iii. THE DESPERATE
You can't keep everyone safe, Aslan.
The first time Keppler said that to him, his tone carried a note of fondness within the world-weary despair. Far too much hopelessness for their shared fourteen years of age. His fingers deftly stitched the deep wound under Aslan's eye, ignoring the latter's bright glare. I have to try, because if he hadn't, it would've been Elja under the knife.
The second time, it was a cold, cold sneer.
It's the second one that plagued Aslan's mind last night, keeping him wide-eyed into the early hours of the morning. It runs an endless loop through his brain now as more and more tributes step out of that elevator and onto the gymnasium floor and he realizes nothing will stop twenty-five of them from dying.
(Funny how he's never given it this much thought until he had skin in the game. He already knows what Keppler would say, but he's wrong.
It's like this— he can't just turn off the television. He can't unsee these faces before him.)
It makes his blood boil.
Even more so when the Head Trainer echoes his thoughts, and the Careers start jeering.
"That's gonna be you too," Aslan says casually; too loudly, judging by the fact that Casey's already scurried off to a training station. "You can't all win. Not to burst your bubble or anything," he tacks on sarcastically.
Eight heads turn his way, and Aslan can already hear Elja screaming at him to shut his big fucking mouth.
That mean-looking brute from Two looks about ready to start spewing threats, but one of the girls, a '4' embroidered on her shirt, cuts him off. "Well, you're no fun," she pouts.
"I'm a lot of fun, actually. I think we just have different definitions."
She snorts as Aslan flicks a cheeky salute and stalks away. He can hear the pack's commotion from behind, but he doesn't bother to turn around and listen. He's not in the business of caring what those fucks have to say. They signed their own death warrants in choosing this, and he won't take kindly to being hunted for sport.
He's sure he's not the only one.
Cannon fodder they may be, but eighteen versus eight should be a no-brainer.
By the looks of it, though, Aslan may be the only one thinking along those lines. The rest of the outlying tributes cower around the survival stations, giving the Careers full reign with the weapons. Casey is no different. He can't blame her; she's twelve and tiny, and she's not alone in that. Aslan may be the biggest one here, but that's part of the problem— the minute he gets close to one of the occupied stations, its tributes skitter away, nevermind the disarming smile he wears. The bruises don't help.
You really should've kept your mouth shut.
He knows he's on the Careers' radar, just as he knows it was unavoidable. Inevitable.
Well, good. Better him than Casey. Better him than that small girl from Eight, or the scrawny pair from Twelve. Better someone who can take the heat. He can't save them all, but he can damn well try as long as he draws breath.
(Because Aslan Salvatici will not go down without a fight. It's not in his nature. He's got people back home, mistakes to reverse. He can't do that if he's dead.
The problem is, everyone else does too.)
But eventually, near the end of the day, Casey makes her way back to his side. She returns his lopsided grin and shows him how to tie a figure-eight knot, and ever-so-slightly, the tension in her shoulders relaxes.
It doesn't make everything better, but it helps.
"The Careers want me dead."
Solaris lets out a deep sigh as he closes the door to the mentoring room. "I figured." Aslan frowns. "So how do we use that to our advantage?"
"Uh… yeah, that's where I'm stuck."
"Right…"
"It'll take the heat off everyone else's back," Aslan tries.
"So… allies?"
He presses his lips together, fingers drumming on the table. "I'm working on it. I've got Casey."
Solaris snorts. "Good luck keeping her." At Aslan's bewildered expression, he elaborates, voice low. "You didn't hear this from me, but Paschen is advising her to stay away from you."
"What?! I'm—I'm not gonna hurt her."
Just the thought makes him nauseous, furious. It fucking stings— the hell does Paschen Clearwater know about him to make that judgment?
His mentor shrugs. "The Careers want you dead."
"Exactly! They'll focus on me then, not her."
His response twists the Victor's face into something half curious, half bemused. "I'll tell that to Paschen."
Aslan nods.
(Maybe he can't save her, maybe he can, but this? It's in his nature.)
"What about you, Aslan?"
Solaris studies him again; Aslan tilts his head. "What about me?"
"You said it yourself— I'm supposed to be helping you. So, how can I do that?"
"I dunno, you tell me."
Solaris shoots him a look.
Aslan's cheeky* expression fades. "Back… back home. I have no idea how many people I affected. Is there… is there any way to, I dunno, help them? I can't just…"
His mentor heaves a sigh. "I'm sure Five is well equipped to handle radiation emergencies. Honestly, Aslan, you need to be worrying about yourse—"
"You really trust our government to handle this?" he snaps. "The one that threw you into a death match when you were seventeen?"
"It benefits everyone not to be acutely exposed to radioactive material, so yes, I do."
Aslan doesn't have a response to that.
"To answer your question, yes there are ways to help them. I don't know how accessible they will be, but my priority right now is helping you." He sighs, stands from his seat. "I think we'll be done for now, the others are probably eating already. But don't think I missed the fact that you keep dodging my questions."
