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colouredbyd · 18 days ago

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The Nightingale XII: District Thirteen

Regulus Black x fem!reader Hunger Games AU

summary: the world holds its breath as harsh truths unravel everything once known into lies. in a storm of silence, fire, and reckoning, the end of the beginning ignites—and the world now burns with rage. some words bring peace, others bring war—and through it all, the Nightingale will rise.

warnings: graphic content including death, physical violence, descriptions of combat, rage? not much warnings tbh

w/c: 12.4k (i know guys but i promise its worth it)

a/n: the truth has been revealed finally !!!

previous part series masterlist main masterlist

I woke with a gasp that didn’t feel like mine — like it had been forced from someone else’s lungs and shoved into my throat, torn from the depths of a dreamless dark that clung to me like frost.

My lungs spasmed, trying to remember how to work, pulling in air that burned as much as it soothed. Instinct drove my body upright in a desperate lurch, but it didn’t move — couldn’t move.

Something held me down. Wires. Thin and surgical, wrapped with a precision that made my skin recoil, coiling like snakes around my chest, my arms, even my temples, tight and unrelenting.

Panic came before thought — a raw, animal thing that leapt up my throat and made my heart stutter. I twisted against the restraints, every breath a ragged plea, muscles shrieking in protest like I’d been lying in this tomb for days, maybe longer.

The moment I tried to rise, pain detonated at the base of my skull — hot, sharp, blinding — and the machines around me shrieked in unison, rising in a pitch that matched the chaos inside my chest.

The lights above me stabbed through my eyelids — white, too white, flickering like a failing star caught between life and death.

The ceiling loomed close, sterile and smooth, its seamless panels grinning down like secrets with teeth. I blinked hard, once, twice, and the world shifted violently with each motion, sliding in and out of focus like it couldn’t decide whether I belonged here or not.

My hands fumbled blindly for the wires, scrabbling at the ones draped across my chest like ivy made of ice. I pulled, clawed, tore, but they wouldn’t budge.

They weren’t just attached — they were in me, part of me, as if I’d grown around them in my sleep. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t care. I just needed them gone.

There was a high-pitched whine in my ears, constant and piercing, and underneath it, the steady beep of some machine that seemed to be keeping score.

I looked around, frantic now, heart hammering like it wanted out of my ribs. There were no windows. No doors. No shadows. Just walls — endless and blinding — and machines that pulsed with indifferent life.

Everything was too clean, too symmetrical, too quiet. It didn’t feel like a room. It felt like a lie. Like a cage made to look like comfort, a stage set for something I hadn’t agreed to perform in. A prison dressed up in white. A cradle built for control.

And I had no idea how I’d gotten here.

Where was I? Not the Capitol. Not the Arena. I wasn’t dead — not if I could still feel this much. But the last thing I remembered was the needle, the cold, and then—

The soldier.

The number.

Thirteen.

I didn’t care. I didn’t care. I just needed out.

I let out a scream—raw, feral, loud enough to shred my throat on the way up. The sound bounced off the walls and came back to me, warped and too loud, like the room was mocking me.

I threw myself sideways off the bed, nearly ripping one of the wires from my skull, the pain white-hot but useless against the flood of adrenaline surging through me.

“LET ME OUT!” I howled, yanking at the cords with shaking hands. “WHERE AM I?!”

The machines shrieked back at me, beeping erratically as I tore the wires from my chest, my arms, my head, uncaring of what damage I was doing, only needing to feel free.

One by one they came loose with a sick, wet pop, the kind that made me gag. I stumbled, caught in the tangle of tubing and metal, half-sobbing, half-growling like some caged animal.

“Regulus?!”

My voice cracked on his name, and the silence that followed felt like a betrayal. No answer. Just the ringing in my ears and the too-clean air scraping my lungs raw.

I turned and slammed both fists against the wall. Again. And again. The impact rattled through my bones, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. My hands stung, blood blooming across my knuckles, smearing onto the pristine white panels like a warning.

“I’m not a puppet!” I screamed at the ceiling, spit flying. “I’m not your fucking experiment!”

My knees buckled, and I dropped, panting, pressing my forehead against the wall like it might open if I just begged hard enough. The static in my head buzzed louder than thought.

I didn’t know if I was screaming or sobbing or both. I just knew I couldn’t stay in that room another second without breaking completely.

I was curled in a corner like something wounded and feral, bloodied knuckles pressed to the cold tile, each breath jagged and raw, my heart battering against my ribs like it was trying to claw its way out — like it no longer trusted this body, like it wanted to escape without me.

My skin stung, scraped and torn, but it was nothing compared to the chaos inside, the feeling of being too awake in a place meant to strip you bare.

Then I heard it.

A hiss — sharp, metallic, slicing through the silence like a blade. The sound of something shifting, something mechanical. I froze.

My head whipped toward the source with whipcord instinct, teeth clenched, eyes wide. The wall itself was opening — a seam splitting down the middle, thin light spilling in like a wound in the world.

I scrambled up, breath caught in my throat, body tensed to run, to scream, to fight — whatever it took. Whatever this was.

Two soldiers stepped through, silhouettes sharpened by the light behind them. They moved with precision, all in black, their faces masked behind glossy visors that turned them into ghosts.

Their guns were lowered — not aimed — but they were there, heavy and undeniable, a threat carved into the air. My limbs coiled tighter, trembling with the instinct to strike, to protect whatever was left of me.

Another figure.

Someone stepped in behind them.

“Hey—hey, hey, stop—”

The voice cut through the static in my skull like thunder cracking open a storm. Familiar. Too familiar. I knew that voice — not just in the way you know a sound, but the way your bones know warmth, the way your breath knows air.

“It’s me. It’s me.”

Evan.

Before I could even blink, he was moving — rushing toward me with the reckless urgency of someone who didn’t care if the world exploded as long as he got there first.

His arms wrapped around me, solid and warm and alive, anchoring me in a moment that felt too unreal to touch. I flinched hard, my hands shoving at him out of reflex, panic still overriding everything else, but he didn’t let go. He just held me tighter, voice soft and urgent right against my ear.

“It’s okay. Breathe. You’re okay. You’re okay, alright?”

Each word was a lifeline, trembling but steady, his breath threading into mine, his heartbeat pressed to my chest like a metronome trying to sync a song I’d forgotten how to sing.

“Calm the fuck down,” he whispered, voice barely holding itself together. “You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

I stared at him, heart still galloping in my chest, lungs torn between sobbing and gasping.

“Evan?” My voice cracked in my throat, disbelieving. I pulled back just enough to look at him—really look. “Your hair—it’s long.”

It was the dumbest thing to focus on, but it hit me like a slap.

His hair had always been cropped short, boyish, sharp. Now it brushed his jaw, messy and unkempt, like time had passed differently wherever he was.

“You’re here?” I whispered. “What are you—? Where—? What is this? Where are we?”

He cupped the back of my head gently, like I might shatter.

“I know. I know you’re scared. Just—don’t try to make sense of it yet. You don’t have to.” His thumb grazed my cheekbone, grounding me. “We’re safe. That’s what matters right now.”

“But how—”

“I’ll explain everything, I promise. I’ll show you,” he said softly, guiding me to my feet. “Just breathe for me, okay? One thing at a time.”

His words weren’t magic, but they were enough. Enough to slow the trembling in my hands, enough to loosen the grip of terror curled around my ribs. I clung to him, legs weak beneath me, as the soldiers stepped aside and the door stood open behind them—dark beyond the threshold, but waiting.

Evan didn’t let go of me. Not when I staggered, not when I nearly slipped on the tile from the wires I’d torn off, not even when I shook like a leaf between sobs.

His hands were steady, warm on my shoulders as he lowered me gently back onto the edge of the bed. The machines had quieted now, a few blinking lights still sputtering like dying stars behind me. The air in the room buzzed with leftover panic.

“Why did you—” he exhaled, glancing at the mess of tubing and sensors scattered across the floor “—rip out the wires?”

I choked on a breath, wiping at my eyes with the heel of my hand, trying and failing to get words out. “I— I panicked,” I whispered. “I didn’t know where I was—what was happening—I thought—” My voice cracked. “I thought I was hurt.”

He knelt in front of me, his long hair falling into his face as he gently reached for my hands. “Okay. It’s okay. I get it. You did nothing wrong.” He turned my palms over, eyes scanning the scrapes and bruises blooming across my knuckles.

A flash of guilt darkened his expression. “You’re not hurt too bad, but damn… you really went feral in here.”

I gave a weak laugh through the tears.

Then his hands moved to my face, soft but firm, holding my cheeks between his palms like he needed to anchor me back to something real.

“I need you to know something,” he said. “You’re safe now. And I’m on your side. No matter what happens, no matter where we are. You hear me?”

I nodded. “Okay,” I whispered. And for the first time since waking up in this nightmare, I almost believed it.

He stood and offered me his hand. I took it without hesitation.

“C’mon,” Evan said, voice barely above a breath as he pulled me gently forward. “Let me show you where we are.”

The door slid open wider, not with a creak or groan but a mechanical hiss that sounded too smooth, too practiced — like this place was used to quiet arrivals and stolen escapes.

The two soldiers moved with us, flanking our sides like shadows given form, their steps silent, their presence heavy. Evan didn’t let go of my hand. His fingers stayed wrapped tight around mine.

Beyond the threshold was no Capitol white, no golden gleam, no artificial paradise built to dazzle and destroy. There was no glimmer of the Arena’s brutal beauty, no manufactured trees or mirrored sky. The world we stepped into now was something else entirely.

Stone and steel. Silence and shadows.

The corridor we entered stretched ahead like a scar—long, narrow, unyielding. The walls were made of rough, cement-colored stone, stained in places, cracked in others. The air carried the faint tang of metal and something older, like dust clinging to a memory.

Lights buzzed in thick panels bolted to the ceiling overhead, flickering slightly as we passed beneath them. Everything was washed in that same dim, iron-gray glow — ash-colored uniforms, concrete floors, dull steel doors that looked like they hadn’t been opened in years.

Even the people who passed us — officers, medics, soldiers — moved like phantoms, pale and unadorned, their faces unreadable. They didn’t speak. They barely looked.

It wasn’t dead here. But it wasn’t alive, either. It felt like a place that had survived something and never stopped bracing for the next blow.

We moved through the hall in silence, Evan leading, my footsteps hollow against the concrete. Then the corridor opened — not gradually, not gently, but all at once, the way a wound splits under pressure.

We stepped out into a space so vast it stole the air from my lungs.

An atrium. But it felt more like a fortress.

