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uhohdad · 8 months ago

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THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN

KONIG X READER [HUNGER GAMES AU]

You & Konig have been chosen to participate in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death.

18+, NSFW, 183k WORD COUNT, AO3, Virgin!Konig, Outcast!Konig, 18yo!Konig, GentleGiant!Konig, Mentor!JohnPrice, Fem!Reader, Blood & Injury, Graphic Violence, Death, PTSD, Alcohol Use, Slow Burn, Sexual Content, First Time, Smut, Fluff, Angst

CHAPTER ONE | PREV | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

➤ THE VICTOR I

You don’t run.

A sharp inhale tightens every muscle in your body. Bloody, wounded hands shoot out in front of you in a brace of pure instinct, chin tilting down and pinning to your chest. You’re hoping he’ll make it quick and as painless as possible. Maybe it’ll be a snap of a neck, just as he did with the boy from District Eleven. Dead before you even know what hit you.

Your brace tightens, teeth clenching when the heavy boot steps are only a few feet away, not breaking their strides. Strong, powerful arms wrap around your core and yank you off your feet with ease. You hold your tense for only a moment before relaxing into his restraint.

You don’t fight it.

You’re giving yourself to him, letting him do what needs to be done to get his win.

He stills, a moment passes, and you must be in shock. The knife he pierced through your gut must be too sharp or maybe your adrenaline is coursing so effectively you can’t yet feel the stab in the back. You’re just waiting to feel the impact, waiting for the unimaginable pain to tear through you, waiting for death.

After a moment you open your eyes, met with his chunky, coarse vest loaded with supplies scraping against your cheek.

You give a frantic brush with trembling hands over your front and back, blindly searching for the embedded blade.

He pulls away, keeping his hands on your upper shoulders as he looks you over with wide eyes brimmed with tears. You take the opportunity to examine your body, smoothing over your core to search for his puncture wound, but you come up empty, only managing to smear blood all over your clothes.

Scratchy gloves take your wrist and gently extends it to examine your flayed arm, soaking his gloves with your blood. You wince as he moves the shredded fabric of your jacket out of the way to get a good look at the evidence of your fight with District One. You watch with pinched eyes as he stares down the inflamed, deep gash she left on you, still oozing steadily.

“What happened?” He says, voice too soft for a man with a harsh voice who’s just killed a boy with his fists.

You look to him, confusion and fear stitched into every feature. When he sees your bewildered expression he quickly retracts his hands.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” He brings his hand to his hooded head and lets out a deep sigh that ends on a breathy croak, “I’m just glad you’re alive. I thought I lost you.”

You blink hard, pushing your jaw forward.

“What?” You say sharply, demanding explanation.

“Every time the cannon went off ich- I thought it was you,” He lets out another heavy, relieved sigh.

“You wanted to be the one to kill me?”

His eyes pinch, “Wh- No! I- I-”

“Spit it out.”

His eyes widen from their confused position, he fumbles his words as he sputters out an answer, “I- I just didn’t want you to die.”

You swallow, and look to your boots. Your forehead wrinkles, your head shaking.

“No,” You say in complete invalidation of his statements. You don’t believe his words, you don’t believe that he hasn’t killed you yet.

“You ran away from me,” He lets out another sigh, “At the beginning.”

You take a step back, throwing out your blood-soaked arms, flicking droplets of blood on the grass, “You tried to kill me!”

He eyes scrunch in a way that suggests you’ve just said the most offensive statement in the world.

“I was trying to get you out of there!” He shoots back.

“You-“

That pulls you up short.

You make a quarter turn, staring to the stained grass as you run over the events of the bloodbath, “You killed that boy, and then-“

“He was going to kill you,” He says with an urgent tone that steals your attention.

“You-“

Your eyes narrow at him, brows pinched and teeth bared, “You said you would only kill if you needed to!”

His eyes crinkle at your spit accusatory words, his muscles tensing for a moment before his shoulders relax, his voice taking on a gentle but insistent tone.

“I did need to.”

You watch him carefully, trying to figure out if he’s telling the truth by staring into the only exposed part of him. His eyes are too soft, too pained to be dismissed.

“You don’t need to trick me. You’ve already won.”

Your voice doesn’t exactly convey confidence.

“I’m not tricking you,” He takes a careful step towards you, palms up, “That boy was going to kill you.”

He finishes on your name, spoken so soft and sweet it makes you want to believe his words.

You mull over it for a moment, chewing on his words, the look in his eye, and still you are convinced he’s hiding something, manipulating you. His actions don’t make sense.

The questions come out rapid fire, finding yourself as frustrated as you normally do when the answer doesn't come easy to you, “Why? Why did you kill Eleven? Why didn’t you kill me with Titan? Why aren’t you killing me now?!” Your urgent questions are pointed, offensive more than curious.

His hand pulls up to his chest, and he freezes.

You throw out your arms again, “Why, Konig?!”

“This is what you wanted,” He whispers after another pause, his voice unsteady.

“It’s what everyone wants! What is this?!” You gesture aggressively in the space between you both, splattering his shirt with your own blood, “What was Two talking about?!”

His horrified eyes flick between either of yours, stammering through various unintelligible syllables before cutting himself off with a close of his eyes and a deep breath.

He finds your face again and lands on a response. When he speaks, he sounds like a child, even through that scratchy, intense voice.

“You’re the only friend I’ve ever had.”

The muscles in your face relax as you process his sentence.

You swallow and stare down at the lush grass, ashamed, because the first thought that comes to mind is -

‘We’re friends?’

Friends.

That -

You hadn’t considered.

This entire time you’ve been so caught up in trying to decipher Konig’s strategy, the intentions and manipulations motivating his actions, but you never stopped to consider that the two of you actually had something. Well, no - you knew there was something, but all of the actions could have been explained away simply because you were two tributes who were terrified in their final days of life - a bond formed in mutual trauma, or perhaps a strategy to lure you in with his comfort.

Friends.

When did this happen?

Had he thought of you as one this whole time?

How stupid can you be?

The glass of water, the coffee, the handholding, the token, the pleas for allyship, keeping each other warm, and making each other feel better after a hard day.

How stupid can he be?

Making friends with someone only for it to end a week later in this arena, becoming attached to someone destined to die.

You look up to him again, brows pinched and forehead wrinkled as you reframe everything. When you speak, your voice is a broken wisp of air in his direction.

“How did we let this happen?”

You know he understands, the way he looks at you without words, nothing but pain and uncertainty in his sloped eyes. He understands that making friends with someone who is destined to die was a recipe for heartbreak, and he understands that the bittersweet final meal has been served.

As slim as the odds, you two ending up face-to-face at the end was always a possibility.

You were sure you were going to die before you’d have to face him.

Now here you both are, two tributes, two friends, and only one of you can leave this arena alive.

Maybe this wasn’t the way. Maybe it would have been best if he’d gutted you as soon as he was finished with Two.

The laugh starts small, just a scoff. It turns to a snicker, then a chuckle, which snowballs into a fit of hysterical cackling.

It’s not the poison gas this time.

This is raw, genuine laughter. Billowing from deep inside you and echoing boisterously through the four quadrants.

It’s not funny.

But you have to laugh - because of course.

Of course you would do this. Let your emotions bleed where they shouldn’t.

It’s your signature move.

Of course you both were going to make it to the finale.

Of course you now have to be killed by Konig, by a friend.

Wasn’t this the ending all along?

Konig looks alarmed, and then his eyes relax, and he gives a soft, three-note laugh, and shortly after he succumbs fully to the contagion. A song you’ve never heard, it’s hearty and warm, intertwining with yours to make a chorus of snorts and guffaws.

Your core doubles over your crossed arms, still generously bleeding and painting the blades of grass by your feet a deep crimson.

Tears well in your eyes and quickly trail down your cheeks as you gasp for air.

This is a full detox.

An expelling of every pent up, overwhelming emotion you’ve felt the past two weeks. The mistrust, the jealousy, the anger, the fear, the pain. Subjected to the heinous, brutal slaughters of children. It’s all flowing from you, and soon you’re not sure if you’re laughing or sobbing. Konig’s laughter dies down before yours, worried when he notices the hysterical tears streaming down your cheeks.

A hand extends in your direction, but he quickly withdraws it, helplessly staring on as you break down.

You can’t stop it, the dam has bursted. The whirlpool of thoughts that have been steadily rising since the reaping have spilled over and is pouring from you uncontrollably.

You have reached your absolute limit.

A genuine, broken wail leaves you, fully transitioned from a laughing fit to cries of pain.

When you pinch off your vision, heavy tears thrusted from your waterline, you’re met with the bounce of Eleven off his platform, narrowing in on his lifeless eyes.

His neck is already broken but the echoes of bones snapping against metal still rattle in your ears.

It’s followed immediately by the horrific image of the girl from District Eight. Her maimed wails and flooded eyes and exposed, moving muscle. The squelch of One’s eye, the haunting rip of her optic nerve, the feeling of her plunging herself on the spear - reverberating through the staff of the spear and up your slashed arms. The sound of Titan’s face being caved in, repeated blows that crack bones, countless razors tearing through his flesh on his dissent.

It’s on replay, the crunching of bone deafening you with its escalating grinds, the moans of the maimed, the rip of an eye from its socket, the sound of a thousands razors ripping through a faceless, limp body.

Your fists race to cover your ears, to stave off Eight’s moans of unimaginable pain, your eyes pinched tighter to rid the sight of Eleven’s brutal death, digging your nails into flayed palms to rid the feeling of an eye being gouged by your hand.

All of them cycle, ripping through you one after another.

You drop to your knees in the grass, core doubling over. Konig follows you down on one knee, one of his gentle hands finding your uninjured shoulder. When you raise your face again, it’s streaked with tears.

“I keep hearing it! I can’t stop hearing it!” You yell through a sob, followed by broken gasps as you curl toward your lap again.

“I know, I know,” He whispers.

“It won’t stop!” The tears are flowing relentlessly now, and you don’t even have the mind to wipe them away.

“Mein sieger, look at me,” His other hand lets a finger under your chin, gently guiding your jaw up.

Through the blur of welled tears you find him, those eyes peeking through the holes in his hood.

“It’s okay, it’s- it’s going to be okay,” He doesn’t seem too sure of this himself, his eyes darting around for a solution that doesn’t exist, but he pushes on, “I’m going to fix your cuts.”

You sniff, arms too soaked in blood to wipe away your snot.

“Just listen to me. Don’t listen to it. Just listen to my voice.”

He swallows, searching frantically on the spot for his next words.

His eyes widen in the presence of an idea, “Do you remember that day? In District Nine?”

You groan at the memory, an involuntary hiccup following.

“That boy,” He takes a breath while he pulls out a water bottle and a cloth from his pack, setting them on the grass,

“Spewing names at me. Blocking my path.”

His eyes find yours again, brows pinched as if he’s worried that he’s somehow making it worse, “And you, you just came out of nowhere. You let out the,” He looks to the grass again, and gives a quick, breathy laugh, “You let out the angriest noise I’ve ever heard.”

Konig helps you peel off your jacket as gently as he can, patiently sliding it off as he works around your wincing. He pulls the sleeves away from your gash so the fabric doesn’t swipe against it.

“You couldn’t see it, I’m sure, but the look on his face when you grabbed him by the back of the shirt-“ He cuts himself off, “I had never seen anything like it.”

He uses the water bottle to wash the blood away, letting you squeeze his hand with your good palm as you endure the pain brought forward by the water.

“For a second it looked like you were trying to dance with him, spinning him around.”

You remember it clearly, using your weight and pivoting on your heels to jerk him in a near complete circle, grip tight on the back of his shirt before you let go to slam him into the wall of the dingy hall.

“You got him against the wall - I thought for sure you broke his collar bones.”

The boy had looked genuinely afraid, entirely taken by surprise. Your forearm had dug into him, pinning him to the wall with enough force to portray threat. He had the look of a boy who had never expected any consequences to his behavior.

Konig moves down your arm, washing away the blood from shoulder to hand.

“I still remember what you said, word for word. You said,” He lifts his voice in a faint imitation of your spitting words, “‘I am so sick of you all picking on him. It’s more than obvious you do it because you’re ashamed of yourselves. If I catch you doing it again I’m going to show you what it’s like to pick on someone your own size!’”

He shakes his head and looks to the sky, “He had six inches and at least 40 pounds on you.”

You laugh with him this time, yours nasal from crying, following with a sniffle.

“And then you threw him away,” His hand lifts to briefly imitate the movement, “Shoved his back. He almost tripped flat on his face.”

He retrieves a second water bottle from his pack and a small tin canister he sits in the grass before he uses his teeth to remove his glove.

He continues, “He never did mess with me again. I think a few of his friends stopped too.”

“He’s scurried off at the sight of me ever since,” You sniff and your lips warp, “I always felt bad about that. Like I went too hard on the poor guy.”

When the boy had ran off, you met Konig’s eyes, your chest heaving as huffs left your parted lips, fists tight at your side. Pointed features softened when you saw his face, his wide eyes, sprung brows, and a slack jaw. You sucked in a sharp inhale and froze for just a moment before you got out of there, running from the shame that had begun to burn your skin as soon as you saw his expression.

He uses his gloveless fingertips to scoop up some sort of clear gel from the tin.

“He certainly got the message.”

He uses his free hand and a bit more water to wash out the wounds on your shoulder, gently pats the mutilated flesh with a washcloth, and then smears the gel on your skin.

Immediately you feel relief. The burning pain of the hedge’s slices completely dissipates, and you can’t help but sigh in content.

He gently rubs the medicine across your wounds, turning pink as the clear gel mixes with the blood rushing to replace what Konig wiped away.

“Sorry I freaked out,” You say quietly, a little embarrassed of your breakdown.

His brows lower, “It’s okay. I hear it too.”

“Why are you helping me?” You ask softly, “Why go through the trouble of nursing my wounds if you’re just going to kill me anyway?”

You wince as another stream of water splashes against the deep gash One left behind.

“Sorry,” he whispers, ignoring your question and dabbing the cloth against the deep wound. He quickly scoops up more medicine and slides it over the surface of the inflamed skin before too much more blood can flow out.

“Ever since that day I wanted to thank you. To talk to you. I just,” He cuts himself off, eyes darting around for a moment, “I didn’t know how.”

He gently wraps his gloved hand around your good forearm, bringing forward the slashes on your palm.

“I thought I scared you off.”

He laughs, “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

He pours water over your palm, another dab of the cloth, and a generous smearing of medicine.

All of your pain is gone. The medicine has completely numbed your wounds, cooling the unrelenting burn of the slashes and almost immediately staunches the flow of blood.

“It feels so much better,” you say with a sigh.

“Good,” he says.

Your voice drops softer, a curious hint to it, “Why didn’t you ever, y’know,” You pause, shoulders pulling up, “Defend yourself? You could have scared them off easy.”

He swallows, a gentle hand reaching for the bandages. He’s quiet for a moment, avoiding your eyes.

When he speaks his words are strained, “I’ve misjudged my strength before.”

Your brows shoot up at the implication. You so desperately want to probe further, but it’s clear from his tone this is a sore spot for him. You stay quiet instead, waiting for him to continue.

“I’ve never gotten physical since, until,” He trails off again, abandoning his sentence.

“Yeah,” You say on a breathy exhale, letting him know he didn’t need to say it.

Lifeless eyes, crunching bones.

He unrolls the bandage and begins to loop it around the gash on your arm. He makes sure the bandages are firm on your wounds, slices it from the roll, and tucks the end into itself.

You get out a sheepish, “Thank you,”

He nods, his voice low, “Of course.”

He guides your arm out again, starting a new loop around with the bandage around your palm.

When he’s done, he packs the supplies into his backpack as you look down to your wrapped hand, rubbing over the nude-colored bandage with your thumb.

Konig grabs a clean cloth and pours a little water on it, extending it carefully towards your face.

“Here,” He says, his gloved fingertip just barely grazing you as he tilts your chin up. You obediently close your eyes, letting him run small circles with the wet cloth to wash away a mixture of dirt, One’s blood, and your own.

“Why are you doing this?” You whisper, low and gentle, but he doesn’t respond. When you open your eyes to meet his stare, his masked face reveals nothing to you, other than his unwavering focus on cleaning your face. Carefully massaging the damp cloth in circles over your skin, taking care not to apply too much pressure. He even wipes away your snot.

“Thank you,” You whisper, “For saving my life.”

There’s a pause before you add, “And for letting me come to terms with my death.”

He nods, looking down, “I guess we’re even now.”

You laugh, your voice regaining some of its strength, “I think yours might blow mine out of the water.”

He shrugs, “Well, I have to repay with interest. Took me long enough.”

He pauses for a beat, “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

He starts to dig in his pack, but stops when the ground begins to shake. His arms dart out of the pack to wrap around you and in return your hands claw at the collar of his vest to pull him close. You cling to each other to keep steady on your knees, sharing a wide-eyed, worried look through the vibration that shakes your bodies and blurs your vision.

The gamemakers must be angry at you both, not giving them the showdown they were owed. You can see the hedge walls parting, its previous entrances reappearing in their normal spot.

When the ground stops shaking, neither of you let go, clinging to each other as you stare frozen at the entrance. Shallow breaths leave parted lips as you tighten your grip on each other, waiting for the threat that’s soon to be released.

It doesn’t come.

Minutes pass before you turn to him.

“They might just want us to leave so they can take the bodies,” you whisper.

He gives a shaky nod, but you still stay frozen in your spot, holding onto each other and staring deeply at the entrance.

When both of your hearts slow, when fearful breaths ease, you decide to do what the gamemakers want you to do.

What choice do you have?

He stands first, his hand extended to help you up. When you get to your feet, though, you linger on his gloved hand and give him a squeeze before you let go.

He leads as you both creep towards the exit, still wary of the possibility of a cruel trap.

Konig wordlessly insists you wait for him to make sure the coast is clear using the same gesture he did when the careers approached you both in training, an arm shooting out in front of you as if to hold you back. He pokes his head out, careful not to make contact with the walls as he swivels his head to scan for threat.

“It looks safe,” He says, but you both stand for a bit longer before inching outside of the maze.

You’re surprised to find the arena entirely restored. The fall quadrant has reappeared, its trees as brilliant and colorful as ever. There’s no evidence of the avalanche, the snow returned to its original height and perfect pine trees retain their snow-dusted caps. The desert’s sandstorm has settled, the dunes not disturbed in the slightest.

Nothing attacks you as you leave the maze, careful steps in the direction of the cornucopia.

The gamemakers must have simply wanted to collect the bodies, because you both standby as the hovercraft appears.

When the claw descends, you turn away together. You can’t bear to watch the corpses of the girl from one and the boy from two be lifted into the air.

Without thinking, your hand reaches up to take a hand that sits much higher than yours. He accepts immediately, intertwining his large, calloused hand with yours. He gives you a gentle squeeze, and you know what it means. That he shares the pain you feel, that he is just as unsure, and just as lost as you.

You keep your fingers laced with his until you near the spot where the four quadrants meet, stopping about twenty feet away.

He sets his bag down, and you follow his lead when he sits in the plush grass.

The food just keeps coming.

Bread, cheese, apples, dried meat, stew, an orange, a weird, large brown nut of some kind?

With wide eyes and mouth already watering you ask, “Where did you get all this?”

He hesitates for a moment, “Some came with the backpack - the apples, the bread and the meat. The rest I got from sponsors.”

Your brows furrow, “You got sponsors?”

Of course he did. If you were a sponsor you’d pick him too.

“Yeah, what did you get?” He asks, picking up the apple and handing it to you.

“Well-“

Guttural moans, exposed muscle.

“District Eight sent me some things,” You say with a wince.

His head tilts, “They did?”

“Uh, yeah, I-” You clear your throat, the echoes of her pain on your ears, “I helped them- with something.”

He tilts his head again, and looks at you expectantly.

“The girl,” You start, “She- I helped her.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and his voice is soft when he speaks, “You allied with her?”

You shake your head and pull your knees to your chest. You touch your ribbon bracelet, soaked with blood.

“It was mercy. I - I - didn’t-“

“Sorry,” He says, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Price didn’t, though,” You say after a moment, almost embarrassed, “Send me anything, I mean.”

It hurts to know Price showered Konig with gifts while you got nothing.

You look to the sky and make a vague gesture that reads as annoyed. As if you were saying to the sponsors, to Price, ‘What, I wasn’t good enough? Well look, I made it this far!’

You don’t show it, but it stings. Logically you knew Konig was the smart bet. That if you were District Nine’s mentor, that if you were a Capitol better, you would have prioritized Konig’s survival over yours any day.