All Aslan offers him is a blithe shrug.
He follows his mentor to the exit, but Solaris halts him, lowering his voice. "You know, something that would really benefit you is learning when to keep your mouth shut. Got it?" Despite his words, the Victor's tone isn't sharp enough to be insulting; that alone stops Aslan from immediately snipping back. "Do you understand?"
He's about to say no when something presses discreetly into his palm. His mentor's stare is pointed, but Aslan knows this game. His fingers curl instinctively around the object — small, cylindrical, ever-so-slightly rattling — and he tucks it into the pocket of his pants. Not so deep* as those adorning his beloved jacket, but doable.
Before dinner, Aslan excuses himself to shower and pulls out the container in the safety of his assumed privacy. There's no label on it aside from a brief set of instructions, but he recognizes one of the capsules inside— how many times has he stolen radiation pills from the drugstore downtown for someone who couldn't afford it?
But why the secrecy? It may have something to do with the rest of the unknown tablets and whatever Capitol magic they contain.
'Take one of each daily.'
Aslan counts. Only enough for the rest of Prep Week. Because why waste the medication on someone who's gonna die anyways?
But once again, Aslan inexplicably finds himself trusting his mentor. He pours one of each colored capsules into his palm and tosses them back.
It's not the only thing that's tough to swallow.
The rock climbing wall is mandatory this year. It stretches along an entire wall of the gymnasium, various colored handholds indicating different levels of difficulty.
Apparently, that's not typical.
Aslan doesn't know what to make of that, other than mild relief that there's enough room for the Careers to take their turns without bothering the rest of them. In a perfect world, at least. But that seems to be District Twelve's problem, as much as Aslan feels the itch to make it his.
He keeps an eye on the scene as Casey expertly straps herself into a harness.
Before he can blink, she scampers up to the top and rings the bell. Aslan's head whips upwards so fast he feels like one of those cartoon characters choking on dust. "Damn, little monkey. Didn't even wait for me to get this on." He tightens the harness straps, patting them.
"I'm not little."
"Everyone is little compared to me," Aslan says, grinning. "Even him." He jerks his chin towards the Two guy, and that cracks a smile out of her as she belays down the wall. "Really though. I'm impressed."
Casey shrugs. "Those turbines aren't gonna climb themselves."
"Wait, you're from the Wind Sector?"
"Duh. Where did you think?"
"…Solar."
Casey makes a face.
"They have you fixing turbines?"
"No, but my mom does. And she usually forgets half her tools on the ground, so." She shrugs again.
"Fan-cee."
"Wanna race?"
Aslan snorts. "No, but I don't really have a choice, huh?"
"Nope!"
Needless to say, she beats him up and down by a mile. Aslan's never been much of a climber — too tall, too hulking — but he's had plenty of time to get comfortable in his body, how it moves.
He can't say the same for the poor Eight girl.
She's small, like Casey. Just barely ahead of him in the adjacent, more difficult lane, and she's been sitting there for a while. The next handhold sits high above her. She exhales, features set in determination, and the second she pushes off, her foot slips.
The rope catches her, but Aslan's faster.
His hand shoots out before she even yelps, latching on in a death grip. Her weight nearly drags him down too, but Aslan grits his teeth, wills his fingers to hold, his arm to bend upwards. To her credit, Eight follows his lead; soon as she can, she re-latches to the wall. The pressure releases, and a sigh of relief escapes their lips in tandem. By the time they make it safely down the wall, Eight still trembles.
The stares of the other tributes don't help.
Aslan crouches down next to her. "You okay?"
Eight nods vigorously, as if trying to convince herself.
"What's your name?"
"P-Pashmina," she stammers before swallowing. "Thanks, um…"
"Aslan." He sticks out a hand; hesitantly, cautiously, Pashmina shakes it. "Aslan Salvatici. And this is Casey."
Aslan waits expectantly, but Casey folds her arms. "So, do you have anything you are good at?"
Pashmina's face falls.
"Casey—"
She shrugs sharply. "What?"
"My mentor thinks I'm useless too," Pashmina mumbles, voice catching on the words. "And she's—she's probably right, isn't she?"
"Fuck her, then," Aslan spits. The Eight girl flinches, and he smiles, forcing the anger to dissipate. "No one is useless. Got it?"
Pashmina nods, but his eyes land on Casey. After a beat, she nods as well.
"We may be tributes now, but we're people first, and they can't take that from us. You can't let them take that from you." This time, both girls nod vigorously. Aslan doesn't miss the flush of something that might be shame darkening Casey's cheeks, but he doesn't comment on it either.
They look at him differently now, the others. They're not avoiding him.
In fact, once they break for lunch, someone even approaches him. Aslan studies the '9' on his shirt, the carefully-crafted smile plastered across his features. From the buffet line, