Chapter Text
"Get out of your head, boss." Davey blinks, surprised by the statement, and he glances at Spot in confusion. Walking beside him, Spot shrugs his shoulders to resettle his backpack straps and fixes Davey with a stern look. "You gotta focus on right now, not get lost in all the what ifs," the older man says firmly. "Only thing that'll do is get ya worked up over things that ain't happened yet so you miss things happenin' now. We need ya here."
Davey takes a steadying breath and shakes his head. "You're right, sorry," he agrees. The silent monotony of the maze lulled him into a daze, leaving his mind free to slip into aimless worries. That musing devolved steadily into a dizzying spiral, and Davey isn't even sure how much time had passed while he was distracted. He can't afford that, not in here. "Sorry. I'm here."
"My eyes keep goin' crossed too," Boots chips in from behind him. "Never thought my eyes could get bored before this place."
Spot huffs a faintly amused, if slightly patronizing, noise. "Then find somethin' to keep 'em busy," he replies. "Just 'cause it don't look like much don't mean there's not still things to notice."
"Like what?" Davey asks curiously. As far as he can tell, there's been nothing to break up the cycle of endless silver walls and archways.
"Each section of path is seven panels long," Spot notes, gesturing to the wall. "Can tell by the seams where the pieces fit together. They line up, but they ain't welded together, which means they might be able to be removed or peeled back with the right tools. And each path ends with a little trim, only 'bout a finger width. My guess is they's a panel that hides doors that could shut off corridors, in case the Gamemakers wanna steer us in certain directions."
"No shit?" Boots asks, bemused, and his steps slow as they reach the end of their section of the hallway so he can look closer. "Huh, look at that."
"Good catch," Davey says, eyes skimming down the hall to confirm that Spot's observations were correct. "You've really been counting the panels in the walls all this time?"
"Figuring out the base pattern makes it easier to know when something breaks it," Spot states. "Like three halls back, the middle two panels on either side had an extra seam down the middle. Pro'lly come apart like a door to let out a trap. And five halls before it, there were two vents in the ceiling instead of just the one."
"A gas trap?" Davey guesses. "Like the Acid-air one?"
"Most likely," Spot agrees.
Boots lets out a low whistle. "Damn, I'm impressed. You seriously notice everything."
"Is that why they call you Spot?" Davey asks, the idle curiosity finally springing free. "Because you can spot everything?"
Boots abruptly laughs, staggering slightly as he throws his head back in booming guffaws. Although Spot's lips don't curve, a faint wrinkling around his eyes hints at a smile. The older Tribute tugs the collar of his shirt aside. A large, pale blotch discolors his collarbone, starkly white against his tanned complexion. "Born with it," Spot explains, dropping his hand. "Even my folks called me Spot more 'an my real name. It just sorta stuck."
Davey huffs and shakes his head. "For some reason, I was expecting something more mysterious than that," he admits. "It kinda seems like a lot of you Victors have weird nicknames. I thought maybe it was some sort of club initiation thing, that everyone got a nickname when they became a Victor."
"Some do," Boots offers. "If they did somethin' real memorable in their Games, sometimes the Capitol betting crowds stick 'em with a name."
"Like the Newsboys of Manhattan," Spot intones with a pointed glance at Davey.
"Hotshot's one of those," Boots continues. "Played such a cocky bastard in his interviews and stuff, he was damn good and knew it. So, he's the Harlem Hotshot. But most of 'em I know got their nicknames from home."
"Racer's been called Racer since he first started training for the Games," Spot says. "Was always a fast kid, always darin' other kids he could beat the trials faster than them. And he wasn't wrong—when he ran the trials to Volunteer for the Games, he cut the record time a'most in half. S'why they let him take the spot even though he was so young."
"What about you, then?" Davey asks, looking over his shoulder at Boots.
Boots chuckles. "I make boots," he answers simply. Davey blinks dumbly, confused. "Back home. That was my job 'fore I got Reaped. Made work boots for the miners."
Davey glances between the two men and shakes his head, laughing under his breath. "And just like that, the magic's gone."