ii. THE QUARANTINE

He's in here. For hours.

It's enough for Aslan to go stir crazy.

He's got enough sense to know that door isn't opening any time soon, but not enough to stop him from shouting himself hoarse. He can't help it; expletives bleed from his lips like volatile poison, fists slam into metal hard enough to bruise, but still he doesn't stop. Can't.

Stubborn as a cockroach, Keppler always said.

Damn straight.

By the time the door bursts open, he's started throwing furniture.

The first white-suit dodges the night table; the second isn't so lucky. They topple backwards, dominoing into the pair behind, and Aslan makes a fucking break for it. He leaps over the fallen one, home free until someone grabs his ankle, and it's chin music all the way down. "Fuck," he groans, but before he can scramble to his feet, something pins him to the floor.

Aslan's been knocked down enough times to recognize the boot digging into his back.

Only this time, there's no escape.

Strong arms drag him upright, hissing and spitting, and it's only then that Aslan recognizes the uniforms. These aren't regular white suits— they're hazmats.

"Anyone wanna tell me what the fuck is going on?"

No answer aside from cold metal cuffs digging into his wrists. Something warm trickles down Aslan's chin. At the urging of his new entourage, Aslan stomps forward, knowing he was well and truly fucked as soon as his name was drawn.

That doesn't mean any of this is normal.

Aslan gets the feeling it isn't; normally, there's a crowd awaiting the newly-reaped tributes, cameras flashing and glitter-brains cheering— he's seen it on TV.

He's not supposed to be treated like a criminal.

(Nevermind that he is, petty and well-intentioned as he may be.)

Not yet, at least. There's plenty of time before the starting gong rings, and by then it's anyone's game.

It's infuriating, but more than that, it's unnerving.

(Admit it— you're afraid.)

No, I'm pissed.

He could be apologizing to Casey, or strategizing with his team, or hell, taking care of Granny, but instead he's here.

(Better you than anyone else, no?)

The PK's lead him down some sort of tunnel; darkness envelops them, and still, Aslan holds bruised chin high, brows knitted in anger. It lights the way as they walk, all stiff teflon and squeaking boots. The second he spots a door, they elbow him through it; another lock clicks and Aslan can't help the spike in his heart rate.

His arm twists; the cuffs spring free, but the second they do, rough hands manhandle the jacket from his shoulders. Shouts of protest spring from Aslan's mouth, but they're ignored. Not a word slips through the faceless hazmat helmets as he's stripped from every piece of clothing on his body right down to the studs in his ears, no matter the elbows, fists, and heels thrown their way.

One suit hands him a bar of soap, a cloth, and snaps, "Clean."

Before he can ask, a shower of tepid water rains down on him and Aslan yelps in surprise. Shivers wrack his naked body, but the hazmats are gone as quickly as they came.

Teeth chattering, Aslan does as he's told.

Brown liquid swirls at his feet as he scrubs himself clean, trickling into a drain he didn't notice before. For some reason, it sends another shiver down his spine. When the water runs clear, it stops; a warm current of air buffets him dry, and a clean set of linen clothes sit in one corner of the room.

Aslan quickly puts them on; anything to block the chill. He'd never missed his trusty leather jacket as much as he does now.

As soon as he's clothed, a section of the wall opens up and another hazmat strides into the room, some sort of scanner in hand. High-pitched beeps emanate from the device; Aslan bats it out of his face. "Hey. Where's my jacket?"

"Hold still," the hazmat orders. Beep-beep-beE—

"Look, I don't know what the fuck your prob—"

"Hold still."

Aslan scowls.

His face isn't used to making such bitter expressions. No, that's Keppler's realm. He much prefers a grin; it feels more natural, be it goofy or cocky or a little bit bloodstained, those few times he's needed to get his hands dirty.

Look, he's not stupid. He's not opposed to it, just… not for his own skin. Never his own.

But Aslan has a feeling he's never been cleaner than he is now, and all he can do is scowl. That beep-beep-beep machine finally shuts off, taking his scowl with it, and the hazmat disappears. "Wait, get back—!"

The panel clicks back into place with a dull thud.

"What the fuck!"

Unlike his room on the train, this one has no clock. No television screen, no bedside alarm, no night table.

Nothing to throw either.

The room is square, blindingly white. No more than thirty paces across— Aslan counted.

In fact, the only thing that Aslan really can do in here is hang from the showerhead, so that's what he does. It's high up enough that a normal person couldn't hope to reach, but Aslan managed to grab hold after a few tries. It's kind of fun to swing back and forth. Better than playing solitaire with himself, though not more satisfying than perfectly shuffling a deck of cards. Now that's something he could do for hours, often to Argo and Elja's groans of annoyance.

…God, he misses them.

Aslan stops swinging. He lets himself fall, landing in a squat that turns to sitting braced against the wall. What he wouldn't give for a cigarette right about now, even one of those cheap electronic ones. Curse Keppler and his infectious habits. It's fucking cold in here still; naturally, no one's bothered to return his jacket, let alone the necklace he considered using as a token.

Of course, his stomach chooses now to remind him that it's empty. Aslan groans.

Did he eat before the Reaping? He can't remember. Never got the chance on the train, thanks to Solaris fucking Fourier, biggest prick of all time right next to his ex-brother.

Keppler, at least, has the gall to say it to his face.

He doesn't pretend to be nice and friendly and helpful; as much as Aslan can't stand Keppler's worldview, at least he's honest about it.

His mistake, trusting someone from the Solar Sector.

His mistake, trusting someone who won the Games.

(Your mistake, trusting anyone.)

Aslan exhales; it comes out as a low growl. His fingers dig into his hair and he tugs. Not too hard; just enough to feel the strands pulling at his scalp. Just enough to feel something.

This room is too white; too clean.

It's enough to unnerve anyone.

Aslan must've drifted off because the sound of plastic scraping against tile startles him awake. What the hell—? Oh, it's food.

About time. He scarfs it down before he can register what it even tastes like, smells like.

Some sort of stew, he thinks on afterthought. Not too bad.

Not too good either; if this is what people in the Capitol rave about, they'd lose their fucking minds over Granny Salvatici's meatballs.

Wonder what she must be thinking now.

No time to wonder— the hazmats are back.

Aslan springs to his feet. "Look, we can talk about this…" One of them holds up a bar of soap and a cloth expectantly. "Okay, no need to come closer, I can take my own damn clothes off." The minute he does, lukewarm water descends once again, and Aslan gasps.

Someone clears away the tray. They give him privacy, time to wash and change again, and unwanted humiliation burns in his cheeks. He wills it to roll like water off his back, to morph into anger, but even when the warm current dries him clean, Aslan still shivers.

The crisp, clean linens only make the hairs at his neck prickle— he's never felt less like himself.

The hazmats run their annoying little scanner up and down his body, jotting records of its signals, but not once does anyone bother explaining anything to Aslan. Not knowing, not having any say in his situation; it prickles like smoke in his lungs.

There's a pause. Aslan doesn't know what he's waiting for, but they all wait.

Someone must get an all-clear signal; in unison, the hazmats flock him. They head towards what Aslan dares hope is the exit— he doesn't know for sure as they walk back through that tunnel, doesn't know until he's shoved into an elevator and the doors open up to some sort of crowd—

Aslan breathes a sigh of relief.

It takes a minute for him to piece things together. Constant chatter, fragrant-smelling perfumes, people — Capitolites, and some that look to be his age or younger — milling about this disjointed space in various sorts of costume. Wide eyes track his movement, his unusual escort. Aslan catches the glare of some burly looking bully-types, and finally he grins.

Who doesn't love a good entrance?

Before he can make friends, an iridescent trio sweeps him away from the hazmats, squawking and bemoaning his bruises, his scars, his tardiness. One reaches for his shirt, and Aslan flinches back. "Aye, I just got clean, buzz off."

"Not clean enough!" With a scoff, she strips him, and once again, Aslan's skin is scrubbed raw. He grits his teeth, closes his eyes.

I guess this is what it feels like to be a tribute.

It's not a comforting thought.

(It's better than the white room.)

Light cloth brushes his shoulders, and Aslan cracks his eyes open. His gaggle of Capitolites are beside themselves, showering each other with praise for their hard work of removing his epidermis.

…Though Aslan can't lie, he kind of digs the makeup.

A multi-colored lightning bolt zips down his face, splitting it in two. Residual sparkles throw light across his cheekbones, from within his newly-styled mane; even the lions that curl around his throat gained a new coat of glitter. His stylist appears not long after, presenting a deep V-necked scarlet jumpsuit, complete with flare legs and jagged shoulder pads. A pair of platform boots add a rather unnecessary few inches to Aslan's already-impressive six-foot-seven.

When the stylist hands him a sleek blue electric guitar, his painted lips split in something akin to a giggle. "Please tell me it actually works."

"Only if you can play," the stylist says with a wink.

Aslan waggles a hand; true, he's more of a drummer, but like hell he'd pass this up.

If the PK escort had gotten him stares before, it's nothing compared to the way the other tributes look at him now as he strides towards his chariot. It may not be his favorite jacket, but he'll worry about that later. Now, he mounts the lightning-studded chariot, leaning over the rail to wave coyly at the District Four pair who stare openly.

Next to him, someone clears their throat.

Aslan turns— "Casey!" —and nearly knocks her clean off the platform with the neck of his guitar. "Shit, sorry—!" He reaches a hand out to steady her, but she grabs the rail faster.

Her costume nearly matches his with an inverted color scheme— blue jumpsuit, red accents. The painted nails of her free hand cling to her crimson guitar with a death grip; she has to tilt her head upwards to look at him, sparkling features colored with apprehension. "Where have you been?"

Aslan presses his lips together. "Uhh, good question. Hey, before this thing starts—" he leans down awkwardly so she can hear him over the impending crowd— "I know we got off on the wrong foot, and I just wanted to say sorry 'bout that. Didn't mean to make things feel worse for you, y'know?"

Casey nods, but uncertainty still lingers on her face. Around them, the prep teams flit about, plugging in wires and brushing on more sparkles.

"Hey." He bumps her shoulder with his elbow, flashing a grin. "We're gonna kill this thing, yeah?"

"I'm not worried about this."

"Oh?"

Her lips flicker in a half-smile; she strums the guitar, frowns, tunes a string. "Them, though…" She jerks her chin towards the chariots ahead of them— the Careers.

Aslan follows her stare, past the Fours, Threes… and there's that brute from earlier, still trying to melt Aslan with his glare. Aslan mimes strumming his own guitar, pulling a face; the other boy doesn't even blink. "Tough crowd, huh?" Casey snorts. "Listen— can you play?"

Casey raises a brow. "Can I?"

…

She fucking can.

The anthem starts, the first few chariots roll out, and this look of concentration envelops her face, fingers keeping time on the neck of the guitar.

Their chariot kicks into gear, and Casey's guitar lets out a wail that shakes the stadium seats. The crowd responds like a thunderstrike— Aslan barely manages to eek out the basic notes of the anthem on his instrument, but whatever Casey does is so beyond him he can't help but give her the spotlight.

He bends down again, motioning to his partner. She gets the hint— her fingers turn the anthem into something electric while Aslan lifts her onto his shoulders, braced tight against the motion of the chariot. It's easier to focus on holding her up, and no matter how hard the other tributes glare, no matter how displeased the president looks, it's the most fun Aslan's had in a while.

(He can almost pretend the hours spent in isolation never happened.)

It all comes crashing down when he catches sight of his mentor in the District Five apartments— fucker has the gall to look ecstatic about their performance. Aslan's brain is torn between how dare he and as he should.

"Hey, motherfucker!"

He's never seen the color drain so fast from someone's face, not even when Elja got stabbed by some prick from across town. He doesn't hesitate to get up in Fourier's face, nevermind the exclamations from their entourage. "What the fuck was that about, huh?"

"Aslan, look—"

"What the fuck did you have them do to me?"

"Easy, uh, Aslan…"

"I want my shit back. Now." Aslan lowers his voice. He leans down so they're face to face.

"I don't know if that's poss—"

"It damn well better be." He jabs a finger in Solaris's chest. "I don't know what the fuck kind of game you're playing here, but I don't fucking like it. I thought you were supposed to help me, not lock me in some fucking torture chamber, like what the fuck is wrong with you!?"

Solaris swallows. "I didn't— I am helping you, Aslan, I promise. But it's not… Aslan, I have your decontamination report."

"My… what?"

The Victor jerks his chin towards one wing of the suite. Aslan follows him down the corridor, away from the stares of Casey, the stylists, Miss Fortuna, and into the privacy of a rather small room. Solaris gestures for Aslan to sit at the sole table while he pulls out a tablet. He folds his hands. Aslan peers over at the screen, but the words are too small, too disoriented.

"Do you know," Solaris asks, slowly, "why the deterrent spikes are there?"

Aslan scoffs. "I mean sure, but they've been there longer than Panem's been a goddamn country, I don't think it would still be a prob—"

"It is very much still a problem," Solaris hisses, rubbing at his temples. "God, were there not signs?! Do they not teach you basic fucking radiation safety in the goddamn Nuclear Sector?" Aslan recoils. It's not a dig; the Victor's tone is far too desperate for that. Maybe it's the way the swear words fall so unnaturally from Fourier's mouth, but Aslan can't help the way his skin prickles. "Do you even know how many people you could have contaminated?"

The brewing words of protest die on Aslan's lips. "What do you mean," he says quietly.

"Anyone you may have come in contact with after you got back. Or during— you… you said you went with your friends?"

Aslan nods mutely.

"I don't know how… severe it would be—"

"What—what would happen?" he whispers.

Solaris scrolls through the tablet. "Rashes. Fever. Loss of appetite. Fatigue, vomiting, seizures, and in the long term… well."

Cancer. Death.

Five cherishes both like old friends, at least where Aslan's from.

"They managed to get your external levels down to twice the background level— that's the minimum threshold— but internally… Look, they won't know without an MRI, and they're not about to drop the resources on someone they consider, ah, cannon fodder—"

Aslan flinches.

"—as you so gently put it." But Solaris heaves a heavy sigh; clearly it affects him. "If I'm being brutally honest, though, the Games are a much higher priority right now. You're young; you're strong. In the grand scheme of things, two weeks— give or take a day or two— won't make a difference, and what you really need to worry about is…"

But Aslan can't worry about himself right now.

(For some reason, his mind wanders to that weird little metallic capsule he found out in the Spikes, the one that made his fingers feel funny. He'd left it on the desk in his room at Granny's orphanage for safekeeping.

There'd been hundreds like it.)

A swirling nausea tightens his stomach, and it has nothing to do with getting Reaped. How many back home are damned because of his stupidity? He's supposed to be their leader. He's supposed to take care of them.

Elja. Argo. His gang. The rest of the kids…

(Keppler.)

…Granny.