It still hurts having it confirmed, knowing that you were not good enough for Price’s attention.

Konig laughs as you raise the apple to your lips, “They just knew you were smart enough to make it without their help.”

You roll your eyes as your teeth pierce through the apple’s skin, sucking out its tart insides.

“I don’t know about that,” You say under your breath, but you appreciate him trying to ease the blow.

“It’s true,” He insists with an accompanying point, “Look, you’re here. You did it without anyone’s help. I surely would have died without it.”

“Plucky got lucky,” You say definitively, “And everyone knows it.”

Underneath it, though, you wonder if he’s right. The truth is, you really didn’t need help in the arena. You didn’t have to put that girl out of her misery - well, you did, but if your plea had gone unanswered you would have made it work regardless. Other than that, you haven’t really needed anything.

He shrugs, his voice a bit gruff as he puts his attention to spreading cheese on bread with his knife, “I don’t.”

You roll your eyes again, “You sound like Price. Even you were surprised to see me at the end.”

He shrugs, “I was just worried about you, is all.”

“Because you knew that I was probably going to die.”

“Because the arena is dangerous.”

“Exactly! It’s all,” You huff, “There’s a big luck element.”

He cuts you off with a nudge, offering a handful of cheese smothered bread, “Even your arguments are too smart for me.”

Your laugh makes your fingers brush against his when you take the bread from him.

You’re eager to sink your teeth into its crust, creamy cheese over soft perfect Capitol bread, you can’t help but groan into it.

“So good,” You say with a mouthful, not bothering to swallow, “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

When you finish your slice of bread, he starts on another for you at once.

“Where have you been?” He asks, smearing the soft cheese over the golden brown crust, “I tried to look for you.”

You stare into the brightly colored leaves of the fall landscape before gesturing in the direction of the red maple and yellow ginkgo trees, “Over there.”

Konig nods, “That’s where I thought you went at the beginning. I tried to follow but I lost you, and when I went searching you were too clever for me to find.”

Your eyes are starting to ache from rolling at his compliments.

Just then, a silver parachute floats down to the sky.

You both look to each other with raised brows. When it lands on the grass a few feet from you, he stands to retrieve the canister before handing it over to you.

You struggle to pop it open, and inside you reveal a bundle of blackberries, a tin of juice, and a cookie.

“There’s a lot.”

“Price is making it up to you,” Judging solely by the crinkle in his eye, he grins as he sits in the soft grass, “With interest.”

You look to the sky again, squinting from the sun and giving a wave of thanks. You share the smile before you spread the food out with the others.

“Where have you been?” You ask, popping a berry into your mouth.

“The desert.”

“The desert?” You ask with an almost disgusted inflection, snapping your head in his direction, “How did you survive in the heat?”

Konig lifts his chin, pulling up his hood as he swipes along his neck, nails catching on a clear, razor thin mesh fabric that appears out of nowhere.

He stands to strip it from the outside of his clothes, handing you a long crumbled fabric of transparent mesh.

“Woah,” You get out, thinking back to his embrace, pushed right up to the snake-skin like fabric but never feeling it or noticing it. You roll the fabric between your fingers, “I didn’t even see it before. What is it?”

You stick a hand in one of the sleeves as he answers, and immediately your arm is hit with a cool breeze that chills your skin and raises goosebumps.

“I couldn’t even feel the heat,” he says, “And I figured it would be safest, since no one else should have been able to survive there without a pair.”

“What’s out there?” You ask with a tilt of your head, letting the body suit rest in your lap.

“Mostly sand and spiky plants,” He starts to peel the orange. “You probably would have figured out there was water in them long before I did.”

He flicks away part of the peel.

You find the fabric of the suit again. “Can I try it?”

He nods, and you stand, slipping into the mesh suit. It melds instantly to your clothes, disappearing into the fabric as you pull it over your body.

“This is so weird,” You say with a laugh at the breeze that hits your skin, “I’m gonna try the desert.”

He stands to follow in your wake, and you practically run to test it out, ignoring your sore ankles.

When your boots hobble unsteadily on sand, Konig stops close to the border, arms crossed as he watches you run around, “You’re right! I can’t even feel it.”

You stop and even do a few weak jumping jacks to work up a sweat, but your feet can’t make it far off the ground with the sand swallowing your feet.

“Try these,” He says, popping off a thin, undetectable shoe attachment from his boots and leaning forward to hand the pair to you.

You lift up one foot, brushing off grains of sand from the soles before you snap on the attachment. It shrinks from Konig’s incredibly large shoe size to yours, and when you put your foot down, instead of sinking into the sand, your boots conform to the uneven dips and grooves.

“Feels like I’m on solid ground,” You say before snapping the other attachment on. You test them out by jogging in circles.

You come to a stop once you’ve had enough, walking with ease back into the spring quadrant.

“No wonder you did well in the desert,” You pop off the attachments to return them to him, but he waves like he doesn’t need them, and you just toss them to the side.

You peel off the skin tight suit as well, the cool breeze now chilling you beyond comfort in the spring air.

“Oh!” Your face lights up, “There was another thing I wanted to try.”

You move to the spot where the four quadrants meet, in the mouth of the cornucopia, and look for just a moment before stepping on it.

You can feel all four temperatures at once, the heat of the desert, the freeze of the snow, a light spring and chill fall air. Overstimulating and causing your body to fire contradicting temperature responses.

You step back into the grass, “Weird.”

You turn to Konig, just steps behind, and he gives it a try too.

He gives a soft laugh once he’s had his turn.

“Very,” He says.

You return and settle on the grass near his pack, already eyeing up the food waiting for you.

You take a sip of juice and pass it to Konig, and he takes your offer and sets it down on the grass before continuing to peel the orange. You actually close your eyes to breathe in the scent of fresh citrus, sighing on your exhale.

“I missed food. I’ve been living on corn and seeds.”

“I’m sorry,” He says, voice soft and full of regret as he looks up from the half-peeled orange, “I wish I could have been there for you. I would have shared it all.”

“It’s my own fault,” You say, shifting as you settle on the grass, “I didn’t want to hold you back.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

You stare off into the fall forest until Konig extends some orange slices to you. When you bite down, it bursts in your mouth and coats your tongue in its delicious insides. It actually sends a shudder down your spine at the overwhelming refreshment.

You both eat silently for a while, and your eyes eventually find the weird large brown seed he had set to the side.

You stick a hand out to feel it, its outside coated in thick coarse hairs, “What is this?”

Konig shrugs, “Not sure, it’s good though. Found it on a tree in the desert. He takes a spoonful of stew and speaks around a mouthful, “There’s this place I found. I think you’d like it.”

“You ate it without knowing what it was?”

He shrugs again, “I’m still alive.”

You snort, and he asks, “Do you want to see it? It’s very pretty.”

“The nut?” You ask.

“No,” he says with a breathy laugh, “The desert.”

“I thought it was just sand?”

“Mostly,” He picks up the large nut and holds it out, “There’s a place out there, though. There’s this big pool of water with a waterfall, you can see all the way to the bottom. It wasn’t hot there. Ach, and there’s these tall trees out there too.”

You give him a look like he’s speaking gibberish, your voice taught with disbelief to match, “In the desert?”

“Yes!” He says, ending on a laugh, “I’m not lying. It’s perfect there. We can wash off, too.”

He digs into his pack, pulling out a second temperature controlled suit, “I kept this just in case,” he trails off for a moment, abandoning the rest of his sentence, “It didn’t take up much room, anyway.”

He extends the wrinkled fabric out to you and gives it a little shake when you don’t take it, “Trust me.”

You look into those eyes that have shared so many unsure glances with you, and you can’t help but fold at how sure they look now.

“Okay,” you say, taking the suit from him. He grabs the discarded suit before tucking the food away in his pack.

At the border you both put them on, watching with fascination as they melt into your clothes and skin. He leads you through the sand, and while he doesn’t have an extra pair of shoe attachments, he insists you be the one who wears them.

“To help you keep balance,” You say, offering your unbandaged hand.

He graciously takes it in yours, and you both move through the sand side by side. He doesn’t seem to take your offer to support himself with you, but he keeps your hand in his. The mesh of the suit doesn’t interfere with the feeling of his hand pressed against yours, you can still feel the softness of his palm, the callouses just below the start of his fingers, the gentle squeezes as he navigates the dips in the sand.

“Are you sure you don’t want to switch for a little bit?”

“You have shorter strides anyway,” He says.

You walk in silence for a bit more, locked by the hands and aside from tired ankles, perfectly comfortable in the desert conditions.

“What do you think everyone thinks of this?”

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“The final two not,” You pause for a moment, “Fighting.”

“I don’t know.” He says, “Probably a little disappointed.”

“You think? I thought maybe it’s interesting, at the very least. It’s never happened before as far as I know of.”

He shrugs, “Not sure they need help making it interesting.”

“I guess you’re right.”

A few more paces and another silver parachute floats down from the sky.

You both still as it comes to a graceful stop in the sand just in front of your shoes.

You look at Konig, and he gestures to it, suggesting it’s yours. You carefully pick it up and pop open the canister to unsheathe a second pair of shoe attachments.

You give him a sly smile and hand them over, “Maybe they don’t mind after all.”

He waves a thanks into the sky and lets you steady him as he snaps them onto his shoes. You travel much quicker as you both glide over the sand that’s eager to swallow your feet.

“There’s those plants,” He says as he points to tall, cylindrical looking plants, some of them stretching ten feet in the air. It almost looks like they have arms, thick dusty green branches of itself splitting at the middles and reaching for the sky.

“Don’t touch them,” He warns.

“No?” You ask.

“Covered in spikes,” He says.

“Learn that the hard way?” You ask.

He huffs air out of his nose, rolling his eyes slightly, “It’s possible.”

You give a laugh, and he gives a glare at you from the corner of his half-lidded eyes. He follows it up with a soft squeeze of your hand, just to make sure you know he’s teasing.

There’s a roar in the distance, the sound of a steady, consistent rumble.

“What is that noise?” You ask, a bit frantic.

“No, no,” He reassures, “It’s okay. It’s the waterfall.”

You raise a brow, still skeptical.

As you approach, your face falls as you take in the oasis before you, “You weren’t kidding.”

“I told you,” He says with a squeeze.