Not a Capitol building, with its marble lies and golden smiles. This place had been carved — not built. Maybe underground, maybe into a mountain. It stretched upward for what felt like forever, balconies and scaffolding layered in tiers, fifteen stories or more, disappearing into the shadows above.

We stood somewhere in the middle, on what I guessed was the fifth floor, though it felt like there was no true floor or ceiling, just levels of secrets stacked endlessly above and below.

Soldiers lined the balconies, stationed like sentinels, their rifles slung over their backs, their stares precise and unwavering. There was no chatter. No noise. Just the hum of electricity, the faint scrape of boots on metal, and the relentless thud of my own heart.

There was no color. No warmth. Just shades of gray — of war and waiting.

The air smelled of oil, of smoke clinging to stone. Of something scorched but not yet burned away.

And then I saw it.

On the far wall, massive and jagged, like it had been torn into the concrete by a blade too angry to carve clean — a symbol. Part flame, part bird’s wing, fractured and rising, like it was caught mid-flight or mid-fall. And beneath it, etched deep into the stone and blackened with paint:

WRATH.

I stopped walking, my hand tightening in Evan’s. “What is this place?”

He glanced at me, jaw tight. “It’s where the truth lives. And where things finally start to change.”

Then he gave me a small smile, just enough to steady me.

“Come on,” he said again, pulling me gently forward. “There’s someone you need to meet.”

We moved in silence through a winding corridor, deeper into the steel belly of the compound. Every turn seemed colder than the last, the walls darker, the ceilings lower. Then we stopped.

Two guards stood outside a towering set of metal doors. Unlike the rest of the building, these weren’t scuffed or stained or unmarked.

They gleamed—polished, almost ceremonial. A pair of narrow slits near the top flickered with red light as if scanning us, and the soldiers didn’t move until one of them spoke into a small mic clipped to his collar. A pause.

Then the doors slid open with a hiss like a blade being drawn — sharp, surgical, final.

I didn’t move. My feet rooted to the floor just outside the threshold, as if some invisible line had been drawn across it — one that once crossed, could never be uncrossed. My breath hitched, caught between my ribs and my racing heart, and I just… stared.

The room beyond looked like something torn from the Capitol’s propaganda reels, those rare glimpses of underground fortresses and secret war rooms they swore were myths.

Only this one wasn’t made of green screens and theater. This was real. It breathed. Echoing, vast, and cathedral-like — the ceiling arched high above us, latticed with steel beams that looked like the ribs of some enormous, long-dead beast, half-buried in concrete.

The space felt sacred in a terrible way, like something had been sacrificed here and the blood never quite washed out.

At the center stretched a long, dark table — sleek, metal, humming faintly with unseen power. Embedded in its surface was a glowing three-dimensional map. It shifted and pulsed in real time, alive beneath our feet.

Topography rose and sank like breath, outlines of districts flickering in cool blues and ghostly greens, while Capitol emblems blinked red, steady as a heartbeat.

And around it sat three figures.

They did not look up. Not at first. They sat like statues, heads slightly bowed, as if in vigil — or verdict. Each of them wore a mask: smooth, matte grey, featureless and unreadable. No mouths. No eyes. Just cold symmetry.

Their uniforms were the same ash-colored cloth worn by the soldiers outside, but these people were something different. You could feel it in the air, the weight of them. Like they’d spoken orders that turned tides. Like they decided what wrath meant.

But I barely saw them.

Because past them, at the far end of the room, stood a man.

He was facing the wall, not the door. As if he didn’t need to turn to know we were there. As if he already knew. Tall and still as marble, his posture straight, spine like a drawn bow. His shoulders didn’t move, didn’t flinch. He looked like he’d been carved out of the silence itself.

And he wore no mask.

His hair was long — longer than I remembered hair being allowed — pulled back into a knot at the base of his neck, the inky black waves falling past his shoulders like a shroud. He looked like someone who had chosen not to hide. Or someone who’d already been unmasked, and had nothing left to lose.

Still, he didn’t turn. Not when the doors opened. Not even as we stood there watching. Like the whole room revolved around him, and he didn’t need to move to be seen.

I felt my body inch back instinctively, fear rising like frost across my skin. My breath caught, shallow, uncertain. Something about him — not his face, which I couldn’t see — but his presence, the shape of him in that silence, scratched at something buried deep in me.

I turned to Evan, panic building at the base of my throat again, sticky and cold and irrational.

He leaned in close, his breath warm at my ear, his voice the gentlest thing in the room. “It’s okay,” he whispered, steady as a promise. “You’re safe. They’ve been waiting for you.”

Waiting for me.

The words didn’t comfort me — not really — but I swallowed them down, throat dry. My gaze snapped back to the unmoving man, to the masked figures, to the glowing pulse of war beneath our feet.

Evan gave my hand a light squeeze, then stepped forward.

“She’s awake,” he said clearly, his voice striking the silence like flint to stone.

The three masked figures lifted their heads in eerie unison — not mechanical, but rehearsed.

And then, across the vast steel room, the man with the long black hair finally turned.

Slowly. Deliberately. Like the moment had been waiting for itself.

He turned.

And it felt like a knife slid clean between my ribs — cold, precise, almost tender in its cruelty.

I didn’t recognize him at first.

Not because he was a stranger.

But because he had no right to still exist.

My breath tore from me in a ragged rush, like it had been punched out. My knees buckled, and I stumbled backward, straight into Evan’s chest. His arms came up, catching me without question, without pause. But I barely felt him. I barely felt anything except the impossible.

Because I had heard that laugh echo through the trees when we were young and stupid and free.

Because I had cried for that boy—begged for news, clutched Regulus as he bled grief into my shoulder for a brother who never came home.

The man I had not seen in seven years.

The man who had vanished without a trace.

The man who haunted Regulus’s every silence.

His features had hardened with time, the soft edges of youth carved into sharp lines, war-worn and hollow. A long scar now traced the edge of his jaw, thin and pale like a thread pulled from a tapestry.

His shoulders were broader, posture iron-strong, shaped by survival. His hair, once a wild tangle of midnight, fell in heavy waves past his shoulders, streaked with silver like the ghost of a boy I used to know.

He was older. Rougher. Burned down and rebuilt again.

The boy who used to swing wooden swords with Regulus behind the lumber mills.

The one who braided wildflowers into my hair and laughed until he couldn’t breathe.

The one who called me Starling before Regulus ever did.

He looked at me like time had never passed.

Then, softly, with a voice deeper than I remembered but no less familiar, he said,

“Hello, Nightingale.”

The world collapsed inward. I heard a roar in my ears like rushing wind.

And suddenly, I was eight years old again, chasing laughter through pine trees, and Regulus was behind me, and he was ahead of me—turning back with that same crooked grin that meant mischief was coming.

I stepped forward, heart pounding. “No,” I breathed. “No. You’re—You’re dead.”

The man didn’t flinch. His dark eyes held mine.

“No,” Evan said quietly beside me. “He’s not. Not anymore.”

The masked figures at the table remained silent.

He took one more step forward, into the light. It hit his features cleanly now—sharp cheekbones, a long scar down his jaw, and those same restless, rebel eyes I hadn’t seen since childhood.

Standing in front of me was none other than Sirius Black.

The name tasted like ashes and miracles on my tongue.

Sirius Black, who vanished seven years ago.

Sirius Black, presumed dead by the Capitol—declared lost by District 7. Gone at seventeen. Vanished into the forest, into rebellion, into the gaping maw of Capitol silence.

The Capitol never confirmed his death. District 7 never found his body. But the message was clear: he wasn’t coming back.

Until now.

Until this moment.

He stood like he belonged here, like he had built this place out of ash and ruin and wrath. Like the war hadn’t just spared him—it had forged him into something harder, sharper, a blade honed in exile.

Sirius Black, once the sun around which Regulus orbited, now the storm that had returned from the grave.

The room didn’t react. No one moved. No one spoke. Even Evan had gone still beside me, as if instinctively understanding that this moment, this presence, lived outside the bounds of explanation or disbelief.

I couldn’t look away—because how could I? When I was staring at a boy we had buried without a grave, a myth wrapped in grief, who now stood draped in quiet power, unmasked while everyone else hid their faces?

The boy who left.

The man who came back.

He smiled then—faint, hollow, more warning than welcome—and there was no warmth in it, no joy. Just something sharp and scorched and sovereign.

“Welcome to the part of the world they couldn’t kill,” he said. “Welcome to District Thirteen.”

The silence dragged like a blade against the stone.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My body was locked in place, somewhere between awe and terror, a thousand questions clawing at the inside of my skull with no words to give them shape.

District Thirteen.

That’s what Sirius had said.

But that didn’t make sense. It couldn’t make sense.

There were only twelve.

We were taught that from the time we could walk—twelve districts, twelve offerings, twelve blood-soaked tributes sent to the slaughter every year for the Capitol’s endless appetite. District Thirteen was ashes. A cautionary tale. A smoldering ruin, wiped off the map as punishment for defiance.

That’s what they told us in the reaping halls, in the Victory Tours, in the classrooms filled with Capitol-curated history books. That’s what we believed—because there was nothing left to prove otherwise. No trade. No broadcasts. No names on the board.

But Sirius Black was standing in front of me. Alive and real.

And behind him, seated like ghosts pulled from the bones of rebellion, were three masked figures, still and silent and watching with something like judgment in their posture.

And then, like they were answering some silent signal, the figures reached for their faces, slow and deliberate, their movements synchronized like clockwork, and the air in the room shifted—tightened—like the moment before a lightning strike, the hush before the ground gives way, and the sound of fabric slipping over skin was deafening in its simplicity, louder than any shout or gunfire or anthem I had ever heard.

The first mask came off—

And my stomach lurched like it had been turned inside out.

I knew that face.

Gods, I knew that face.

Wild, dark hair falling in familiar waves, glasses slightly askew like they always had been, the frames crooked from a hundred careless scuffles and never fixed, and that mouth—twisted into a half-smile, lopsided and full of something reckless and boyish, exactly as it had looked in the reaping square before the world tipped sideways and swallowed us whole.

James Potter.

The name thundered through my chest like a war drum, like a ghost, and I stumbled back a step, my breath catching in my throat like a snare, because this wasn’t possible, this wasn’t fair—he was supposed to be gone, chosen, reaped the same year I was, one name called and two hearts breaking.

He never entered the arena.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

And yet—he was here.

Real. Whole in a way I hadn’t dared to imagine.

James met my gaze with a slow nod, quiet and steady, something unspoken in his eyes, like he’d already mourned the shock I was feeling, like he had waited for this moment, expected it, and would not break the silence first, not until I was ready.

My eyes snapped to the second mask just as it dropped away, and the air in my lungs turned to ice.

I knew that face too—but not from life, from memory.

From anthem footage looped through the nights we didn’t sleep.

Peter Pettigrew.

District 5. Tribute of my Games. Dead on Day Four. Or so they said.

But he wasn’t dead.

He was here.

Breathing. Blinking. Solid and warm beneath the blue-white lights of a place that should not exist.

His expression was harder to read, smile small and almost apologetic, eyes dipping down after only a second like he couldn’t bear to see what was in mine, like he already knew what I must be thinking, the horror and confusion tangling together in my throat with nowhere to go.

I couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

Couldn’t understand.

They weren’t just alive—they were together.

And then the last man moved.

The final mask slipped free of his face, falling to the table without sound, and for a moment he didn’t look at me, didn’t move, just stared down at the map between them, fingers braced on the table’s edge like he needed the anchor, like the ground beneath him had never stopped shifting, and in the silence I studied him—

He was tall, taller than the others, built like someone who had carried things too heavy for too long, his body forged not in training centers or Capitol symposia but in fire and frost, his arms and throat a roadmap of scars, jagged and pale like lightning struck beneath his skin.

His face was just as marked—thin silver lines crossing one cheek, a burn trailing down the edge of his neck like someone had tried to erase him and failed, brown hair tousled like he’d fought sleep and lost, and in his stillness there was a weight that made my bones ache.

And when his eyes finally lifted to meet mine—soft eyes, kind and tired—I felt something inside me quiet.

I didn’t know who he was. But something about him felt… familiar. Like the smell of earth after rain. Like the sound of home when you’re far away.

“Evan,” I gasped, turning sharply to him. “What is this? What the hell is going on? Why are they—? James? Peter? How?”

“They’ll explain,” Evan said gently, hand tightening around mine. “I know it doesn’t make sense right now. I know you’re scared. But you’re safe. Just… listen.”

But I was still shaking, still staring at the people who weren’t supposed to be here, weren’t supposed to be alive, weren’t supposed to know my name anymore.n

And just beyond them, standing like a shadow turned man, Sirius Black watched me in silence, his presence anchoring the moment like a gravity too heavy to shake, his eyes fixed on me not with judgment, but with the unbearable clarity of someone who had known me in another life—one that had been shattered and stitched together in too many mismatched places.

My knees nearly buckled under the pressure of it all, but Sirius moved before I could fall, catching me by the shoulders with hands that were rougher than I remembered.

“Sit,” he said, and it wasn’t a request.

I didn’t want to sit. I didn’t want to breathe. My heart was thrashing against my ribs like a bird desperate to escape its cage, frantic and wild and hurting, but Evan’s hand remained in mine, grounding me, and with a quiet nod and the faintest pressure on my back, he guided me to one of the cold metal chairs near the long table.

He sat beside me, close enough that our shoulders nearly touched, close enough that I could feel the heat of him, steady and solid and real, and I knew—without words, without movement—that he was watching, tracking every breath I took, ready to catch me again if the ground tried to disappear.

Sirius didn’t sit.

He remained standing, tall and commanding.

“I assume you already know James Potter,” he said, nodding toward the dark-haired boy now seated across from me.

James gave a small, sheepish wave, as if this were nothing more than a casual reunion at a schoolyard and not the complete unraveling of everything I’d been told to believe.

“And this,” Sirius continued, shifting his attention to the figure beside James, “is Peter Pettigrew. You might recognize him from your Games.”

My stomach turned.

I did. Too well.

Peter didn’t meet my eyes. His shoulders curled inward slightly, and his expression—small, worn, hollow with guilt—spoke louder than anything he could’ve said.

He looked like someone trying not to be seen, and I wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse.

“And finally,” Sirius turned toward the last man at the end of the table, the one who had remained silent through it all, “this is Remus Lupin.”

The name brushed against the edges of my memory like a ghost.

Remus inclined his head, the gesture slow and deliberate, not formal but respectful, as though he had been waiting for this moment to arrive and wasn’t sure whether to greet it or mourn it.

There was something different about him—something grave, almost sacred in its stillness. He sat like someone used to silence, used to watching instead of speaking, and though his posture was composed, his body spoke of long battles fought and barely survived.

His eyes were warm, a deep, steady amber gold, but exhaustion hung in them like a second skin, and I had the feeling that if I looked too closely, I’d see every fire he’d walked through reflected there.

He looked at me like he already knew what I’d lost.

Like maybe he’d lost the same.

Sirius took a slow, steadying breath before speaking, his voice low but clear.

“You were a tribute in the 70th Annual Hunger Games—reaped, trained, thrown into that bloodstained arena. But the truth is, you weren’t meant to be there. You were what we call a substitute—a filler. Someone chosen not by chance, but by design.”

A cold shiver ran down my spine. “What… what do you mean by that?” I asked, voice trembling.

Instead of answering right away, Sirius reached across the table and pressed a few buttons on a dark, glassy screen embedded in the center.

The surface came alive, glowing softly as a map flickered into view—one I had never seen before.

It revealed a sprawling, fractured country divided into thirteen sections, each glowing with thick white numbers.

“Thirteen,” I breathed out, disbelief tightening my chest. “That can’t be right. There are only twelve districts.”

He slowly turned back to me, grief and fury etched deeply into his face.

“That’s exactly what they want you to believe. But District Thirteen was never destroyed—it went underground, literally. We’ve been here all along.”

The room seemed to tilt around me. My head felt light, almost disconnected from the rest of my body.

I gripped the edge of the table, desperate to steady myself and find a breath I didn’t think I had.

He continued, his voice deeper now, steadier—like he had recited these words a hundred times before, like they were carved into his bones.

“Eighty-one years ago, the world nearly changed. The districts rose up together, united in a single breath of rebellion against the Capitol. Not just scattered protests, not shadows—real, coordinated revolt. For a while, it worked. We had strategies. Supplies. Hope. We knew their weak points, knew how to hit them where it hurt. And for a brief, shining moment, it seemed like we might actually win.”

He paused, letting the silence thicken before he continued, slower now.

“But power like theirs—it doesn’t go quietly. When they saw that victory was slipping through their fingers, the Capitol responded the only way it knows how. Brutality. Precision. Fire. They didn’t just crush the uprising—they rewrote the aftermath.”

I sat frozen, barely breathing. He wasn’t finished.

“To make sure no one ever forgot what defiance cost, they created the Games. A punishment so cruel it passed for prophecy. They dressed it up in tradition, stitched it into our national anthem, told us it was penance. Twenty-four tributes, year after year, thrown into the arena like lambs to the slaughter. Not to bring peace. Not to restore balance. But to remind every citizen watching that the Capitol holds the leash. That it can always take your children. That it always will.”

My throat burned. I wanted to interrupt, to ask how this could be true—how they could have hidden something this massive for so long—but Sirius’s voice didn’t leave space for questions yet.

He met my eyes then, sharp and unrelenting. “And every year, Barty Crouch Senior steps onto that platform with his golden suit and his hollow smile, parading peace like a trophy. He talks about unity. About sacrifice. About order. But don’t let the costume fool you. The Capitol doesn’t run on peace—it runs on fear, and propaganda, and control so deep it burrows into your soul before you even know it’s there.”

He turned back to the screen and tapped a sequence of buttons. The map zoomed in, flickering with unfamiliar coordinates.

It bled into images—surveillance footage, shaky and dim, of Capitol streets, protests shut down by force, people dragged into vans by faceless Peacekeepers. A child crying behind bars. A crowd forced to cheer.

“These are the things you don’t see in the broadcasts,” Sirius said quietly. “These are the corners of Panem they don’t show you. The districts they starve in silence. The rebel cells they wipe out before they can speak. The lies they’ve built an empire on.”

“Everything you’ve been taught… it’s all part of their narrative,” Sirius said slowly, voice low but fierce, like a warning whispered just before a storm.

“They control what you learn, who you believe your enemies are, even who you think you are. They shape the story to trap you inside it, to keep you small, afraid, obedient.”

The silence that followed wrapped around me like iron chains, tightening until I couldn’t breathe. No words came.

Just one thought kept spinning in the dark corners of my mind like a coin tossed in a well—what have I been living in? What kind of world was this, and what did it mean now that I’d stepped beyond the lies?

Sirius didn’t sit. He stood, still and rigid, like a storm gathering strength just beneath the surface.

His shoulders were squared, his presence commanding the room, bending the air with the weight of what he was about to say.

His eyes flicked briefly toward Evan, sharing some unspoken exchange, before they locked back onto me—sharp and relentless, like the edge of a blade ready to cut through every illusion I held.

“But that—” he began, voice steady and deliberate, “that story you know—the one hammered into every child’s head across the twelve districts? That’s the lie they feed you to keep you silent, to keep you scared. The truth, the real story, it starts fifty-seven years ago. With the Thirteenth annual Hunger Games.”

The room seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with anticipation, as if it too leaned in closer to catch every word.

“That year…” Sirius’s voice deepened, heavy with reverence and fury.

“Something happened that no one saw coming. Something the Capitol never forgave. The two tributes from District Thirteen—the district nobody even dares speak of anymore—they didn’t just play by the rules. They didn’t fight for the audience or for glory. They rebelled.”

A cold ripple ran down my spine, a weight settling deep in my chest, like the world had just cracked beneath me.

“They turned the Arena against itself,” Sirius said, his pace picking up as his words grew urgent and fierce, like a wildfire spreading fast.

“They sabotaged the tunnels, rigged the traps to explode, ignited the supply chambers. They destroyed the very ground beneath the Capitol’s feet. That was the first time in history the Games didn’t finish. The first time the Capitol’s iron grip was broken, even if just for a moment.”

He stopped, breathing hard, eyes blazing with something I couldn’t name.

“That rebellion forced the Capitol to change the rules. They buried District Thirteen underground, erased it from every record, and doubled down on their control. They made sure no one would ever forget—or dare to try again.”

My heart thundered in my chest. I didn’t speak. I couldn’t.

“They died, of course,” Sirius began, his voice no longer sharp but steady, almost too steady, like he’d told this story too many times to let it break him again,

“but not in the explosion, not in that blaze of rebellion that scorched the Capitol’s pride… they were dragged from the wreckage, still breathing, barely, skin burned and bones shattered but alive enough to be made into a warning.”

He exhaled, slow, jaw tight as he stared down at the etched steel table, as if the ghosts lived in the metal.

