrival.
Bobbin freezes for a moment, but it’s not Peacekeepers.
“Treech!” says Mizzen, delighted, turning to face him with a grin. Beside Treech stands Coral and two other girls. “Yeah. I got him out.” He nods his head towards Bobbin, and lifts his hands to mime being cuffed.
Treech huffs a laugh. “Guess I taught you something, then.”
Bobbin glances between them. “Taught him what exactly?”
“On the train,” explains Treech. “How to get out of locks.”
Bobbin casts Mizzen a look. “I thought you said you learned it yourself.”
“Well…” says Mizzen. “I learned it myself, from Treech.”
“That’s not how—you know what? Whatever.”
He lets the matter drop as he gets introduced to Lamina, Treech’s District partner, both from Seven, and Sabyn, the girl from Two. Apparently, they had already made a plan to slip out, and had been keeping track of when Peacekeepers switched out at mornings and nights, but they decided to change it up to meet them here once Mizzen roped Coral in to join them here. So, they’re back to pairs: Eight, Four, Seven. Except—
“Where’s your District partner?” he asks Sabyn.
“Marcus is going to be chatting up his mentor tomorrow.”
“His mentor?” What’s a mentor?
“There’s some Capitol kids ‘responsible’ for us,” says Treech. He doesn’t sound very impressed with that. “Giving us food, making strategy, helping us, apparently.”
“I mean,” says Lamina. “Pup wasn’t too bad.”
“Creed is—” Coral doesn’t even finish her sentence, expression twisting in distaste. “I won’t be missing him.”
“I never even saw mine,” says Sabyn. Bobbin is suddenly grateful he didn’t have to deal with whatever that was. “Anyway,” she continues. “We’re pretty sure that Sejanus’ll help since he didn’t tell on you two after you took the food he was bringing for the rest of us.”
It takes Bobbin a moment to remember—“Sandwich Boy?”
Sabyn snorts. “Is that what you’ve been calling him?”
“It’s not like we were going to stop to ask him name.”
“Yeah,” adds Mizzen. “Bobbin was too busy kicking him.”
Sabyn turns to properly face Bobbin. “You kicked him?”
Bobbin shrugs. He’s not going to apologize for it.
“Well, if he didn’t rat you out after that,” says Treech, “then I think we’re safe.”
“Great! This’ll be easy!” Mizzen grins. “We sneak in, break the locks, and then we’re gone before they know what happened.”
“We should still be careful,” says Bobbin. “You think freeing everyone is the same as swiping a couple of sandwiches?”
Sabyn nods. “It wouldn’t hurt to play it safe.”
“Relax,” says Mizzen, waving a hand. “We’ll be fine. We’ve been fine. We’ve got me and Treech for the breakout, Coral and Lamina for the Peacekeepers, Wovey for lookout, and Bobbin to tell us how doomed we are.”
“I’m being cautious,” protests Bobbin. “And Wovey’s twelve.”
Mizzen shrugs. “So? I’m thirteen.”
“That’s not the point!”
“Then what is?!”
“Focus!” snaps Coral.
Bobbin scowls at her, but it does pull them all back to attention.
She runs down the plan again, mostly for Bobbin, Mizzen, and Wovey’s benefit. Bobbin isn’t too keen on the idea of relying on Marcus’s mentor, but the rest of them seem set on getting Sejanus in on it, despite their own misgivings about the mentors that they’d been assigned. Wovey, for her part, doesn’t seem to have much of an opinion about her mentor, besides calling him funny—“He said he’s Hilarius.”—which isn’t a bad thing necessarily, but if Wovey didn’t have a good thing to say, then Bobbin decides that her mentor probably wasn’t a likable person. He doesn’t get very far when he voices his doubts though, so there’s nothing to do but leave it be and wait for the next day to come.
He’s never been fond of waiting games.
Mizzen and Wovey seem content to socialize in the meantime. Bobbin offers up some of the food they’d acquired to share, and they end up gathering in a loose circle to eat. Mizzen sticks close to Coral, tugging Treech over to sit beside him. Lamina joins them on Treech’s other side, and Wovey wanders toward her almost immediately, her shy curiosity quickly turning into an animated conversation, trading stories about their Districts.
Bobbin doesn’t contribute much.
He’s less willing to share too much about himself in a wider group compared to when it was just him and Mizzen, but the sense of camaraderie pulls him in. It feels strange to be surrounded by people he isn’t entirely wary of; definitely unexpected, given that they’re still in the Capitol. These are the same kids that he would have had to face in the Arena if they hadn’t gotten out, and yet he feels lighter sitting here.
Conversations fade as night falls. Sabyn and Mizzen are the first to claim spots to sleep, and Coral leans against a wall nearby. Treech and Lamina stick together in a further area, but Lamina offers a space beside her, which she accepts eagerly, settling down to rest her head on Lamina’s arm. Bobbin watches them for a moment, making sure Wovey seems comfortable, before deciding to join them.