Wedged in the height of a large sand dune are large, slick slabs of rock that water spews over, a cascade of thousands of gallons pouring down into a crystal blue lake of water. The pool is ringed by tall, slender trees that shoot straight up into the sky, leaves only in a puff at the very top, those large brown seeds clustered together under the leaves. It doesn’t look like any tree you’ve ever seen in District Nine.

The roar of the waterfall is so loud, you have to raise your voices to talk to each other.

“Is it safe?” You ask. You don’t trust something that’s this pretty in the arena, the same way you didn’t trust the trees or the vegetables in the fall quadrant.

He nods, “I spent a lot of time here. It’s safe.”

You near the edge of the lake, where you break your hold on each other so he can kneel in the sand and dig in his pack. He pulls out both of your jackets, heavily stained with a tapestry of various tributes’ blood.

He begins to wash them in the pool as you scrutinize the water, hesitantly poking your finger in.

It’s clear all the way down, easily seeing the sea plants at the bottom that dance under the warp of the water. There’s a few fish swimming in the pool, enjoying a spot of splotchy shade the leaves of a tall tree casts. They don’t look like any fish you’ve ever seen, brilliant colors and striped designs.

“Thank you,” You say, shaking away your wet hand, “For bringing me here.”

“Of course,” He doesn’t look up from his scrubbing.

You sit back from your squat, and you try to unlace your boots before you’re stopped.

“Oh, right,” You say, remembering the mesh bodysuit.

“You can take it off now,” He says, “It’s comfortable here.”

You hesitate before stripping off your suit, tucking it into Konig’s backpack to avoid sand. You unlace your shoes, peel off your socks and stash them neatly in the mouths of your boots. After, you roll your pant legs up and dip a foot in carefully.

“What happened to your ankles?” Konig says, horrified when he sees the deep pink bruises you’ve revealed.

“Ugh,” You groan as you step both your feet in the water, “So embarrassing. I got caught in someone’s snare.”

“A snare?”

“Yeah,” You nod, watching your toes wiggle into the sand, “I figured it out though. They had me strung up by my feet upside down.

“How did you get out?” He says, amazed.

“Used my belt to hoist me up to my boots. It hurt so bad.”

“Did they find you?”

You shake your head, “Well, I don’t know if it was his trap but the boy from District Eight heard me.”

He goes silent, staring at you with wide eyes.

You shrug, “He didn’t hurt me, he just kept asking about the girl from his district.”

You swallow hard, and look down to the wrist dawning your bracelet.

Your voice is strained when you speak, “Did you see it?”

“See what?”

“What he did to her?”

His expression drops, taking on a sudden serious tone at the haunted look on your face.

“What?”

He studies your face intensely, and your eyes pinch in a hard blink.

“What happened?” He asks.

“I think he volunteered just so he could be the one to,” you hesitate, “Kill her.”

You were way off. About the boy from District Eight and his companion.

About Konig.

You hate being wrong.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” You say, “I don’t understand why he would risk his life just to end someone’s else’s, when she was probably going to die anyway?”

“Hate can’t be reasoned with,” He says without much thought, and you pause your wading, digesting his words.

He’s right. It reminds you of what Price said, about spite getting the best of you.

You couldn’t imagine hating someone so much you’d volunteer just to get the chance to be the one who gets to end someone’s life.

One of your feet wiggles into the sand, the other swirling in the water.

You watch as Konig wrings out the jackets, walking over to a nearby tree to tie the sleeves around its trunk to dry.

When he returns, sitting himself down at the edge of the water, he starts to scrub the mixture of yours and Titan’s blood from his thick gloves.

“Your bandages should be good now,” He says.

“What do you mean?”

“Your cuts. They should be good now.”

You wade back out of the shallow pool, brows furrowed as you unwrap the bandages on your palm.

In just a short time, the medicine has reduced the inflamed jagged slashes on your palm to thin, faint pink lines.

You mutter under your breath, your awe drowned out by the waterfall.

You peel the other bandages off, finding all of your cuts to be in the last stages of the healing process. You hadn’t been able to feel their sting since Konig applied the medicine. Even the deep gash on your forearm has sealed, only a baby pink, decently sized scar in its place.

“Okay?” He asks, looking up at you with a squint.

“Perfect,” You say, rubbing over the cuts on your shoulder that has reduced to scars the size of papercuts, “Did you get that from a sponsor? It must have been expensive.”

“No, actually,” He hangs onto an ‘äh,’ for a moment, hesitating before he responds, “Found it with some other supplies.”

You give a slow nod, not quite believing his answer.

He’s a bad liar.

He rests his gloves on his pack, and fills both of your water containers. While he does this, you tuck Konig’s token into a pocket of his pack, strip off your shirt and kick off your pants, careful not to get sand caught in the wrinkles of the cloth. Now down to your sports bra and underwear, you drape your clothes over his pack.

You stare at the bloody ribbon bracelet, giving it a touch.

You gently untie your sloppy knot, and kneel in the sand to gently rinse out the ribbon.

“What’s that?” Konig asks gently, but curiously.

“Uh,” You pull it from the water, smoothing your thumb over the wet fabric, “It came with the bread. From District Eight.”

He nods slow, and doesn’t say anything else.

You lay the wet ribbon carefully over your clothes to dry.

As you wade deeper into the water, you take slow, careful steps through the sand until you’re submerged to your shoulders.

You let out a pleased sigh, shutting your eyes to block out the bright sun as you soak in the soothing pool.

You use your hands to work a week's worth of blood, dirt, and grime from your skin.

When you’re satisfied, you rinse your hair, giving it a wash in the still part of the pool, combing your fingers through wet strands and rinsing out the collection of dirt and dried blood.

You hum yourself a little tune as you do, only loud enough for you to hear.

The waterfall, while noisy, is relaxing. It reminds you of the sound a cool room makes, or a really strong steady wind. The steady rumble gives your ears something to focus on and keeps the obsessive, intrusive even, thoughts at bay.

When you check on Konig, he’s working stains off your shirt & pants, his attention locked on to the soiled fabric.

You flip to your front and swim back to the edge of the pool. When the bank gets shallow, you keep your body submerged, using your hands in the sand to pull yourself closer to his disturbance in the water. Only the top half of your head peeks out, much like an alligator does as he waits for prey to come along.

“Hello, little fish,” He says, not taking his eyes off the clothes.

You can’t help but giggle before you take in a small gulp of water, lift your head, and squirt a stream in his direction.

“Huch!” He pulls your shirt and pants closer to him in reflex, as if somehow the water was going to soil them more than the blood and dirt. He only looks in your direction a brief moment before he smiles at the sand and returns to his scrubbing.

You give a pleased, mischievous giggle.

“Not very nice, little fish,” He scolds, but you can tell he’s not really annoyed, just amused.

It feels good to be silly. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this relaxed.

Surprisingly, the impending death is not weighing on you. The thought that you will have nothing to worry about tomorrow actually makes it incredibly easy to not care about today. You have been prey these last few days, craning your neck at every noise, fleeing at trouble, and always wondering when and where and how you’ll be slain.

Now you know.

It will happen tonight, at a location of your choosing, and at the hands of a friend.

Even with every eye in Panem on you, from here, there’s no one but Konig, and there is no longer a reason to distrust him. Before you had suspected that every move he made was somehow a strategy for his survival. Now that he has his win, and you are to be laid to rest today, there is no need for you to have your guard up.

Only Konig has to worry about holding up appearances now.

On your final day, you are free to be silly, to be weak, to be scared, to be human.

“Come swim,” You coax.

“Almost done,” He says, standing to tuck the rest of your clothes into the taught sleeves of the jackets, letting them dangle to dry in the warm air against the tree. He begins to shed his gear and washes them as well.

You make your way back out to the deep, and when the water is up to your shoulders you idle to watch the waterfall. Gallons and gallons of never ending water cascade over the shelf of rock, free falling forty feet into the pool, and creates white, foam-like bubbles under its downpour.

Hesitantly you swim closer, the roar drowning out more of the world as you approach. The sand disappears from underneath you, kicking your feet and paddling your arms to keep your head above the surface. You have to fight the ripples and current the waterfall creates as you near.

There’s a large, smooth rock just to the left and behind the steady pour. You pull yourself up to perch on it, resting your heels against its curve into the water.

You carefully stick your hand into the stream, and quickly pull it back when you feel the water’s intense pressure.

You find your hand is unscathed by the powerful stream, and stick your hand in again.

Once deciding it’s safe, you slip back into the pool and let yourself be engulfed in the waterfall.

It’s a really, really intense shower.

It feels good, a massage almost. The water is a perfect, comfortable temperature, not too cold or too warm.

When you’re done with the waterfall, muscles noticeably untensed, you emerge from the heavy rain and catch Konig on the other end of the pool. He’s completely shed of his gear and now shirtless, all the clothes washed and drying off.

With just the top of your heading poking above the water, you find you can’t help the way your eyes linger, even from across the pool.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him without his gear obscuring him since the bloodbath, and the first time you’ve ever seen him without a shirt on.

When you remember you’re on screen, you quickly flick your gaze away, pretending to inspect some fish and hope the water conceals the flush of your cheeks.

You’d never had the opportunity to be with a boy back in District Nine. It’s frustrating, in every sense of the word. It also tends to make you feel fuzzy around just about any boy your age. That dizzy, electric heat you felt when he grazed your arm in training, when you snuggled up to him that night before the games.

And this? A shirtless boy who happens to be particularly large and sculpted?

It’s making your throat go tight and your mouth dry.

It’s unfortunate that you’ll never get the chance to be with someone.

You actually have to look up at the cloudless, orange desert sky to avoid lingering on him for an uncomfortable amount of time.

You wade back to where your toes can touch, keeping yourself fully submerged. You deem it appropriate to look at him when you hear him make a half dive into the water.

You can see his body through the warped filter of the water, and you can’t help but let out a laugh when he pops his head up, making a splash as he shakes the drips from his hair.

He catches your eyes for a moment before he looks away, turning slightly so he’s not facing you.

There’s an awkward pause before you clear your throat, extending a finger under the water, “Have you ever seen fish like this before?”

You point to a cluster of pink, purple, and bright orange fish hanging in the shade.

“No,” He answers, “They’re very pretty, though.”

“I’m gonna’ say hi,” You say, creeping up to the shade, before fully submerging yourself. You open your eyes under the water to get a good look at their designs. Almost none of them are mono-colored, and none of them dull. The striped patterns are all different, some of them that go up and down uniformly, some that have wiggled stripes, others zig-zagged.

You reach a hand out in their direction and watch them flee, their fins waving elegantly through the water as they zip away.

You pop your head out of the water with heavy breath.

“Did they say hi back?” Konig asks from behind you.

“I think so,” You take another breath and turn to him, “It was all, ‘blub blub blub.’”

“My fish speak is rusty,” He rubs his chin, looking curiously into the water, “But I’m pretty sure they slighted you.”

You giggle again, not necessarily at his joke, but because he’s playing along with you. You’re thankful he’s being silly too, that he’s humoring you on your final day.

You take another deep inhale and go back under, swimming to the bottom to retrieve a shell you noticed while fish spotting.

It’s a scallop shaped shell, the size of your palm. Mostly a deep pink dotted with splotches of white. You bring it over to Konig, who takes your offer without looking.

He marvels at it for a moment, running his thumb over the ridges in the shell. He blindly hands it back to you, and you frown.

You drop the shell as you plant your feet firmly on the sand, letting the water lap at your shoulders. Your body is still except for the gentle wave of your hands as they glide through the soothing weight of the pool.

“Are you okay?” You ask.

“Yes,” He says, still slightly turned away from you. His cupped hands bring water just above the surface, watching it as it drains through his fingers and trickles to the pool, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

You’re worried he might be upset with you, the way he’s been avoiding you since you got to the oasis.

You squint your eyes, lowering yourself in the water until it’s just your eyes and nose peeking out. You take another mouthful of water, and arch it in his direction.

“Oh?”

He does it again, those bright eyes finding you and flicking away as soon as he realizes he’s looking at you. It reminds you of how you had tried to avoid looking at him so many times before, fighting the urge to lean on him.

“That,” You say, pointing at him, “Did I do something?”

“No!” He says quickly, looking to the sky, “I just - you’re, y’know,”

“What?” You ask, more laugh than question.

“Y’know,” He drags the word out a bit, hoping you’ll understand what he’s alluding to without having to say it, but you make him.

His face turns pink, his words mumbled and forced, “In your underwear.”

“So are you!” You say, face warped in a smile and a finger pointing at him.

“Well, yeah, but,” He doesn’t have a defense.

“Should I put my clothes back on?” You ask.

“No!” He says too quickly. He clears his throat, “I want you to be comfortable, I mean. It feels wrong to look at you. I don’t want to, äh, stare.”

“So respectful,” You say with a roll of your eyes.

And then you squirt him with another arch of water.

His nerves shed as he laughs, finally turning towards you and meeting your eyes, “You asked for this, little fish.”

You let out a squeak as he takes his flat palm and slams it down on the surface of the water, sending a splash in all directions. You sneak away with a dive, kicking your feet to make distance before resurfacing.

You’re already laughing before you’re back in the air, having to take deep inhales to catch your breath.

It’s a no-holds-barred-all-out splash war after that.

“Truce! Truce!” You yell, breathless from giggles and squeals, hands up in defense and head turned away from the line of fire.

He stops mid-splash with a big grin, “I accept your surrender.”

“That is not what a truce means!”

He makes a movement with his hand, threatening to skim the surface again.

“Okay, okay! I surrender,” you squeak out.

He hums in approval and gently lowers his hand back into the water.

There’s another pause, and squint eyes flit around the oasis, and land on the top of the waterfall.

“Have you been up there?”

“Not really,” He says, “I think it’s just sand.”

“Where’s the water coming from?” You ask, and he just shrugs.

You wade to the side of the pool, pulling yourself up to the sandy shore.

You’re dripping, hair clinging to your skin, kicking up sand that sticks to your wet feet and calves while you struggle to climb the dune.

At the top of the waterfall, you can see it’s clearly man-made. The water flows from the thin space between the shelf of rock and the sand dune it sticks out from.

With careful feet, you climb onto the slick shelf and scoot towards the edge, peering down at the pool below while the water parts for your feet and rinses the sand from your soles.

Konig’s waving his hands and yelling something at you, but you can’t hear his words over the roar of the waterfall.

There’s no rocks directly below the waterfall, and you know it’s deep enough there.

Even if you did hurt yourself, you were going to die anyway, right?

After working up some courage, you close your eyes, clamp your nose, and jump, kicking off the edge of the rock to push yourself out from the waterfall.

For two or three seconds you are falling with a shriek, limbs flailing before they break the surface of the water and send you plunging deep below.

Before you can surface, Konig has met you underwater, a firm grip on your arm as he yanks you up. When you both break into the air, he grabs your shoulders, letting go once he meets your eyes.

You both speak at the same time, frantic and worried.

“What?! What’s wrong!?” You say, swiveling your head to look for the threat.

“Are you okay?!”

“Oh,” you meet his eyes again when you realize there’s no danger, releasing the hold on the dip of his shoulders you didn’t realize you had.

“It’s fine. You should try it,” You say as you rearrange your wet, messy hair.

He shakes his head, “You could have hurt yourself.”

“Oh no,” You say with a roll of your eyes, “What do I have to lose, a couple hours?”

Konig studies your face, eyes flicking around your features with a frown.

“Okay, sorry,” You give a wave of dismissal, “Didn’t mean to make it uncomfortable by bringing up my imminent death.”

You wag your eyebrows at him, “I’m gonna’ do it again.”

“No,” He says firmly.

“Mm, guess you’ll have to stop me,” You shrug, starting in a swim to the edge of the pool.

A gentle but firm hand wraps around your calf and pulls you back in, “You should stay here, little fish.”

“Hey!” You protest, flipping over in the water and kicking your feet away from him, “You got water up my nose.”

He lets go of your leg and holds his hands up in mock apology, “Sorry, but I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“Sorry,” you mock nasally as you rub out the burn from your nose, “But I want you to jump with me.”

“No way,” He says.

“You’re really going to deny a dead girl’s last request?” You narrow your eyes with a playful grin, “I didn’t realize you were so cold.”

He lets out a defeated huff.

No one can say no to the dead girl card.

He looks around the oasis with a low hum before revelation projects on his features, “What if we played a game instead?”

Your eyebrows perk up, “Like what?”

You can’t remember the last time you played a game. Once you’re old enough to work the fields in District Nine, between work, school, and trying to stay fed, there isn’t much time for games.

“What if,” He says, rubbing a finger along his jaw, clearly making up the rules on the spot. His face flashes with another idea before he takes a deep inhale and goes under, resurfacing with your pink and white shell, “One of us throws it, and the other tries to catch it before it sinks to the bottom?”

“Okay,” You say, with an almost childish eagerness to your voice.

He gives a pleased smile, having successfully redirected you to a less dangerous time-passer.

In your final moments, you want to be carefree, you want to have fun.

You’re grateful Konig is willing to let you have this before your death, because you know he doesn’t have to. He’s entitled to his win whenever he wants. He could have killed you in the finale, and he could have been back in the Capitol by now, indulging in his victory.

“I’ll throw first?” He asks.

You nod, blowing bubbles under the surface of the water while you wait for him to wade to the side of the pool. You can’t help but stare at the strong arms that leave the warp of the water, the glistening muscles of his back tensing as he pulls himself up to the shore. You can see the definition from here. They cast shadows, for fucks sake.

Your bubbles peter out, and you can feel the eyes again.

All of Panem.

You sink further into the water, hair dancing and curling like the sea plants below as you stare at your wrinkled fingertips. It’s the best you can do to hide yourself. To fall through the floor, just as you so often wish to do.

“Ready?” He calls.

You nod with an expectant smile, priming yourself.

It’s ridiculous, the shape of him. But not for the reason the people back home make fun of him for.

He looks like he was chiseled from marble, crafted with millions of flawless strikes to reveal what can only be a higher being’s idea of human excellence. It’s mesmerizing, watching his muscles push and pull against each other with each of his movements. Each moment a unique mosaic made of strong flesh interlocked in perfect puzzle pieces that support his being. The bright sun reflects off water droplets and makes his entire body throw light.

He’s radiant.

You’ve been around shirtless boys in the fields of District Nine, and it’s always been noticed by you, but this, this feels downright erotic. It feels wrong to -

It feels wrong to even look at him.

“Did you forget how to play?” He calls.

“What?”

“You didn’t catch it.”

There’s a beat.

“Oh, oh! Yes,” You have to laugh, because what you really want to do is drown yourself.

You retrieve the shell, staying underwater as long as you can manage. Your cheeks are burning when you surface, holding the shell in the air with a wave.

You toss it back to him, and immediately look away.

Maybe it would be best if he just killed you now, actually.

You keep your gaze to the water, waiting for the splash of the shell before you dive, feet kicking and arms rowing as you aim for the shell.

You catch it just inches from the pool’s sandy floor, displaying it proudly as you surface.

“Your turn!”

Without missing a beat you launch the shell straight up into the air, watching it arc before it makes its dissent from the sky.

There’s a moment of alarm that spreads on his features before he springs into action, an impressive head first dive from the bank into the water, quickly retrieving the shell and resurfacing with a laugh.

“Hey!” He says.

You give him an innocent shrug, a telling smile on your face.

You take turns diving for the shell for a while, he shoots down your idea of trying to catch it after jumping from the falls, and eventually you end up trying to see how long you can hold handstands under the water.

Once you both wind down, you float for what feels like hours, resting your eyes from the desert sun, listening to the crash of water on the surface of the pool. Soft, gentle waves lap at your skin, and at some point you and Konig link the crook of your elbows together to keep from floating away. You try really hard to ignore the feeling of his hard, pronounced, bare bicep wrapped around yours.

“We should make our way back soon,” He says as the sun sinks lower in the sky, “Weird animals in the desert at night.”

You nod in agreement, worn out by the swimming and sunbathing, ankles sore from exertion.

You wade back out to the shore, wringing out your hair and shaking off drops of water as you coat your feet in a generous layer of sand.

He retrieves your now dry clothes, nice and toasty from the sun. Konig offers to rinse your calves off, using the water from the bottles as you teeter on one foot. He gives you a cloth to dry off and lets you use his forearm to steady yourself while you slip your sock and boot back on. You repeat the process for your other foot, and return the favor for him.

You both dress in your clean clothes, Konig’s gear and the haunting mask making a reappearance while you return your token to its temporary home and carefully refasten the ribbon around your wrist.

As you’re both slipping the body suits back on, Konig gestures to your bruised ankles, “Does it hurt? To walk on them?”

“They’re sore, but I’ll manage.”

“I can carry you,” He offers.

“What?” You ask with a puffy exhale, as if he told you a bad taste joke.

“I could carry you back,” He repeats, as casually as one would offer a glass of water.

“Oh, no,” You say with a wave of your hand, averting your gaze, “That’s okay.”

“Are you sure? You probably shouldn’t be walking on it, you might make it worse.”

“Oh no,” you say in the same cadence to his objection to the waterfall, generous sarcasm paired with a roll of your eyes, “Won’t be my problem for long.”

There’s a pause, his eyes twitching before they relax, “Well if the dead girl’s wish to have sore ankles, who am I to deny her?”

You blow air out your nose, another roll of your eyes.

No one can say no to the dead girl card.

“C’mere,” you say with a raise of your arms.

He leans down, letting you wrap your arms tightly around his hooded neck. He cradles your back with one forearm, his other reaching down to scoop you up by your knees, literally sweeping you off your feet.

He hoists you up like you weigh nothing. He keeps your side close to his core, holding you just under his vest. You keep one arm slung around the back of his neck, resting your forearm on his backpack as he carries you along. Your other arm drapes over your torso, fingers threading into a pocket on his vest. There’s a warmth blossoming on your cheeks that you hope the cameras can’t see as you bury yourself into his shoulder, your cheek pressed up against the drape of his hood.

“Thank you,” you whisper into the crook of his neck.

“Of course, little fish,” He says, the low vibration of his words tickling your side. You give him a soft hum in return.

You don’t seem to be holding him back at all, not fazed by the extra weight. You both share a comfortable silence for the rest of the trip, him lulling you as each step rocks you in his arms, your feet swaying and eyes fluttering shut.

When he gives you a gentle squeeze, you open your eyes and find he’s carried you all the way to the border in the spring quadrant.

He lets you down slowly, and you take your time stretching out your limbs.

Konig spreads out your clean jackets side-by-side, a makeshift blanket to separate you both from the grass. After you both strip off the temperature suits, you lay your upper half on your jacket, threading your fingers together and resting them under your ribcage.

“Are you hungry?” He asks, unpacking the food from his backpack.

You hum affirmative.

He removes his hood, and both eat in a comfortable silence, sleepy from the long trek and the day in the sun.

“Is there anything you’ve ever wanted to do, but never got the chance?” You ask after a long silence, having spent it pondering your approaching death.

He nods, finishing a swallow of orange before he speaks.

“Yeah,” He says without clarifying.

“Like what?” You ask.

He gives you a long, drawn-out stare before he shifts his attention to his bread, “I don’t know, there’s a lot of things.”

You let the silence play out, looking at him expectantly.

“Like, äh. I’ve always wanted to have,” He trails off for a moment, flicking his gaze to the snow behind you, “A close friend.”

“You really didn’t have any friends in District Nine?”

You knew he was an outcast, you didn’t realize he was completely isolated.

“No,” He says, ripping a chunk of bread from what remains of the loaf, “Is there anything you wanted to do?”

“I don’t know,” You shrug, ripping a cookie in half and taking a bite. You take a moment to savor it with a hum, “I always thought I’d’ve found love by now, y’know?”

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“I’ve never had anything romantic, I guess. No boys, or anything.”

“Really?” He asks, genuinely surprised.

“Nope.”

“Did you like anyone?” He asks carefully, a slight squint in his eyes.

“Eh,” You say with a shrug. You quirk a brow at him, a devilish grin spreading on your face as you pop a blackberry between your teeth, “Did you?”

His eyes go wide, tensing in his spot. A faint glow creeps onto his cheeks.

You laugh, “It’s okay, you don’t have to say. Wouldn’t want you to go home and have to face her.”

He swallows, looking down to a chunk of bread he rolls between his fingers.

“Yeah,” He says evenly, with a bit of a strain, “I don’t think I’ll ever have the chance.”

You give a high hum and another shrug, “Well, you never know. You know how they are with the victors. She’ll probably be throwing herself at you with everyone else.”

He gives a slow nod, using his knife to spread cheese over his now smushed bread.

There’s another silence, both of you sharing the cold stew, dipping chunks of bread into it.

“What’d’ya think Price makes of this?” You work your bread to pick up a piece of carrot, “You think he’s proud of us?”

He scoffs, “I’m not sure what else we could do.”

Something comes to mind, and he laughs before continuing, “Do you think you should confess…” He trails off, raising his brow and tilting his head. It takes you a moment to realize he’s alluding to the whiskey incident on the train.

“Oh, absolutely not,” You say, “He can’t know. And you have been sworn to secrecy, and I expect that to be honored in my death.”

He gives a small laugh and holds up a palm as if giving an oath, “Alright, your secret is safe with me.”

You smile in approval, taking another bite of the cookie and savoring the dessert before offering it to Konig, who shakes his head.

“Did you know about his plan?”

He tilts his head, “What plan?”

“About-“ You cut yourself off, trying to word this without giving away you had absolutely no idea you were friends until a couple hours ago, “About tricking the other tributes into thinking we were allies.”

He squints, and shakes his head.

“He-“ You take another pause to carefully select your words, “He paired us up in training, matched our outfits, and the interview?”

Konig looks to the side, still not understanding.

“The other tributes - they thought we were allies. So instead of everyone wanting to hunt you down, they had their focus split on both of us. So,-“ You pause for a moment, “They had incentive to keep me alive. It’s like - You know how Titan didn’t kill me when he had the chance? Because he wanted to use me against you?”

He nods slow.

“Did Price tell you about this?” He asks, playing with his fingers.

“No,” you say with a shake of your head.

“How do you know?”

“Titan- ah, I had a run in with Titan before.”

He stares at you, eyes snapping open, “What? Is that what happened to your arm?”

“No, no. That was District One.”

“The boy?”

“The girl.”

“What happened with Titan?” He asks.

You scoff, “I told him to eat sand. And then he did.”

“You fought him?”

You touch the healed nick Titan made on your neck.

“Sort of,” You shrug, “He pinned me down, and he wanted me to call for you - that’s how I knew. He didn’t kill me right away, so I had a chance to escape.”

“How?”

A smug, sly grin blooms on your face, “I made him eat sand.”

Konig laughs, leaning back, “What?”

“He pinned me to the ground in the desert, so I blinded him with sand,” Your smile widens, eyes squinting mischievously, “I bet it hurt.”

He gives a weak laugh. There’s a pause, and his smile falls, “Did he hurt you?”

You shake your head, “No, well he choked me, and gave me a paper cut.”

You touch your cut again.

“But that’s a small price to pay for the satisfaction.”

He nods, not finding it as funny as you. There’s another beat, and he speaks toward the ground.

“I’m sorry.”

You wave your hand and swallow hard, your voice a bit more broken than you would have liked, “I’ve been through worse.”

There’s another pause.

His eyes find yours again, you can feel the burn of his stare, but you don’t meet his stare.

“You want to talk about it?” He asks.

You gnaw on your lower lip, considering it.

You shake your head slowly.

He nods, and whispers, “I get it.”

You both get lost in another silence. A good chunk of time passes, and your mind has drifted back to your impending death. More curious than anxious.

“What’ll you think it’ll be like?” You ask.

“What?”

“Death.”

“Oh,” He looks to the dirt, his hand coming to his chin, “I think it’ll be peaceful. Like,” He thinks for a moment, “Sleeping, or coming home maybe.”

You give a nod.

“I hope so,” You say with wist.

There’s another pause, and then you ask, “How do you want to do it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Y’know,” You say, flicking your gaze awkwardly to the side.

“Oh,” He says, as if he hadn’t considered it yet, “I think it should be how you want it to be. We don’t have to do it yet, though.”

“I know,” you say, “But it’s hard not to think about it. Part of coming to terms with it, I guess. I just want to know.”

“What do you want to do?”

You peer out, staring at the yellow and red leaves of the fall forest, taking a sip of juice.

“I don’t know. As long as it’s quick.”

He just nods, looking down to the food spread between you.

“Sunset,” You say.

”Huh?” He asks.

“Sunset, I want to do it at sunset.”

He gives a swallow, his eyes darting around.

“Okay,” He says, low and soft.

You close your eyes and take a few deep breaths, lowering your back flush in the dirt. One hand cushions your head, the other sliding blades of grass between the gaps of your fingers.

“I think I’m okay with it,” You let out a long, soothing exhale, “With dying. I just hope it’s nice.”

“Me too,” He mumbles.

You hum, nestling further into the jacket and the soft grass.

“Want anymore food?” He asks.

“No, I’m okay,” You say, keeping your eyes closed.

You can hear him shuffling the containers over the whistle of a light spring breeze, setting them in the grass above your head.

He cleans off the knife he used to spread the cheese, lays down beside you on his jacket, and for a while you both lay. Soaking in the sun hung over the desert quadrant, but no more searing than the warmth of a gentle spring sun.

“What would you do different?” You ask with your eyes closed, “If you could do your life over again.”

He thinks on it for a moment, “I’d probably talk to you sooner.”

A smile spreads on your face, “That’s it?”

“Yeah I think that’s the big one,” he says with a smile.

You respond by giving him a light tap on his side, as if telling him to be serious.

“It’s true,” He says, “There are other things. But that one sticks out the most. I would have really liked having a friend in District Nine.”

“What about you?” He asks after another pause.

You intertwine your own fingers together and lay them just below your chest with a hum.

“Lots of things,” You huff, “Probably wouldn’t have chugged that whiskey.”

He laughs, hearty and genuine enough to make your chest flood with warmth.

“I thought we were keeping it a secret.”

“Eh, what do I have to lose?” You throw a defeated hand in the air and talk to Price, “Couldn’t handle my liquor.”

He laughs again, “You’ve always been too brave for your own good.”

You scoff, “I’m not brave.”

“Sure you are,” He says, and begins to rattle off a list as if he had it ready to go, “That boy, the whiskey, the balcony, Titan, the waterfall. Too brave.”

“I’m not brave, I’m just angry.”

“And you don’t think everyone else gets angry too? The only difference between being angry and being brave is doing something about it.”

You open your eyes and tilt your head at him, squinting at the sunlight.

“There’s a lot of things I get angry about that I don’t do something about.”

“Things out of your control?”

“Well,” You trail off, understanding you’re in dangerous territory, bordering along blasphemous criticism of the Capitol, “Yeah but, the things I do get spiteful about is self-destructive. It’s reckless. I don’t think, I just act - and I always regret it.”

“Do you regret what you did to that boy?”

You take a deep breath, eyes darting away momentarily.

“I- I was ashamed of my behavior, yeah. I probably should have went about it a different way but I’m glad they stopped picking on you. Something good that came of it.”

He gives you a ghost of a smile and nods.

Any fear you’ve had about the gamemakers cutting your pact short has dissipated, convinced that the drama and the heartbreak and the tragic nature of it all was certainly some of the best television ever seen. You’re sure they’re eating this up in the Capitol.

Another peaceful silence falls over you, and Konig is the one to break it this time.

“You’ve really never had a boyfriend?”

You let out a snort, “No, really.”

“Kissed a boy?”

“No,” You say through a laugh, “Why?”

He shrugs, “Just hard to believe.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” He looks up to the sky, “Just thought boys would throw themselves at you.”

You scoff, “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

He goes stiff as he stumbles through his words, “Äh, well, you’re - y’know.”

“I don’t,” You say.

“Pretty,” He says, just loud enough to carry.

Another smile creeps on your face.

“You think I’m pretty?” You ask in a smug tone with suspended disbelief, elbows and forearms propping yourself up as your top half twists to face him.

His cheeks flush as he stares at the lush grass. His words come out mumbled and broken, fingers fidgeting, “Well, I- sure, I do.”

You laugh, “Well, thank you.”

Your eyes give him a quick full over scan, “You’re not so bad yourself.”

You settle back into your jacket.

“You’re smart too,” He blurts out after a pause.

You look to him again, meeting his eyes before he looks away, landing on his own fidgeting fingers.

“You think so?” You ask with a raise of a brow.

“Oh, yeah,” He says assuredly, with a nod that’s just a bit too fast, “Quick.”

Your hold each other’s stare for a moment.

There’s really no reason for him to lie to you at this point. What he’s sharing with you seems genuine, unless he’s playing an angle with the audience you don’t understand. Brownie points for being nice to the dead girl, maybe?

His eyes are indecipherable, pupils mapping your face as he soaks in the features that furrow as they try to understand his intentions.

He nods again, slight but quick movements.

You both hold each other’s stare - another moment of charged tension - there’s something happening that’s difficult for you to place. It’s as if there’s some big orchestrated plan you’re being left out from, but it’s just you and Konig here.

You and Konig and all of Panem.

Your eyes slightly narrow as you try to figure out what he would stand to gain from lying, why he feels the need to say these things now, and why you are struggling to come up with a retort, an answer, or to even break his stare.

You’re both stuck, caught in this moment weird moment of uncertainty as you have so many times before, but instead of sharing in the unease, it’s directed at each other.

The corner of your lip perks up, your eyebrows lowering in genuine yet hesitant acceptance, “Thanks.”

He nods, breaking the stare. He plays with his fingers and continues, his voice low and soft, “You always say what’s on your mind. I’ve always- I wish I could do that.”

You continue to bore into him as he watches his own fingers lace and unlace.

“Never done me any favors,” You say, combing through every incident your big mouth has gotten you into trouble.

“Worked on me,” he says quietly with a shrug.

You look at him again, confused on where this is coming from.

“Worked on you?” You repeat.

He starts, fumbling for his words, “Wha- äh, I mean, I meant that I just, I admire that, is all.”

He’s tearing fistfuls of grass from the dirt.

“What about you?” You ask.

“Huh?”

“You’ve never had a girlfriend?”

He shakes his head.

“You ever fooled around with anyone?”

His cheeks flush, his eyes darting around, “No. Never had the chance.”

“I think that’s one of the things I’m bummed about the most to be honest. Always wanted to try that before I died,” You laugh, running your fingers over what’s left of your chipped nail polish as you stare out into the distance.

He’s still tearing up handfuls of grass, averting your stare. His next words are whispered, just a wisp of a sentence, “Me too.”

There’s a long pause, filled by the sound of grass uprooting and the light spring breeze.

This pause is charged, awkward, but electric.

You don’t think before you ask what you’re both thinking.

“Should we?” A mischievous smile spreads on your face.

“Wha- What?”

“Fool around,” You say, lips still curled in a devilish grin.

Normally you’d never be so forward. But here, while you have only a few hours left, why not? You’re not going to be shy enough to miss out on your only opportunity to check a few things off the bucket list before you die. You could certainly do a lot worse in terms of losing your virginity. If he rejected your offer, it’s not like you’ll have to deal with the embarrassment for long.

“What?” He says again, almost horrified, his whole face turning red.

“Here?” He asks before you can repeat the question, his head swiveling as he looks around the arena. His palm touches his chest, “With me?”

“Yeah, why not?” You shrug.

“Because everyone’s watching,” He gets out with a stutter. He thinks for a moment and repeats, “With me?”

You laugh and offer a shrug, “If you want. Might as well.”

The pads of his fingers rub together furiously, “But you’ll have to go home and face everyone, and - and they’ll know.”

Maybe you are as quick as Konig thinks you are, because you catch it immediately.

Konig doesn’t.

It rolled off his tongue so casually, as if he’d said it a million times before. You can tell he doesn’t recognize his screw up by the way he responds to your face dropping, your head cocking to the side, your eyes narrowing.

He looks puzzled, flushed, a little scared - but not busted.

“What?” He asks.

Konig leans back instinctively when you prime yourself, hands already bracing the grass for movement.

Your voice is dangerous and taught, each word spoken independently and brought to an icy point.

“I’ll go home.”

Now he’s realized it. His face sinks, his eyes are wide and desperate, lips gaped as he searches for a recovery but his mind is clearly failing him. If it had just been a slip of the tongue, or maybe if he was a better liar, he would have just corrected himself - but the fear in his eyes gives it away.

It was no mistake.

You give a slow, dangerous nod, your tongue running along the front of your teeth as you look away to stare into the distance.

It all makes sense now.

Why he didn’t let Eleven or Titan kill you. Why he didn’t kill you. Why he went through the trouble of nursing your wounds. Why he’s letting you come to terms with your death. Why he’s insistent on you not acting dangerously even though you have no time left.

A jacket on a cold night, pleas to ally, cuddling, handholding, carrying, compliments, blushing.

Murders on your behalf.

These are not the actions of a friend.

This is what Titan meant.

This is what he wanted Konig to confess to you.

The other tributes didn’t think you were allies - they had known of Konig’s affection all along, and they wanted to use you as leverage, bait to take down their toughest opponent.

You were Konig’s weakness all along.

Everyone must have known.

Of course they did.

Holding hands at the opening ceremony, attached at the hip in training, protecting you from confrontation. Price’s knowing stares, stating confidently that you could convince Konig to rebel against the Capitol, forcing Konig to blush at the mention of your name. The careers keeping a careful eye on the boy who cares far too much about the girl, using her against him, and rubbing it in at every opportunity.

It must be obvious to the audience, too.

All of Panem must know, Konig’s intentions were clear from the start, and you were too dense to see what was right in front of your fucking face.

You scoff, voice tightening with betrayal and every word slicing through the tensed air.

Your head slowly turns to face him, jaw cocked and a tented brow.

“You’re planning on sacrificing yourself for me, aren’t you?”

NEXT CHAPTER | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

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deadsetobsessions · 1 year ago

Text

Danny used to be a vigilante, firmly on the side of good. Like, illegally, but morally good.

Danny’s 100% sure that whatever he is now, it’s not good.

Is Gotham’s influence just Like That?

He was homeless when he got to this thrice damned city (literally, because Lady Gotham was so cursed) and now he’s… here? In a mid-level penthouse with a rotation of homeless kids going in and out of his kitchen and eating out his pantry??

Danny adjusted the cuffs of his dress shirt, making the conscious decision to ditch the tie. He’s a tall 6ft 4 now, taking after his Dad. His head smarted all of the time, hitting doorframes when he was being a bit clumsier than the normal ghost-like grace he had learned to channel as The Phantom.

The Phantom instead of just Phantom. Why? Because Phantom was the name of a teenage vigilante in another dimension. The Phantom, on the other hand, is an intimidatingly tall, deceptively kind, extremely dangerous kingpin.

Honestly? Danny didn’t even want this life. Like, he had no idea it would snowball like this??

He supposed that it all started when the Penguin was trying to snatch kids off of his block on Crime Alley. Not officially his block, of course, because Danny didn’t actually enter this city to be a crime-shadow thing. But he hadn’t lost enough of Phantom the Vigilante to ignore kids getting hurt. He still hasn’t, if he’s being honest. He flew into a frantic search, tracking down the missing kids to Penguin’s bar. The Iceberg Lounge. Apparently, he wanted the kids to do some menial tasks and what not. Danny, rage flickering through his core, intangibly went in and robbed Penguin of every coin and secret the man kept.

Then? Danny blackmailed the Penguin to guarantee his kids a measure of safety from the Rogue. That began the slippery slope into whatever it is he does now. Penguin was being kept in line by Danny’s threats, the grip he had on the Rogue’s weak points, and a wonderful bit of intimidation.

——

“What, you stinking phantom? I’m stickin’ to yer rules!” Penguin snarled, forced to his knees by invisible blob ghosts.

Danny, salty and pissy from the lack of sleep he’d experienced trying to keep Penguin’s men in line as a result of Penguin trying to test where Danny’s lines were, dropped the temperature to the point where Penguin started shivering. Considering the place was already cold- the Iceberg lounge lived up to its name- it meant that Danny was standing nonchalantly in a room that was negative twenty five degree Celsius in a sweatshirt, Danny was already making good on his natural intimidation factor.

“It’s The Phantom to you, Oswald.” Danny said, in the tone of someone saying “it’s the shit, to you.”

Danny narrowed his blue eyes, letting a tiny tint of ectoplasm make his eyes glow a bit in the suddenly icing over room.

“Your people have been getting on my nerves, Oswald. Roughing up kids is so… uncultured. Are you sure you’re a Cobblepot?”

Penguin snarled, the effect of which was rendered ineffective due to his increasingly violent shivers. Plus, Danny loomed over him without even trying.

Danny, annoyed and asking himself “What Would Dan Do To Intimidate This Guy?”, gripped Penguin’s shoulder and hauled him up one handed. He dragged the mob boss over to one of the booths, avoiding the bodies he’d dropped (non-lethally) when Danny first walked in to ruin Penguin’s night. He shoved Penguin in chair he iced over, because Danny’s petty and if he saw one more bruise on his kids at Penguin’s hands, Danny was gonna go full Dan the Murderer.

He at least allowed to room to warm up before laying into Penguin, though. He stayed standing. Hey, he had the height advantage to use. He could have kept Penguin kneeling, but it was probably god the best that the mob boss got some sense of pride back.

(Danny had no idea that sitting as someone loomed over you to lecture and threaten you was even worse than kneeling. At least with kneeling, you knew where you stood. But sitting? It leaves you horribly off kilter.)

“I told you to keep your people in line. Kids are off limits, Oswald.”

“I kept them in line!”

Never let it be said that Oswald Cobblepot had a normal functioning sense of self preservation.

“Really?” Danny jabbed his pointer finger lightly on top of Penguin’s trachea and allowed his fingernails to sharpen into Phantom’s sharper digits. Penguin tried to lean away. “Then why did they start a gun fight when there were kids visible on the street? Why did I see one of my kids get hit by one of your poor excuses of a bouncer?”

“I-”

“Don’t care much for your excuses, if I’m being honest. I let you mess around with the little projects you have, without even breathing a whisper of your secrets. Sionis would love to know how you double crossed him the last deal, yeah?”

“I- I’ll keep them in line!” Penguin stuttered.

“Well, I believe in second chances,” Danny bullshitted. Ancients, how was this even working? “So I suggest you make an example of the guy that smacked Hailey around before I make an example out of you, Oswald.”

“Fine! Fine!”

——

And with that, he got access to Penguin’s resources and men and more importantly, the corrupt police officers. He made Penguin “boot out” the pedophilic ones (in a very violent way) and kept the rest.

Then? Mr. Freeze froze over the god damn pipes and Danny had to intimidate and make a deal with the Rogue so he and his increasing roster of orphans had access to warm water.

In exchange for Danny’s restorative and, more importantly, unmelting ice, Mr. Freeze was now Danny’s�� on-call enforcer?? When he’s not researching cures for his frozen in a pod wife, that is.

Danny was satisfied with that. He was! But then Black Mask happened, with the man trying to engage in a battle of wits with Danny over the control of Crime Alley which, at that point, was firmly Danny’s territory.

The thing is, Danny doesn’t play nice anymore. Why bother with pointless mind games when he could just…

——

“So, you’re The Phantom.”

“And you’re Sionis.”

Black Mask twitched at the name, gloved hands pulling out his guns. Danny sat on the counter, head touching mid cabinet, and sipped out of Sionis’ favorite mug.

Because Danny broke into Black Mask’s safe house and stole his quality coffee. The man’s eyes were wary.

“How did you get in here?”

Danny shrugged. “Walked.”

Danny held the coffee out of the way as Sionis unloaded a clip into his chest and lunged forward to slap a mask onto Danny’s face. After waiting a bit, as Black Mask’s smug triumph bled into shock, Danny laughed and, using a bit of his natural strength, tossed the guy off of him. He casually took the mask off of his face.

“Jeez, I’m trying to be nice, here.”

“So, you’re a Meta.”

Danny grinned. “Eh. And you’re a cult leader with a mask fetish.”

Danny tuned out the rant about the “true face of Gotham” or whatever, already bored, and sipped at Sionis’ coffee. The ass might be a psycho, but his coffee tastes were wonderful. Danny stood up, rinsed his mug, and turned back to Black Mask.

“You’re trafficking people. Kids.” He said, cutting through Sionis’ chatter. He was sly about it too, committing violence and torture in a way that would ensure obedience and fear. Danny probably would have never caught on, Black Mask’s schemes being so ingeniously created and executed, had he not kept a hawk’s eyes on the more vulnerable members of Crime Alley’s community. And the rest of Gotham’s vulnerable communities, of course.

“My, a wonderfully obvious conclusion. Now, Phantom, I have a proposition for you.”

Sionis seemed to have gotten his bearings back. Danny tilted his head at him, looking down.

“You can work for me,” Sionis said, before opening a laptop with video feed to one of his masked men or whatever holding a knife to one of Danny’s more fearless kids. Danny snarled.

“Or, refuse, and your kid will lose a finger for every instance of your defiance.”

“I told you not to touch the kids, Sionis. I don’t allow trafficking either.”

Black Mask chuckled. “Cut off a finger, Sadness.”

“Yes, bos- ARGHHHH!”

Danny watched as Mr. Freeze froze the goon’s arms before breaking them.

“I’ve got her, Phantom.”

Danny nodded at Freeze, keeping an eye on Sionis in case the fool bolts.

“So, what are your cards now, Sionis? You’ve sure pissed me off with nothing to show for it.”

And that was the last night anyone heard from the one that was supposed to be the King of Crime.

But Gotham knew the head mounted on a pike at one of Black Mask’s hastily abandoned bases was a warning, that The Phantom was watching.

——

Then he somehow got a gaggle of more orphans that were undead zombie “Talons?”

From there, he just obtained influence over the crime bosses of Gotham. Because his Talons kept bringing him heads and blackmail and his crime alley kids and Gotham orphans kept bringing him information for food and safety?

But like, Danny never wanted anything in exchange for the safety he provided. His core could give less of a shit whether he got anything in return. But he couldn’t convince his kids of that! They’re putting themselves in danger and ugh-!

Danny checked himself once more in the mirror. Ready, he stepped out into the night to wait for the Bats at his new favorite VIP spots.

On the way, he passed Ivy and Harley, who he waved to. Pamela worked under him because he controlled Gotham’s criminal underground (which also mean the official parts of the city considering the sheer amount of corruption) and influenced them into more plant friendly methods. His dominion over Undergrowth also helped immensely.

Harley? They’re friends. He beat up and crippled her abusive ex. She gave him therapy and stopped torturing people for fun.

Danny stepped into the back door of the Iceberg Lounge. No one stopped him. No one dared to.

He settled onto a velvet couch, nodding respectfully at the server that had immediately and nervously set down his mai tai. He glanced around for cameras and wire taps, before giving up and upping his ectoplasmic output to short any recording devices out.

He sipped his drink as he waited.

“Batman.”

“Phantom.”

“Oh, good. You didn’t bring Robin,” Danny said, watching Batman tense. “Kids shouldn’t be in places like these.”

Batman stayed silent.

“Come on, sit.” Danny gestured to the couch across from him.

“This isn’t a social call. I’ll stop whatever you’re scheming-” Batman growled.

“Oh my god, you’re so dramatic. Is this where Nightwing gets it from?”

Batman snarled.

“Sit, sit.” Danny rolled his eyes.

Batman stayed stubbornly looming. Danny sighed, allowing his voice to slip into velvet danger.

“I told you to sit, Bruce Wayne.”

“You-”

“I won’t repeat myself again, Bruce. You’re testing my patience.”

Bruce sat, wary and hyper vigilant. Danny sighed, settling back in his chair.

“You’ve heard of Red Hood, yes? Don’t answer that, it was hypothetical. I know you’ve heard of him.” Danny waved a hand impatiently. “I don’t really care why he’s setting up shop in my Alley, but he’s upsetting the other crime lords. They’re asking me to interfere.”

“I don’t work for you.”

“No,” Danny acknowledged with a nod. “But I could make you, if you push it. Politeness would serve you much better right now, Bruce, seeing as I am doing you a… favor. And since I’m not shouting to the world who you are under the cowl.”

Danny gave Batman a pointed, patented, mom glare.

“… Apologies.”

“Now, you might be wondering what that favor is.” Danny watched Batman’s cowled face carefully. “I thought you should know that the Red Hood is your “Jason Todd.’”

Batman was still. And then Batman leapt at him, snarling, “How dare you-!”

Danny caught the vigilante by the throat and squeezed.

Batman’s flurry of punches- which, mildly ow, those gauntlets kind of hurt- quickly changed to clawing and maneuvers to get out of the choke hold. Danny held steady, cutting off the vigilante’s air supply until he began to go limp. He’s not Superman. Danny will bruise and kill, if he had to.

“Are you going to listen to me now?” Danny asked mildly, emulating both Black Mask’s drawl and Dan’s effortless psychosis.

Batman gave a weak nod. Danny plopped him unceremoniously back onto his couch. He sipped on his drink once more as he waited for Batman to cough some sweet air back into his lungs.

“I’m telling you to get your little birds in line before I have to go hunting, yeah? Keep your kids out of danger, Bruce, and I won’t have to step in.”

“He- how do you know..?” The growl isn’t there anymore, and Danny felt a smug sense of vindication of having smothered it out of the guy. Woah, no, that thought was too Dan and too little Danny. Danny handed him a cup of water, which Batman didn’t drink.

Danny rolled his eyes and raised an eyebrow. “Drink. If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it by now. And as for how I know…”

Danny held up a beat up copy of Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility, filled with Jason’s writing. He tossed it to Batman, who caught it with blank eyes.

“Water,” Danny reminded him firmly, feeling like a mother hen. Batman gulped down his water, eyes flicking between the pages of Jason’s annotated book. Ancients, Danny couldn’t believe he annotated his book. A crime lord, like that? Well, it’s not like Danny could say anything.

Batman looked up at him, a silent demand- no, plea, because he’s not in a position to make demands- for an answer.

“Broke into his safe house. You should contact your fling, Talia. Seems like she dunked him into these “Lazarus pits” and told him you replaced him with the current Robin.”

Danny could see Batman’s emotional gears hard at work and honestly, he doesn’t have time for that.

“Now, we’re done here. You owe me one for the information. I’ll collect later.” Danny grabbed the Dark Knight, who stayed oddly unresisting (shock, maybe?) , and hauled him up.

“Tell Tim Drake to eat more. He looks too skinny.” With that, Danny dragged the Dark Knight to the window and punted him out. His kids were waiting on hot chocolate night and Danny had to go shopping for quality ingredients.

——

“YOU COULDN’T HAVE TOLD ME THE BIGGEST CRIME LORD OF YOUR CITY WAS THE FUCKING HIGH KING OF THE INFINITE REALMS?!”

“Hn.”

“BLOODY HELL, DON’T YOU GRUNT AT ME, YOU BROODY BASTARD!”

Constantine let out a scream. Shite, the king who held his soul contract was a crime lord. Great.

——

The reason intelligence and convoluted schemes and genius doesn’t work against Danny is because he’s got weird standards of what he’ll tolerate and the fact is that his normal dumbassery and mother hen tendencies cancels out and coherent thoughts or plans he might have had.

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