“The Capitol didn’t let them die on their own terms,” he went on, not looking at me, eyes fixed somewhere far behind the present, “they waited, waited until every last survivor in District Thirteen was tuned in—families who’d already lost everything, neighbors crowded into bunkers, siblings holding hands in silence—and then they aired it, live, private, not for the districts, not for the cameras, but for punishment… they executed them in front of their people, made their loved ones watch it happen in real time, made sure the image was seared into the mind of every rebel still breathing underground.”

I didn’t realize I was shaking until Evan’s hand tightened in mine, grounding me before I drifted too far

“And the rest of Panem?” Sirius continued, and now his voice grew bitter, dark with something older than anger, “They didn’t get the truth. No. To the twelve districts still on the map, it was just another tragic accident, a freak Arena malfunction, a misfire, a system glitch—something clean, something explainable. The Capitol fabricated the bodies, staged a funeral with caskets filled with concrete, handed out empty condolences, and shut the door on the truth like it never happened.”

He finally lifted his head and looked at me. I couldn’t breathe.

“They erased them,” he said, each word now slow and cold and deliberate, “and then they erased the district. Leveled every building, every street, every living soul that hadn’t fled. Thirty thousand people, gone in a single night. A massacre, disguised as a military operation.”

The ringing in my ears was deafening now, a pressure building in my chest that refused to release

“But not all of us died,” Sirius said, and something changed in his voice again—something like iron, like defiance, something that steadied itself even under the weight of the memory.

“One hundred and six made it out. They crawled through the dust and buried themselves deeper, beneath the Capitol’s reach, beneath the lies. They swore they would never be hunted again. And they built. Not just to survive, but to remember. To resist.”

He stepped back from the table, letting the silence stretch just long enough for the weight of it to settle

“That was the birth of this place. District Thirteen didn’t vanish. It transformed. We learned to disappear, to erase ourselves before they could. We became myth on purpose, ghost stories to keep the Capitol from searching. But underneath that, we kept going. We trained. We watched. We waited. We saved who we could. We pulled tributes out of the fire when no one else could, gave them new names, new lives, and asked for nothing in return but the truth.”

And then, softer now, as if the weight of it had been crushing him for years, Sirius said, “Seven years ago, I discovered something I wasn’t meant to—something buried so deep, so carefully hidden, it cost me everything just to look at it.”

There was something in his voice that made the air go still, like the world itself was bracing.

I swallowed hard, throat tight, words sticking like thorns as I forced them out.

“What was it?” My voice cracked, but I kept going, “What was the thing you found, Sirius?”

He didn’t answer right away. He went still, shoulders tense, eyes darkening with something I couldn’t quite name—grief, maybe, or guilt, or some quiet agony he’d taught himself not to flinch from.

“That’s not something I’m ready to share,” he said at last, voice quiet but firm.

“Not yet. Some truths… they’re dangerous. Not just to the people who speak them, but to anyone who hears them before they’re ready.”

My hands curled slightly against the edge of the table. I wanted to push. I wanted to know. But something in his expression—sharp, haunted—told me not to.

Still, frustration twisted in my chest, hot and rising, curling behind my ribs like smoke. “Then what can you tell me?” I asked, and my voice didn’t shake this time.

“Because none of this makes sense. Why am I here? Why me? How the hell was James even reaped? And Peter—Peter was in the Games with me. How is that even possible?”

Sirius’s eyes snapped to mine, all steel and storm, but not at me—at the questions, at the Capitol, at the system we had all been fed like poison since the day we were born.

And then, without a word, he reached across the table and tapped something along the edge. The glass hummed softly under his fingers. A screen above us lit up—cold and sterile—flooding the room in pale light.

A massive chart spread across it, layered with rows of data, so many names it felt like a graveyard written in code. There were photos, districts, identification numbers, fingerprints, family trees, combat strengths, psychological ratings. Entire lives, dissected and quantified.

But all I could see were the names.

And something below the surface—something sickening—began to take shape.

The names scrolled slowly, each one familiar or haunting in its own way:

District 1 Male Tribute: Lucius Malfoy. Female Tribute: Narcissa Black. District 2 Male Tribute: Augustus Rookwood. Female Tribute: Bellatrix Black. District 3 Male Tribute: Mulciber. Female Tribute: Dorcas Meadowes. District 4 Male Tribute: Evan Rosier. Female Tribute: Emmeline Vance. District 5 Male Tribute: Peter Pettigrew. Female Tribute: Andromeda Black. District 6 Male Tribute: Wilkes. Female Tribute: Amelia Bones. District 7 Male Tribute: Regulus Black. Female Tribute: Y/N Y/L/N. District 8 Male Tribute: Rabastan Lestrange. Female Tribute: Hestia Jones. District 9 Male Tribute: Avery. Female Tribute: Marietta Edgecombe. District 10 Male Tribute: Caradoc Dearborn. Female Tribute: Charity Burbage. District 11 Male Tribute: Fabian Prewett. Female Tribute: Gideon Prewett. District 12 Male Tribute: Mundungus Fletcher. Female Tribute: Alice Fortescue.

Sirius’s voice sliced through the silence like a blade drawn slow.

“This is your reality—the true roster of the 70th Hunger Games. Every name logged, every weakness catalogued, every lineage traced down to the bone. Nothing about it was random.”

I blinked, unable to breathe for a moment. The screen wasn’t just a list—it was a map. A woven snarl of names and faces, lives redirected like water down someone else’s path. Fates manipulated by unseen hands.

“These Games,” Sirius went on, and his voice had a bitterness to it now, raw and iron-edged, “they aren’t what you’ve been told. They never were. They’re not about honor, or sacrifice, or even punishment—they’re a farce. A ritual soaked in blood, designed to keep the districts terrified, divided, and obedient.”

I swallowed hard, throat burning, thoughts colliding like birds against glass. “But why me?” I asked, barely able to find my voice. “Why Evan? And James—how was he reaped at all if he’s sitting right here?”

Sirius’s gaze flicked sideways, toward the others gathered at the table, then back to me—steady, heavy. “That’s what I’m here to help you understand.”

He began to pace, slow and purposeful, like a man carrying fire in his chest and fury in his veins.

Every step echoed faintly in the underground room, not loud but cutting, like the tension was making space for something dangerous.

I could feel it in the air—truth pressing in at the edges of the walls, truth with teeth.

“These Games,” he said again, quieter now, voice like gravel and ash, “were never about justice. Or remembrance. Or retribution. That’s just the story they feed the cameras.”

I leaned forward slightly without meaning to, pulse drumming in my ears. Evan hadn’t let go of my hand, but I could feel how tightly he was holding now, like he knew what was coming too. I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t.

“They’re about control,” Sirius continued, stepping closer to the table and bracing his hands against its edge.

“About power. About showing every single person in Panem, every year, who owns them. Who owns their children. Their choices. Their fear. It’s not a punishment—it’s a performance. And the audience isn’t just the Capitol.”

Something turned in my chest—sharp, cold.

He looked up slowly, eyes catching the dim light with a glint that wasn’t quite anger or grief but some alchemy of both.

“This goes back farther than you think. Not just to the Dark Days. Not even to the first Games. This—” his hand gestured toward the screen “—is older. Deeper. It’s a legacy that’s been passed down quietly, like a curse hidden in the folds of history.”

He paused. The silence cracked open between us like ice on a lake. I waited, heart pounding.

And then he looked at me—really looked—and whatever I saw in his eyes made my blood run colder than before. Sorrow, yes. But also something more dangerous. Something too sharp to name.

“This is the legacy,” he said slowly, like every word cost him, “of the ancient and noble House of Black.”

My breath stutters.

“You’ve heard that name before,” Sirius says, quiet but unflinching, “of course you have—Regulus, Narcissa, Bellatrix, Andromeda… me”

He gestures to himself, not with pride but with something sour, like the name is a poison that never quite leaves the tongue.

“We weren’t orphans, we weren’t unlucky children drawn from glass bowls, we were planted.”

He’s pacing again, faster now, like the past is catching up and he’s trying to stay ahead of it, but it’s gaining.

“Years ago, before any of us were even born, the Capitol made a deal—something ancient and rotten sealed behind golden doors. They went to the old families, the ones whose bloodlines ran thicker than laws, the ones who’d ruled long before the Capitol wore a crown. They offered them a bargain: loyalty for power. Silence for survival. The Capitol would keep its grip on Panem and the old houses—those ‘noble’ bloodlines—would keep their legacies, not above ground, not openly, but hidden. Protected and preserved.”

I feel the words slide under my skin like glass, but I can’t pull away from them.

“They scattered us,” Sirius continues, voice harsher now, “one by one into the districts. Babies taken from halls lined with marble and dropped into splintering homes. Cradled by people who didn’t know they were raising bombs. We were watched, trained, conditioned like animals who didn’t know they were in cages, and when we turned eighteen, they would reveal the truth. We’d inherit our birthright. Quiet control over the districts we were buried in. Little monarchs in the dirt. Eyes and ears of the Capitol, dressed in the skin of survivors.”

Then his eyes find mine, and they don’t look away

“That’s what Regulus and I were. Sent into District 7. Raised like you… but never like you.”

Something inside me fractures. A clean, silent crack.

The room tilts slightly, not from movement but from the truth reshaping it. The weight of it collapses something in my chest.

Sirius turns back to the table, and his voice drops lower, tighter, like it hurts to keep going.

“If you look close enough,” he says, tapping a command onto the table, “you can see it even now. In the roster. In the lies they didn’t even bother to cover properly.”

The screen lights up, cold and blue, and this time the names blaze like firebrands.

District 1: Narcissa Black.

District 2: Bellatrix Black.

District 5: Andromeda Black.

District 7: Regulus Black.

Black

The name rings in my head like a bell tolling for the dead, and I suddenly can’t breathe.

How didn’t I see it.

My hands go numb, my mind blanks and races at once, tumbling back through memory, through interviews and Reaping Day broadcasts and all the quiet moments in between. I heard their names. I said their names. I watched them fight. I watched them die.

And I never questioned it.

I never even noticed.

My whole life I’ve been told the Games are chance, fate, punishment. That the odds are never in our favor, that names are drawn without mercy or meaning.

But this—this was a script. A performance. A blood-soaked play with predetermined actors, and I was too blind to see the stage under my feet.

“They wanted at least one Black to make it to the end,” Sirius says, and he isn’t soft about it, “Regulus was their golden boy. Their victor. Their symbol. He was the one they bet on, trained in secret, prepared for glory. The rest—”

He glances at the screen, at the other names still burning in silence.

“They were sacrifices. Martyrs. Their deaths written like poetry. Narcissa’s fall. Bellatrix’s descent into madness. Andromeda’s last stand. All of it designed for maximum impact. For maximum control.”

My heart is pounding so loudly it feels like it might shatter my ribs.

“And when the Games ended,” Sirius goes on, bitter now, “they didn’t kill the victors. No. They took them. Kept them. Broke them down into tools. Turned them into weapons or ghosts, whatever suited the Capitol best that year. Regulus wasn’t free when he walked out of that arena. He was a puppet with gold chains instead of strings.”

I feel sick. Truly, violently sick. Like the floor’s rotted beneath me and I’m falling into a lie I’ve been living in since I was born.

I remember the way Regulus looked on the screen—cold, unflinching, his eyes like frost over steel. I thought it was trauma. I thought it was loss.

But what if it was something else.

What if he always knew.

I can’t breathe. I want to scream. I want to ask Sirius why no one told me, why he didn’t tell me, why Regulus never told me. But I know the answer. Because I wasn’t supposed to know. And now the truth is sitting in front of me, glowing and undeniable.

It was always there.

Right in front of me.

“Regulus was meant to win from the start,” Sirius says, voice low but certain, “chosen long before the cannons ever sounded. That’s how he survived. That’s how he became the youngest victor in history. Not just because he was strong or clever. Because he was selected”

I hear the words leave my mouth before I even want them to, a question burning past my fear: “Then why did he volunteer?”

Sirius looks at me like I’ve already spoken the answer aloud, like it’s been echoing between us the whole time, waiting to be named.

“Because you were meant to die.”

The words hit me and I flinch, cold and sharp, like a sudden strike

“He knew it,” Sirius continues, voice dropping softer, almost like a confession.

“The Capitol never intended for you to survive. You were a substitute, a symbol, nothing more than a placeholder. And Regulus…” His voice breaks, a flicker of something unspoken, “Regulus did the only thing he could. He gave himself up. He took your place because he knew if you had any chance at life, it would come through him.”

The air in the room feels thick, as if the walls are closing in, squeezing breath from my lungs.

“He lived beside you your whole life,” Sirius says, eyes sharp but haunted. “In your shadow. Guarding you. Maybe even loving you. And when the Capitol tried to take you, he stepped in.”

My hands tremble as I shake my head, trying to make sense of the chaos inside me, “But the Games… they’re supposed to be chaos. Survival of the fittest. Not… not some twisted script written by others.”

“They’re not what you think,” Sirius says, tapping the table again, and the screen shifts, flooding the room with icy light.

“This is the 70th Hunger Games,” Sirius says. “But it’s not a reaping. It’s a ledger. A ledger of lives, fingerprints, ancestry, full dossiers. Every tribute catalogued before they were ever ‘chosen’ because the Capitol already knew who would win.”

My hands won’t stop shaking, and my voice escapes as a breathless whisper, “So what does that make me.”

Sirius steps forward, the fire in his eyes gone but replaced with something heavier, something colder.

“You,” he says, slow, weighty, “are what they never expected.”

Sirius falls silent, and the room seems to hold its breath with him, heavy and waiting. Before I can even start unraveling the hundred questions clawing at my throat, another voice cuts through the quiet—low, steady, calm after the storm Sirius left behind.

“I think it’s time we go deeper,” Remus says, standing, his presence quieter than Sirius’s but somehow more solid, like stone beneath fresh snow.

He steps into the light, and suddenly I feel even more like I’m spinning out, caught in a tide I can’t control.

“The House of Black was only one of the ancient families that made the pact,” he begins, his tone clinical but not cold.

“There were others—the Houses of Malfoy, Lestrange, Travers. Each placed strategically, each offering heirs, influence, silence in exchange for survival and control.”

His gaze drifts toward the glowing tribute chart still hanging in the air above us, names and faces like ghosts of a game rigged long ago.

“These Games were never meant to be about strength,” he says, “they’re carefully curated displays of power, a performance staged for the Capitol’s eyes. And House Black? They were the Capitol’s greatest weapon. Regal, brutal, beautiful—crafted to be immortalized in Capitol history, whether they died or won.”

It feels like a myth unraveling right before me—except it’s not myth. It’s my life.

“Regulus wasn’t just playing a part,” Remus says gently, “he was born into it.”

I swallow hard, voice brittle. “And me? What part was I supposed to play?”

Remus’s expression softens, almost tender now, like he’s holding something fragile.

“I don’t think they ever expected you to play any part at all.” He pauses, letting the weight settle. “But I did.”

He moves toward a nearby desk, picks something up—small, folded, worn around the edges. He hands it to me.

The moment my fingers brush it, I know exactly what it is—the first sponsor note I received back when the Games began falling apart, when Dorcas was still alive, when hope was a fragile illusion I clung to desperately.

I unfold it slowly.

The initials stare back at me, small, neat handwriting scrawled across the paper.

—R.J.L.

My throat tightens, voice cracking with disbelief. “That was you?”

Remus nods slowly, his eyes steady and unwavering. “It was me. I couldn’t do more—not without risking the whole network, risking lives. But I needed you to know someone was watching. Someone who still believed in you, even when the Capitol tried to erase you.”

My voice barely rises above a whisper, trembling with disbelief and something raw beneath it. “So you were watching me all this time?”

He leans in a little, his tone soft but fierce. “I was protecting you. The Capitol wanted you invisible, silent—just another shadow. But you kept singing, even when they tried to drown you out.”

There’s a tightness in my chest, a sudden sharp ache like betrayal and wonder tangled together.

Remus doesn’t hesitate. “The revolution needs a voice again. Whether you believe it or not, whether you feel worthy or not… you’ve already become one.”

I blink, confusion and something fragile hope flickering inside me. “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

He glances toward James, who gives a small nod and presses something on the control panel.

The screen shifts, the glowing tribute grid fading away, replaced by dozens of video feeds, news clips, shaky recordings from the districts and the Capitol alike.

I watch—people standing in the streets, voices rising, candles held high.

I hear them singing.

It takes me a moment to realize the melody.

My song.

“Only Blood Remains.”

I choke on my breath, overwhelmed.

A little girl in District 6 sings it softly as she lights a candle.

A group of workers in District 3 hum it together, tears streaming down their faces.

Even in District 2, hardened laborers murmur the tune like a mournful prayer.

Capitol citizens whisper it behind trembling hands, terrified of being caught—but they sing it anyway.

They sing me.

Dorcas’s death, my voice, our grief—it spread like wildfire, and I hadn’t even known.

Remus steps close beside me, his voice low, certain.

“That’s why you’re here. Why you survived. Why Regulus saved you. Why Sirius pulled you back from the edge. Not because of who your family is, or what name you carry. Because of who you are.”

I shake my head, breath shaky. “But I’m not special. I’m not from a house. I’m not strong—”

James steps forward, his voice low but resolute. “You’re not a weapon like the Capitol wanted Regulus to be. You’re something they don’t know how to control.”

I can barely find the air to breathe. My mind spins, drowning in the weight of it all. Outside these cold walls, people are singing my song—my voice echoing through streets and alleyways, sparking flames I never saw kindled.

Inside this room, I’m being told that I am the beginning of something new. Or maybe something far older, something ancient and fierce, reborn from ashes.

Remus’s hand settles gently on my shoulder, grounding me. “The rebellion has waited. District 13 is ready. Now, it needs a face.”

And their eyes—they are on me.

James presses another button on the table, and the screen overhead flickers. At first, it’s static—a dull roar in my ears. Then the images burn through the haze.

Screaming. Not one voice, but hundreds—no, thousands. A child’s wail pierces the chaos. Smoke curls against the sky. Peacekeepers drag bodies through dust-choked streets. A man burns, clawing at his own skin, screaming for help no one gives. A Capitol uniformed figure laughs—a cruel sound.

Another video: A girl from District 4, face bruised and bloodied, sobbing in the public square. Behind her, the words “Only Blood Remains” are carved into the wall—no, not carved—painted in dripping red.

Another: A crowd in District 10 chanting my name. Chanting. My name.

I stare, throat dry, body frozen as if my feet have sunk into the floor. “What… what is this?”

Remus’s voice is calm but sharp as a blade. “This is what you ignited. After Dorcas died—after she was slaughtered like she was nothing—you didn’t cower. You stood and sang that song like it was a battle cry. You burned the arena, and they all watched. The world watched. For the first time in years, they saw something they were never meant to see.”

I shake my head, disbelief crashing over me like cold waves. “But that wasn’t the plan, was it?”

Remus’s nod is slow and solemn.

“No. The Capitol always makes sure the favorite and victor come from the allied houses. Your rise shattered their order. The turning point was Dorcas’s death, and your song—a raw, blazing rage. You burned the arena, and the world could not look away. The Capitol couldn’t stop what you started.”

“That song,” he says, voice softening, “was a rebellion. A reckoning. And you—without even knowing it—became the face of something they were terrified to name.”

He pauses, letting the weight settle between us. “You became hope.”

My stomach twists into knots, a cold fire burning beneath my ribs. I want to scream, to run, to vanish from this room and everything in it.

“I’m not hope,” I choke out, voice barely more than a strangled whisper. “I’m not anything. I’m not strong or brave or from some powerful family. Why me? Why would it be me?”

James doesn’t answer with words. Instead, his fingers flick through the controls. Dozens of holographic windows burst into the air around us, flickering projections of District 6, District 9, even the Capitol. Faces. Streets. Small gatherings.

People humming. People singing. People crying.

All of them.

Singing my song.

Remus’s voice cuts through the noise, quiet but steady. “Because they already chose you. Not the Capitol. Not us. Them. The people. And now… it’s too late for you to go back.”

My hands tremble, the weight of it crashing over me like a tidal wave. “But Regulus—”

I spin toward Sirius, breath caught in my throat like the air has been ripped from my lungs.

“Where is he? Why didn’t you take him? Why is he not here? You saved me, and Evan, but you just left him there to die?!” My voice breaks, tears burning as I scream.

“He’s your brother! How could you leave him?!”

Sirius’s face fractures—not with guilt, but something darker. A shadow I didn’t expect.

He snatches the remote from James, slamming it down on the table with a hard snap. “He’s not who you think he is.”

“What the hell does that mean?” My voice is raw, furious, desperate.

Sirius doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he presses a button, and the screen flickers.

There he is.

Regulus.

Tall and commanding.

Standing beside President Barty Crouch Sr., wrapped in sleek, dark Capitol armor that gleams under the lights.

He smiles, waves, and claps.

There’s footage of him seated beside the president, draped in silver and gold. Another clip shows him giving an interview, his voice smooth and polished—praising the Games, praising the Capitol.

He is not the boy who carved stars out of wood for me and whispered “Shadow” like it was a secret promise.

No.

This version of Regulus is someone else entirely.

Sirius’s voice is gravelly, low. “He’s been at the Capitol since the end of the Games. You’ve been asleep for eleven days. In those eleven days, he has sat beside the president. Smiled. Spoken. Became their symbol.”

My heart pounds so hard it feels like it will burst. “But—why? Why would he do that? Why would Regulus—”

Sirius’s eyes burn with something fierce. “Because it wasn’t Regulus anymore. Not the boy you knew. Not the brother I loved.”

I close my eyes, swallowing back the rising panic and disbelief. “Then who is he?”

Sirius’s jaw tightens. “The Capitol made him into what he is now. They stripped away everything real—every scrap of who he was—and forged something new. Something they could control.”

The room feels colder now, the weight of the truth pressing down.

James steps closer, voice gentle but unyielding. “He’s part of their machinery now. A weapon wrapped in silk and gold.”

Remus adds, “But that doesn’t mean he’s lost forever. There’s always a choice. Even for Regulus.”

I can’t breathe.

—but I don’t hear it. It’s all static again. White-hot, blinding.

Because Regulus didn’t come for me.

He didn’t fight for me.

He stood beside them.

And he smiled.

I scream until my throat tears.

“They’re lying!” I shout, thrashing against James’s arms as he pins mine to my sides.

“You’re all lying! He wouldn’t—he wouldn’t stand there like that. That’s not him. That’s not Regulus!”

His grip is strong, but not unkind. “You need to listen to me—please—just listen.”

I try to shove him away, but he holds me tighter. “You need to hear the truth. You need to know what you’ve done.”

“What I’ve done? What I’ve done! I didn’t do anything—I survived, I watched people die, I bled and—”

James cuts me off, voice shaking like thunder through the war room. “You started a rebellion!”

He doesn’t let go.

“You stood there on that stage after Dorcas died. After they killed her and fed the world another lie. And you—” he breathes in hard, “you didn’t give them a moment of silence. You gave them a song. You gave them fire. You looked into every camera they tried to use to break you and you sang a eulogy that became an anthem. You didn’t just survive. You lit a match.”

I can hear my heartbeat like war drums in my ears.

James steps back and points—screens flash across the wall, dozens of them: children in District 11 with mud-streaked faces singing my melody in trembling voices. Women in 5 weeping as they hold makeshift flags scrawled with my lyrics. A boy in 4 tied to a post, defiant even with a peacekeeper’s gun at his head, singing through blood.

“Look,” James says softly, “they’re not just singing a song. They’re singing hope. They’re singing defiance.”

I close my eyes, the weight of their voices, the images, the truth pressing down.

“But what about Regulus?” I whisper. “If he’s with them—if he’s really lost to us—then what am I supposed to do?”

Sirius steps in, voice low but fierce. “You do what you were born to do. You take their hope, and you make it a rebellion they can’t ignore.”

My hands tremble, but something deep inside flickers.

James meets my gaze. “You’re not alone in this. Not anymore.”

“The districts are fighting, Y/N,” James says, voice low and trembling with awe, like he’s barely able to believe what he’s about to say.

“The whole nation is burning—uprisings in every corner—District 7, District 6, District 11. They’re killing, burning, tearing down Peacekeeper posts, chanting your song like it’s scripture. It’s more than a rebellion. It’s a wildfire. And it’s spreading faster than we ever dared hope.”

He taps the table, bringing up another screen—a live feed flickers to life—Peacekeepers beating unarmed civilians in District 9, children sobbing behind shattered windows.

Another screen switches to President Barty Crouch Sr., golden chair, surrounded by guards, laughing like this is some game he’s already won.

And Regulus—standing there beside him, smiling, clapping, radiant and untouchable.

I stumble backward, like I’ve been punched in the gut, my breath caught in my throat.

James’s voice falters, rough with emotion, “We’ve been fighting this war in the shadows for fifty-seven years. We built this place—District 13—hidden underground, brick by bloody brick. We trained soldiers, built aircraft, hid children in basements and tunnels, waited in silence. Because we knew—one chance. One moment to break their hold.”

He turns fully toward me now, eyes burning bright with determination.

“Right now, there are forty-four thousand soldiers locked in this compound, waiting on your word. Missiles loaded on the runway, fighters circling overhead, encrypted codes ready to bring down Capitol communications. But none of it means a damn thing if the people don’t believe they can win. And they believe—because of you.”

I shake my head, voice barely audible, trembling with doubt, “But I’m not— I’m not from a house, not from power, I’m nobody. Why me? Why would they look to me? Why not at Sirius, he is a Black afterall?”

James slams a fist onto the console, the lights flickering as if his anger could shake this whole place apart.

“Exactly. That’s why you matter. You’re not some heir born into luxury or manipulation. You’re not one of their puppets. You’re one of us—you’re everyone who’s been silenced, forgotten, crushed beneath their boots. You’re the girl who sang over the bones of her fallen friend and made the whole damn country listen.”

He steps closer, voice dropping low, urgent, “When we hacked into the Capitol’s broadcasts and showed the truth, it cracked their control—people started to question, started to see. But that was just a spark. The Capitol’s lies run deep, and they cover the truth with blood, fear, and their glittering lies. But you—you didn’t show them facts or figures. You showed them defiance. You showed them love, sacrifice, fury—the rawest parts of what it means to be human.”

His gaze pins me, unyielding. “You gave them something they haven’t seen in seventy goddamn years.”

He leans in, voice dropping to a fierce whisper that cuts through my doubt and fear, “You showed them hope. And hope right now is stronger than any truth, than any weapon.”

The silence pulses. Deep and suffocating. The kind that settles in your bones and makes your skin feel too tight.

And then—softer now, like a breath meant only for me, a whisper heavy enough to crush us both—

“You need to rise. You need to show them that you are alive. That you’re still fighting. That you are with them. That you won’t let the blood of those who came before us be forgotten."

"You need to be the Nightingale.”

The air shifted—thinner, heavier, like it had been replaced with smoke and ghosts.

My lungs stuttered, unable to find rhythm.

My ribs ached like something inside me had cracked, splintered under the weight of it all.

The truth. The lies. The fire. The games.

The betrayal.

My knees buckled—just slightly—but James moved before I could fall, a step forward, his hand twitching like he wanted to catch me, steady me, hold me up.

I lifted my own before he could touch me. Just a breath of distance. A line I wasn’t ready to cross.

“I have to be the Nightingale.”

The words barely came.

I turned, slowly, my eyes catching on the screen still frozen in grainy Capitol gold.

Regulus.

Regulus in silver armor, polished to a mirror. Regulus beside the president, unmoving, unreadable, radiant and cold. Smiling.

That same godforsaken smile—like none of it had touched him. Like he hadn’t bled or broken. Like I hadn’t existed. Like the Games hadn’t stolen anything from him at all.

He looked perfect.

And yet—

My stomach turned.

Because I remembered.

I remembered him muddy and small, carving stars with trembling hands. I remembered the dirt beneath our nails and the lullabies in our lungs.

I remembered the way he used to sit cross-legged beside me, fingers calloused from wood, and eyes closed when I sang, like the sound was the only thing that made the world feel right.

I remembered the boy who used to whisper “Star” like it was a promise. Like it was safe. Like I was his.

But this—this man in silver and gold, standing beside power like it belonged to him—

I didn’t know him.

And worse—

I didn’t know if he remembered me at all.

Now, he stood beside the devil himself, draped in Capitol silk, smiling beneath blinding lights, the snake pin gleaming on his lapel like a curse carved into flesh.

My legs wobbled, and I staggered back a step, my heart pounding thunder, my mind spiraling into a storm of disbelief and rage.

Everything they said—everything—they wanted me to believe it.

That I was the spark. The symbol. The reason forty-four thousand soldiers waited underground, armed and ready at my command.

The reason children sang my songs in the streets with cracked voices and bruised throats. The reason rebellion was breathing fire into every district.

I pressed a palm flat against the table, hunting for something steady, something real. I stared down at my own wild, wet reflection staring back at me—lost, fierce, uncertain.

“I have to be the Nightingale.” I repeated.

The words slipped out—soft, broken, almost shattered.

But then—something inside me shifted. Like a door unlocking somewhere deep in my chest.

I turned, catching the flicker of screens all around—children crying, Peacekeepers stomping through fire, bodies sprawled in the streets.

But also voices rising—people singing, fighting, believing. And all of them chanting the song I wrote. The song I screamed when Dorcas died. The song the Capitol tried and failed to silence.

I looked forward.

Sirius now stood by the door, hand outstretched.

I didn’t hesitate.

I placed my fingers in his and followed without hesitation.

The corridor was hushed—only the steady rhythm of our boots against cold concrete echoed through the underground tunnels.

We moved through the earth’s hollow bones, walls carved from stone and steel, past rows of faces that turned to watch us pass—soldiers standing at attention, children wide-eyed and whispering, rebels steady and proud, medics who paused with hopeful glances.

They all knew.

They didn’t see me as the tribute who’d survived the arena. Not as the girl who once sang through blood and fire.

They saw the Nightingale.

With every step, my legs grew steadier, the tremors fading into the solid weight of purpose.

When we finally reached the great steel doors, cold and massive, looming like a gate between two worlds, Sirius squeezed my hand once—brief, grounding—then let go.

I stepped forward.

The light struck me first—a pale silver blade cutting through low-hanging clouds draped over the mountains like a shroud.

Below, District 13 spread out like a living, breathing heart—an entire city pulsing with quiet strength.

Soldiers stood in perfect rows, aircraft gleaming like the poised wings of giant birds, waiting for release.

Above all of it, looming over the platform where I now stood, was the WRATH symbol—painted in raw, unapologetic red:

The sky churned, thick with wind and smoke. But beneath it all, 44,000 faces lifted toward me—hope, defiance, fear, and faith flickering in their eyes.

Sirius stepped forward to the microphone, his voice cutting through the silence like a clarion call, ringing clear and true across the gathering.

“She’s here.”

The hush deepened. A stillness that felt like the whole world was holding its breath.

He turned to me, his nod slow but fierce—a silent command, an unspoken trust.

I took a breath that felt like a lifetime and stepped up to the mic.

“My name is Y/N Y/L/N.”

The words don’t waver. They cut through the silence like sharpened steel, falling heavy and undeniable, settling in every heart and bone beneath me.

“And I will lead this nation with all that I have.”

I step forward, closer to the edge of the platform, closer to the edge of everything we’ve lost.

I am not a whisper anymore. I am the storm they tried to cage and bottle and bury beneath their lies.

“I am the Nightingale.”

I let the name hang in the air, weighty and full of meaning—finally claiming it as my own, a battle cry, a promise.

“And I will carry your voices.”

I close my eyes for a moment and see them all—

Their grief, raw and jagged like broken glass;

Their fury burning hotter than any fire the Capitol could throw;

Their love, fierce and stubborn, threading through every heartbeat and shattered dream.

“I will carry the memories of those they tried to erase—the faces of friends, of family, of strangers who never had a chance to speak. I see you all. I carry you with me.”

The names rise behind my eyelids like a litany—whispers turned into thunder.

“I will sing for the silenced,” my voice softens, a sacred vow, trembling but true. “I will scream for the broken.”

“And if I must bleed—if my blood is the ink that writes our story, the ink that refuses to fade—then I will bleed, I will bleed for this nation.”

The silence that follows is almost holy—breath held, time stretched thin.

“I will be your symbol of hope.”

The air around me tastes like gunpowder and ghosts, sharp and thick and burning in my lungs, but I breathe it in anyway. I fill myself with it.

“We will not rest,” my voice drops low but fierce, unshakable as the earth beneath us.

“Not until this shattered nation rises again from the ashes, whole and unbroken.

Not until justice is served, and the Capitol’s reign is nothing but a memory drowned in the screams of the forgotten.

Not until the walls they built with blood and lies come crashing down.”

I let the silence stretch, heavy and slow, so every soul below feels the weight—feels the truth.

“We fight,” I say, voice breaking through the quiet like a blade through darkness,

“because we remember.”

My gaze shifts upward, locking onto the massive screen that looms like a specter—images flicker like cruel memories burned into my mind: children beaten and crying in dirt and dust; families torn apart by fists and fire; the monstrous laughter of a President who calls himself a king.

And beside him—Regulus.

His face cold, carved from ice and shadow, eyes harder than I ever dared imagine. The boy who once whispered lullabies in my ear, who carved stars from wood—now a ghost I don’t recognize, standing as the Capitol’s brightest lie.

My chest tightens. The fire inside me ignites—burning hotter, sharper, louder.

I swallow the ache in my throat. I lift my chin.

“We will fight,” I say again, louder now. “We will rise. We will burn—until only blood remains.”

“My voice is no longer just mine. It belongs to all of us. To the fallen. To the forgotten. To the ones still standing.”

I look back to the stars, and I speak the last line not as a threat—but as a promise.

“Let the stars bear witness—this is the beginning of their end!”

Then the sky shudders.

The screen above me flickers to life, trembling with static like it’s gasping for air.

And then, one by one, the letters ignite—searing and slow, each one a heartbeat louder than the last:

The word pulses like a living thing, carved in blood and iron, echoing across the walls of the Capitol and into the hearts of everyone watching.

A silence follows, heavier than before—until the screen flashes again, burning with truth that can never be taken back.

The crowd roars.

It is not applause.

It is not celebration.

It is the sound of a nation waking up.

It is rage. It is grief. It is the thunder of the dead marching beside us.

It is the battle cry of the living.

They tried to erase us.

They failed.

They tried to silence us.

They made us louder.

They tried to break us.

They only sharpened our edges.

Above it all, the word still blazes, brighter than fire, older than fear.

WRATH:

We Remember All That Happened.

a/n: i bet none of you expected that huh? shit is about to go down so fast :(( the games were the fluff of this series. also any predictions or theories?

taglist: @fadingcollectivenightmare @spidermansfangirl @foulwaterss @slaybestieslay946 @aelinwya @yvessentials @sickly-afraid @urfunnyvalentin3 @hufflebubble53 @sterngvcker @rainfell-m @ell0ra-br3kk3r @revesephemeres @winterbearwonderland @revesephemeres @ell0ra-br3kk3r @th3b4tm4n @nyaaka @rinnjinx @beau-min @sunflowerscloudydays @unstable-cucumber

#regulus black #regulus black x reader #regulus black angst #regulust black fluff #regulus black x reader angst #regulus black x you #regulus black x reader fluff #hunger games au #marauders era #marauders x reader #marauders fluff #marauders angst #marauders x reader angst #marauders x reader fluff #regulus arcturus black #colouredbyd

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harrington-stevie · 3 months ago

Text

trust you | anakin skywalker: episode XII

Summary: There's too much going on and Obi-Wan just made himself the leader of a mission.

Warnings: None!

Word count: 3.7k

Read on Wattpad

⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Anakin:

My mind has been all over the place, as always. And as soon as I finished my encounter with Yoda, I made sure to go through my own thoughts and figure out how I'm going to do this. It's probably the hardest decision I'm ever going to make in a long time, but it has to be done. The older Master told me the Temple is in danger, that he sensed something bad was coming. And I could tell I might know why.

I'm not entirely sure, but it could either be the Empire or Grievous and his army again. This time, I don't think I can refuse to get Luke to finally train and learn to become a Jedi. At some point, he’s going to need it. I can’t shake the nagging feeling that if I don’t do this soon, I’ll regret not taking action.

I meet my boy for lunch and sit with him at the table in the cafeteria. His curious blue eyes stare at me expectantly waiting for me to speak up. My hands tremble under my tunic, and I can feel my heartbeat increasing rather quickly. C-3PO stands next to me, his golden hand resting on top of my shoulder as some kind of resort.

"Luke, you’re growing up. And you’ve got a lot of power inside you. You’ve always been special" He nodded "And I think it might be time for you to learn a few things"

"You mean special like a Jedi?" His eyes sparkle with excitement, and I feel my stomach twisting “Like you?”

"No, Luke… not like me. You’re not going to be a Jedi, not like the others"

"But I want to be like you, dad. You fight with lightsabers, and you fly ships!" There’s a shiver creeping up my neck at the way he frowns at me.

"You will train with the younglings, Luke. You’ll learn their ways, the Jedi ways, but you won’t fight in wars. I promise you, I won’t let you be part of that" My throat tightens at the thought of it.

But if he doesn't learn how to fight, he's bound to be an easier target out there.

And he smiles at me, throwing himself at me with his small arms wrapping me in a tight hug.

"I don’t want to fight. I just want to be strong. Like you!" His muffled voice rings in my ear and I grip him harder.

If only he knew I'm the farthest of being a good Jedi. It makes me feel nauseous. It makes me wonder how he actually sees me as a Jedi Master, how he looks up at me and the way he thinks I'm a role model. I always need to prove to him that, albeit when I'm not around I'm not exactly the best example of a good one.

“Will you watch me?”

“Always, Luke. I’ll always be watching”

I close my eyes as I hold him closer. I feel a deep tightness in my chest, knowing that he’s going to take the path I was avoiding to make him go. And I really hope he will never go down the road as I did.

He pulls back, looking at me with glinting eyes “Can I still fly ships?”

I ruffle his hair and laugh at his question “Maybe when you’re older. You’re going to be a great pilot someday, Luke. I just know it”

I look up and see (Y/N) gazing at us, a timid smile on her face. Instinctively, I give her a slight nod. My senses sharpen as I feel another presence burning into my skin. I glance around the room and find Cal giving me what looks like a glare. He leans back in his seat, resting his chin on his hand, shifting his eyes between me and her.

He's definitely jealous. No one will ever tell me otherwise.

Luke breaks free from my grip and runs towards her, with the droid following closely behind him. He wraps his arms around her in a hug, and I can see her laughing at whatever he's saying. I don’t need to strain my ears to know what their conversation is about. I watch their interaction with a sense of comfort this time, reassured that she can't hurt him and that he loves her. It’s definitely a change for me.

My eyes trail over the ginger head again, his friends over the table keep chatting like he's not even there, but he doesn't seem to care. I narrow my eyes at him and sigh, but I don't bother giving him my time, so I just lift from the chair and walk out the cafeteria.

Obi-Wan thought it really was a good idea to just interfere on my missions to do the trades with Grievous. He was standing in the corner of the office, talking to the other colleagues like he was their leader. I huffed at the thought of having to share the assignments with him again, when I was pretty much settled doing them all by myself. I know I wouldn’t have much talk in that conversation, because either way he’s going to make me go along with him anyway. So much for wishing I would never meet him again.

My issue right now wasn’t my former Master, albeit I know he’s probably not going anywhere after spending a long ass time being away.

“I know you don’t trust this trade, Anakin, but this isn’t a battle we can fight alone” He says as he paces around the office table, his arms folded behind his back.

I exhale at the thought of having other people in this mission. It was a relief to be alone, until Dameron showed up unannounced.

“And your answer is calling the outsiders? I’ve dealt with them on missions before, especially with Poe. And let me tell you, that guy might be the best pilot in the galaxy, but he doesn’t take anyone seriously”

Great, more people getting in danger. Obi-Wan threw me a warning glance and I widened my eyes.

"I can hear that, young Skywalker. We are going to make sure no one is in danger this time. We are assembling as many people as we can” Obi-Wan just lifts his fingers, like he’s about to point out their best qualities “They have experience in dealing with Imperial business. Finn has seen both sides of the war, while Cassian and Jyn are-”

“Smugglers, or whatever that meant before they became allies” I cut him off.

My hands were sweating and my knuckles hurt from how much I was tightening them into fists the entire fucking time. My forehead must be cramping at the way I was furrowing my brows, and I must look like I was beyond pissed. Because I was. He can't just come back like he wasn't around for five fucking years, and parade like he's the goddamn king of the Temple. He left everyone else, too. It wasn't just me.

“They’ve all fought against the impossible, just like you have. And whether you like it or not, you’re going to need them” He squinted his eyes and kept his mouth on a thin line. Like he didn’t want me to argue over this idea with him.

"You're fucking kidding if you think this plan is remotely good" I speak my mind, my throat dry.

He started to walk towards me "I'm not saying it's the best plan, young boy. It's a good choice, given they will be vulnerable as it's not going to be in his ship"

I narrowed my eyes on him, looking as he took closer steps towards me “The last time we made a deal with the enemy, it nearly destroyed the Republic. If you think I’m just going to sit back and trust Grievous to play fair-”

Kenobi cut me off again and I rolled my eyes at his attitude “I’m not asking you to trust him. I’m asking you to trust me”

“Quite hard for me to trust someone who turned on his back and left me”

He stood still, I could sense his fingertips twitching at my response. I could hear his thoughts clear as day, the closer he was, the more I could hear them. He wanted to apologize again, he wanted to say he was truly sorry and that it was the best option for him back then. But I waved him off before he could even say anything.