He’d been too on edge to get much sleep on the train car, too aware of the other tributes who had joined them, who had looked over Bobbin and hadn’t even considered him a threat, and now he was ready to fall asleep with a steady sense of peace. He pulls his knees up to his chest, tugging at the Capitol clothing he’s still wearing. Just one more day, then once they’re gone and free, he can change back into something more familiar.
One more day, he thinks.
Bobbin smiles as he drifts to sleep.
***
Coral doesn’t sleep. Not yet.
She waits, sitting against the wall, watching as one by one the others drift off. Sabyn claiming a spot on her own, not quite pairing up with anyone. Lamina against Treech, and the little girl from Eight against her. Her District partner keeps nearby, like he’s keeping a protective watch. Mizzen is nearest to her, on his back, with a Capitol-looking coat fashioned into a makeshift pillow and arms crossed loosely over his chest.
It’s that last sight that holds her attention the longest. He looks peaceful, genuinely peaceful, in a way she hasn’t seen from him since this whole nightmare began. She thinks back to the Reaping, to the moment his name was called, right after hers. How he’d frozen on the spot, for long enough that Coral could spot him in the crowd as it parted, how he’d startled into attention as his name was repeated, how his steps had been quick and stiff as he made his way up, even though his hands were shaking.
And later, on the train, how he’d tried so hard not to fall apart. He’d been near tears as they were cuffed and led away from the home that they would likely never see again, yet he’d set his jaw once the train car had opened and two others were already inside. Trying to be strong, trying to be brave, even when he’s terrified. Coral had known then, even if they hadn’t met before that moment, that she would protect him.
Still, this was far out of the bounds of her expectations.
She’d planned for alliances, and fighting, and killing when it came down to it.
And, well—Coral had the first of those.
She exhales softly, tilting her head back.
Alliances, she thinks again.
Those weren’t made to last. But this was not just an alliance anymore. Somewhere along the way, they—Sabyn and Marcus and Treech and Lamina, even Bobbin and Wovey—had stopped being a means of escape, had stopped being just people with a common goal. She looks upon all them now, upon more than just Mizzen, and something softens in her. It’s dangerous to care this much, but here they are, pulling it out of her in their implicit trust, making themselves vulnerable in sleep without a care.
Coral closes her eyes for a moment, breathing in the quiet. She lets it settle in her chest, and tries to let go of the weight pressing on her. When she opens her eyes again, Mizzen is still there, still peaceful. She doesn’t let herself think too hard about what might happen tomorrow or the day after. She can let herself settle into the belief that it will all go well, at least for tonight.
She can. It will.
***
Morning comes too early, Bobbin decides.
It wakes him with the light of dawn shining into the room, and Bobbin rubs at his eyes, stretching to shake some of the stiffness from his limbs. There’s a soft shuffling of footsteps that pulls him fully awake, and he’s about to call out to the others—to wake them, to warn them—when the person comes into view.
It’s Sandwich Boy. Sejanus. Whatever.
He’s dressed differently this time. Gone is the obnoxiously bright red outfit that screamed Capitol. Instead, he’s wearing something simpler—something that might almost let him pass as District if the fabric wasn’t so fine. Bobbin can’t help but note the neat seams and clean lines of the jacket, and knows that it must have been bought for a price that is far out of what Bobbin could even dream of affording. But, he concedes, that at least he doesn’t look like he’s trying to announce his allegiance to the Capitol now.
“You’re early,” mutters Bobbin, his voice still hoarse from sleep. He shifts to sit up, glancing around to see if anyone else has awoken yet. Coral hasn’t moved from her spot, but her eyes are open. She taps Mizzen, and he stirs, but he’s not quite awake yet.
“I figured it would be better than showing up late,” says Sejanus, offering a faint, apologetic smile. He keeps his voice low, his posture tentative, like he knows he’s walking a fine line by being here. Bobbin supposes he is. But he also hasn’t turned any of them in, so that has to count for something too.
Mizzen sits up, blinking blearily. “What’s going on?”
“Sandwich Boy’s here.”
Sejanus raises an eyebrow at the nickname, but doesn’t comment.
“Great,” says Mizzen, only broken by a yawn. “Did he bring breakfast?”
“Ah, no. Just…myself.”
Mizzen huffs. “Booo.”
Bobbin watches Mizzen flop back onto the floor, groaning something unintelligible, probably about the lack of food, as though they don’t still have more than wasn’t eaten last night stashed just off to the side. Around them, the others start to stir into awareness. Sejanus holds his hands up like a peace offering when attention starts to focus on him. “I already talked to Marcus,” he says. “I’ve just come from doing that, actually.”
“Good.” Coral nods. “You’re sure the Peacekeepers didn’t suspect anything?”
“I’m sure. They’ve seen me bringing food every day. Me stopping by this morning wasn’t out of the ordinary. They barely glance at me anymore. Or they just don’t care. Either way, it works in our favor. I slipped some supplies that Circ and Teslee were asking after and a map of the Transfer routes.” Sejanus pulls out a piece of paper, neatly folded, handing it off to Sabyn, since she’s nearest to him. “Same as this one.”
Bobbin walks over to get a better look of it, and they all crowd around Sabyn as she unfolds the map, smoothing it out across the floor. It’s been written on, some parts are circled in blue, and others are highlighted in yellow. Entrances. Pathways. Escape routes. It looks like it’s all planned out, like the kind of thing rebels would have used back in the war. Bobbin guesses this makes him a rebel too, just in a different kind of fight.
“They’ve made another round of announcements about the ‘newest escapes,’” Sejanus tells them. The way he says it, all careful, makes Bobbin’s stomach twist. “But I didn’t see any changes in the number of Peacekeepers at the zoo earlier. Still the same. At least for now.” Bobbin lets out a breath, one he didn’t realize he was holding. Same guards, same numbers. That’s good, right? The more things stay the same, the better their chances. But Sejanus keeps going, his expression turning sour. “That said, there’s also been word of broadening patrols.”
“Broadening patrols?” Coral repeats, her tone sharp. “Up to where?”
“I’m not sure,” Sejanus admits, looking genuinely sorry about it. “I didn’t see any on my way here, but you should still be careful.”
Bobbin frowns. He hasn’t seen any Peacekeepers nearby their hiding place, and the few times they’ve gone out, it’s always been in Capitol clothes to blend in. So far, it’s worked well for them. He’s felt safe. Well, mostly safe. But now, that safety feels thin, like a thread stretched too tight. He knows what happens to people when they start feeling too safe. That’s when they get careless. That’s when they slip up.
And if one of them slips up, it’s over.
He tries to shake off the thought. “So the others know the plan?”
“I handed it off to Marcus,” reiterates Sejanus. “I’ll meet the rest of you one last time tonight, before you head off. It should be enough to see you home.”
Home, thinks Bobbin.
Everytime he thinks of it, it becomes less of a concept, and more of a real possibility. It becomes something that he might actually see again. He wonders, idly, how Brocade would react to seeing him again. He wonders if his brother is already mourning him, considering Bobbin good as dead, even without his body sent back in a dusty box. It’s not like they had anything that they could watch the Hunger Games on—Brocade wouldn’t have known how Bobbin died, if Bobbin was still in active danger of being thrown into that Arena.
Sejanus stays just long enough to reassure the rest of them by answering more questions about ‘updates on the outside’ as Mizzen calls it, before he’s leaving to get back to his school before it starts since, apparently, classes wait for no rebellion. In the meantime, the rest of them settle back into their new, boring routine—waiting. Mizzen is as eager to sit around and do nothing as Bobbin is, which is to say not at all.
“Alright, let’s head out,” says Mizzen, heading over to where the clothes they’ve gathered are piled up, collecting them into his arms, and tossing him in front of the rest of them. “Time to put on the stupid Capitol clothes and pretend like we belong here.”
Bobbin looks up, amused. “Those’ll get dirty if you do that.”
“Don’t care!” Mizzen says cheerfully.
Bobbin snorts; the rest begin to sort through the pile of clothes. He and Mizzen hadn’t taken the time to select anything in particular, they had just swiped some articles of clothing from each house and figured out what fit them once they were back hidden here, so there were plenty of options. Wovey picks up a pale pink shirt, holding it up against herself. It’s obviously too big for her. “I could wear this like a dress!”
Coral ends up settling for a dark purple button-up, while Sabyn looks distastefully at what lays before her. She ends up with an outfit that looks fairly similar to what she’s already wearing, at least in color. Treech holds up a long, pale blue jacket and glances over at Lamina for her opinion. Lamina is quick to nod.
“That’ll do,” she says, selecting a blue jacket in a darker shade.
Bobbin sighs before disdainfully putting on the coat that he’d worn when they’d broken Wovey out. “I swear, if we get caught while I’m wearing this, I’m never going to live it down.”
Mizzen chips in. “Literally?”
It’s a bleak thing to joke about, but Bobbin can’t help the huff of laughter that escapes him anyway. “You’re awful.”
Still, they’re nearly set.
Sabyn is combing her fingers through her hair, while Lamina takes the time to fix Wovey’s hair into two neat braids. Dirt is wiped clean, their disguises are smoothed out, and then they’re all stepping out into the streets. No one hassles them or even looks twice. Bobbin lets the tension in his chest ebb away once they approach the zoo, passing by the Peacekeepers ‘guarding’ the entrance with as little trouble as the last couple of times.
He’s a step behind Wovey when she runs up to greet Lucy Gray again.
Tomorrow, they’ll be on their way home.
Tonight, they’ll be out of here.
Right now, they’re another step closer.
***
Coral keeps her head high and her steps steady.
That’s all there is to it. No one glances twice at any of them. This is working. Somehow, it’s working. She smoothes her hands over the ridiculous purple shirt she’s wearing. It’s a bit loose on her, but no one seems to care about the fit. All they care about is that she looks the part. She’s a Capitol girl, as far as everyone around them is concerned.
Coral feels a stab of anger.
After all the fear they’ve lived with, after all the precautions, all the hours spent worrying and waiting, all it took to fool the Capitol’s so-called search parties was a change of clothes? Some dirt scrubbed off their faces and a quick trip into the city? They’ve been treating the Capitol like it’s an untouchable force, and yet here they are, walking right through its streets in broad daylight.
If only they knew.
It’s pathetic, really, how easy this has been. No wonder Mizzen had been so bold the day before. She glances ahead at him. He’s practically bouncing on his heels as he leads the group, looking as though he’s forgotten they’re fugitives entirely. That boy is going to get himself killed someday, Coral thinks, though the thought is more affectionate than fearful now. She has to admit, at least to herself, that it’s kind of nice to see him like this.
Carelessly happy.
“Quit scowling,” whispers Mizzen, falling back a step when he catches sight of her over his shoulder. “You look like you’re about to punch someone.”
“I might,” is her reply, but she tries.
Coral exhales slowly, forcing herself to relax.
If Mizzen can smile like that, maybe she can too.
***
This is it, thinks Bobbin.
Everything had gone well, and this was putting it all to the test, whether or not all their efforts would mean anything. Bobbin had kept close to Wovey, allowing her to speak with Lucy Gray again, glancing at the other tributes still trapped within the enclosure. There was a sense of anticipation, an excitement that none of them were quite willing to let out just yet so as to not draw too many eyes.
It was hard to keep it at bay, though, when they were close to getting away.
They’d regrouped at their hiding spot as the crowds began to thin, returning once again at nightfall. Lamina and Coral had taken care of the stationed Peacekeepers, hidden in shadows, while Treech had taken to the cage’s lock. The moment it pops open, it’s clear that no one had been sleeping, just laying down in the mimicry of it. At once, everyone is scrambling out. Sabyn is joined by a large boy that must be Marcus.
It’s a whirlwind from there; this large group making a getaway, only only pausing so the pair from Three can do something to the cameras. Sejanus is waiting like he said he would, passing off supplies to Marcus while the rest of them climb down into the underground tunnels that had been mapped out for them. This is happening. It’s really happening. It’s real. He’s going home. They all are.
“I don’t want to say goodbye yet,” Mizzen tells him.
“Goodbye?” asks Bobbin. He knows that they’d have to part eventually, when it comes to their respective Districts, but not just yet. “Eight’s further than Four,” he says, in lieu of admitting the weight of it hasn’t quite him in yet, that going home means going their separate ways, that he’s not ready for it. “Besides, you promised you’d show me a fish star, remember?”
“Starfish,” corrects Mizzen, but the levity has returned to his voice. He turns to glare at Bobbin, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You’re doing that on purpose,” he accuses, “aren’t you?”
Bobbin doesn’t deny it. “I’ll believe these star animals when I see them.”
“Star. Fish.”
“That’s what I just said.”
Mizzen punches him in the arm. Bobbin keeps grinning.
“You’re coming with me to see them yourself,” says Mizzen.
Eight’s further than Four. It’s on the way back anyway.
He turns to Wovey. “How does visiting Four sound?”
“I want to visit Lucy Gray too,” she says.
“I’ve got to get back to the Covey in Twelve,” says Lucy Gray. “But we used to be travellers, before the war. It would be nice to do that again.”
Travellers. Bobbin feels the word settle onto him, like a weight he didn’t know to carry, the entire idea of exploring what lay beyond District Eight, moving freely, outside the Capitol’s control. Nothing holding him back.
“Four, then Twelve,” Mizzen says, like he’s considering it, like this is an achievable plan, not an impossibility. “What about Eight?”
(But then again, wasn’t escaping an impossibility? Wasn’t anything other than death impossible the moment his name had been Reaped. Yet here he is. Here they all are, on their way out, on their path to freedom, to live to see another tomorrow, and another, and another, for the rest of their lives. Maybe the Hunger Games would die out of the sheer embarrassment of having no tributes to send into the Arena.)
“You did say you wanted to see it,” Bobbin reminds him.
“I did,” Mizzen nods. “I do.”
“Four, Eight, Twelve, then—” starts Bobbin.
He falters, but Mizzen doesn’t miss a beat.
“—then we can figure out the rest from there.”
Bobbin matches Mizzen’s smile. Wovey takes his hand.
They can. They will.