"We will be discussing a plan on the following days, Anakin" He gave me a curt nod, his eyes crinkling from the small smile he was giving me "And I'll have young Kestis join us as well"

I let out a loud snort, a laugh coming out of my mouth "Yeah, good luck with that. He doesn't do missions or assignments of any kind when I'm around whenever we have an argument"

I looked around to the other people in front of me, watching how they seemed to purposely put their faith in him and I grumbled under my breath. I think back to my son again. I go through the worst scenario in my head and think about what could possibly happen if they attacked the Temple. (Y/N) doesn't know how to use a blaster gun, Luke is too young to defend himself. I rummage and purse my lips. I don't want any of this, but if we're in danger, we might as well just use our advantage in our favor.

"Bring them to the office when you get in touch with them, please. We all will need to carefully go through this plan to make sure it works" I look at him again, and this time he gives me a reassuring glance.

It makes me feel nauseous. The interaction, the staring, the way he still treats me like I'm still his apprentice. He looks at me like I'm still the same boy I was when we first met. I've been trying to keep Luke away from him, but I know that eventually, Kenobi is going to want to meet him. He’ll want to train him just like he did with me.

The blue hologram shows the map of Utapau, with the massive cities and tunnels. I stand at the head of the table with arms crossed, all while Dameron has his feet kicked up on the table, leaning against his seat. He chews on something nonchalantly, whereas Finn sits straight on his seat.

“The deal with Grievous is going to happen exactly here- Sinkhole Ten. We’re doing the “trade”, but instead of leaving just then, we’ll make him think it’s a fair play. We’ll position for the other objective that is taking out his squad before he even realizes what will happen”

“Cool, cool. One small question” He raises his hand “Why does this place look like someone dropped a planet into a black hole?”

I deadpan at him, already regretting the idea of really doing a fake trade at this point “Because that’s Utapau”

He clicks his tongue and nods “Ah. Right. Yeah, I totally knew that”

Finn elbows his friend on the ribs, while the pilot keeps grinning like this is some sort of joke “What’s our role in this?”

“You two are flying escort for the trade vessel. It’s carrying Republic diplomats, or well, that’s what Grievous thinks”

The hologram shows a Republic Transport Ship with a group of fighters.

I watch as Dameron squints his eyes at the holo display “And what’s actually inside?”

“Explosives”

“Oh, I like you so much, Skywalker”

I roll my eyes at his comment and zoom in on the formation “Grievous will have a squad in orbit. Your job is to make sure that “diplomatic” ship gets through their barricade without being vaporized. You distract, handle them, and most importantly-”

“Look good doing it?” He cuts me off.

For fuck’s sake. I pinch the bridge of my nose as I sigh.

“I was going to say don’t get shot down, but sure. Obi-Wan and I will be on the surface, keeping Grievous busy. Once the trade turns into a very unfortunate “accident,” we strike before he can leave”

Poe seems to ponder on the idea, rubbing his chin as he does a do over of the plan.

“So, just to be clear, we’re flying into a trap on purpose?” I nod “And you trust that the plan won’t explode in our faces?”

I try not to express the way my mind immediately thinks of saying no, but my flat face does the job itself and he claps his hands together. My first instinct is to believe he’s going to back out and give up on the plan.

“Alright, I’m in. Finn?” He looks at his friend, who shakes his head with a smirk and agrees with him.

We leave the office right when we’re met with (Y/N). She’s fuming, her hands balling into fists as she points a finger at me.

“So, Skywalker. I heard through Cal that you’re thinking of recruiting me for your little deathly plan. Do you mind explaining that?”

I cross my arms and exhale slowly “I have no idea what you’re talking about”

She squints, like she wants to punch me in the face, and I can hear her thoughts before she starts mocking me “Ohhh, I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re lying, he told me everything. You will need someone from tech to keep you guys from being blown as well”

And then she narrows her eyes at me, studying my expression. “I never asked you to join the attack on Grievous”

Poe chimed in “He never actually even mentioned it to us. And believe me, I’m kind of a gossiper so you would’ve heard that from me as well”

I can hear Finn elbowing him so he would shut up.

“Okay, but you thought about it, didn’t you?”

I run my fingers through my hair, rubbing my temples as annoyance starts to prickle in my skin “No. I wouldn’t ask you to do something like that. I would never do that to you”

I look over the two men beside me and motion my head for them to leave us alone.

“I kinda love her” He whispers to his friend before walking away from us and I roll my eyes.

“I get it. You don’t think I can handle it. You think I’m too small. Too young. Too-”

“Oh my God, just shut up. No, (Y/N). I wouldn’t ask you to do something that dangerous” My voice is lower, somewhat protective. And she blinks at me as realization starts to sink in for her. “He told you I wanted to recruit you?”

“He even sounded very sure about it”

I mutter under my breath, laughing in disbelief as I start to feel irritation bubbling inside of me.

“Son of a bitch. I’m going to fucking kill him”

She throws both hands and splay them out into my chest, stopping me from doing whatever she thinks I was about to do. I look at her and take in her demeanor. I try to even my breathing, undoing the fists I was making with both hands. She wouldn’t want that again.

“Hey, please don’t do anything. I’ll talk to him”

“Make sure to give him a fucking black eye, please” She laughs at my request, albeit I’m being serious about it.

“You really wouldn’t want me out there?”

I place my gloved hand over the side of her face, running a thumb against her cheek.

“I want you safe. It was already risky enough to put you in charge to breach into Grievous' system last time”

Her eyes widened and I saw myself doing the same. My eyes trailed over my own hand, almost cradling her face, immediately pulling it back, clearing my throat.

“I wouldn’t ask you to do something that dangerous”

She still looks at me with a shocked expression, and I try to take a step back, put some boundaries between us.

“It almost sounds like you care when you say it like that” She forces herself to scoff, trying to brush it off. But I can see through her already. I could feel it coming before. I had shut that down, but my senses deliberately heightened whenever I’m around her. It’s a fucking disgrace being a Jedi sometimes.

“Maybe I do” Fuck, way to make it worse.

I couldn’t take that back and I noticed how she seemed to feel the tension and something else that shifted between us. I feel my ears burning and I’m pretty sure my face is flushing as well. I can’t believe this is happening. Her lips curl into a sheepish smile and I feel my own damn mouth doing the same. It’s like I can’t control my actions anymore.

“Look, I get it. I’m not a Jedi, I don’t have a fancy lightsaber, and I’m not some hotshot pilot like Poe” She starts, and the way she compliments him kind of bothers me “But I am a damn good engineer. And I know machines better than most people”

I look at her, skeptical at her idea. I just don’t want to have anybody’s blood in my hands anymore.

“I made a battle droid become my slave for a week and no one noticed. I can mess with his tech before he even realizes anything”

I lean forward, inching closer to her “It’s too risky for any of us, you’re not used to it”

She sighs, studying my face “I know you’re afraid something might happen, but I can do this, Skywalker. I know you don’t want to put me in danger, but if I can make a difference, I have to”

I shut my eyes and brutally try to remind myself I don’t have control over her. She’s an adult, she can decide anything for herself. But this… this is completely out of my control.

“Fine. Welcome to the worst idea your dear friend had” I shake my head and exhale sharply.

“And, uh… thanks. For trusting me”

I nod, not wanting to extend the conversation after what happened moments ago. I walk past her, leaving her standing there in the middle of the hallway. I feel a headrush immediately from the interaction, and my fingertips are tingling at the reminder of the conversation. This is so wrong. It’s so utterly wrong. I can still feel her presence, still listening to her thoughts even though I refuse to.

“Stupid Jedi and their stupid faces” She mumbles to herself and I can’t help but crack a slight laugh at it.

As I walk outside the Temple, I sense Cal near a supply crate as he did maintenance checks on his lightsaber. The ginger looked over at me as I passed by near him, shooting daggers when our eyes met and I couldn't help but frown at him. This man is crossing lines lately, and if he can’t behave like a real adult, he shouldn’t even be around for our own sake.

“I assume this has something to do with (Y/N)?” I hear Obi-Wan as he silently walks by my side.

“He’s been sulking ever since our last fight. In fact, he’s been pulling shit to me since the day I threatened her a while ago”

“Ah, jealousy” He admits.

“Yeah. And it’s not my fault she wants to be helpful. She’s been nothing but nice to me, but he refuses to accept that”

“No, but to him, you’re the reason she’s putting effort in this friendship”

I clench my jaw and I know, for a fact, that Cal is pretending to not listen to the conversation. I can see the way his tensed posture gives him away.

“Give him time. He’ll come around” I chuckle dryly in response.

He trails his eyes and scowls at me before hopping off the crate and walking off.

“Yeah. Oh, right. He’s definitely coming around”

“Just try not to kill each other before the mission starts, young boy”

“I can just leave him for Grievous to do the job” I watch as he leaves the garden and goes back inside.

Obi-Wan sighs in disappointment and I just wave him off. I couldn’t fucking care less about him. If he was climbing on my ass before, it was only because he admired me. If he lost his so-called admiration, that’s too bad for him. I don’t need anyone’s approval anymore, not even from my former Master.

“By the way” I roll my eyes as he starts speaking again “I had a lovely conversation with Luke today. He’s quite the curious boy. Very bright”

“What?” My voice almost crackles as I raise it “You talked to him?”

“He saw me talking with 3PO and introduced himself as your son. He said you told him he’s going to become a youngling and even-”

He trails off, hesitant for a moment watching as my shoulders become rigid.

“-he asked if I would train him”

My hands ball into fists and I can’t hold back the sharp huff I let out “What did you tell him?”

“I told him I’d speak with you first”

“Then it won’t be you”

Silence fills the air as he watches me carefully. And I can see something flashing between his eyes, something like pain, or even betrayal.

He meets my gaze “You don’t trust me”

“Would you?”

I know I’m not being exactly the most understanding person ever. But nothing will ever erase the fact that he left me to almost die alone in Mustafar. If it wasn’t for Palpatine, I would’ve been dead. And I won’t ever be grateful for what he did, because I would’ve rather died that day.

He takes a deep breath and nods at my question, like he’s accepting the answer. He knows he’s in a lifelong debt with me.

“He is going to ask again, you know”

I turn on my back to him, taking a few steps back inside the Temple “Then I’ll give him the same answer”

“The Force has a way of guiding those who listen, Anakin. You may try to deny it, but Luke won’t”

The door slides open, shutting behind me leaving Obi-Wan in the garden alone. My knuckles start to hurt from my grip, and I feel dizziness as the stress starts to consume me again.

I’m not sure I can be strong enough to handle all this. To handle his presence again. To keep up with the fact that, even though I want Luke to become one of ours and defend himself, he will end up looking up to Obi-Wan.

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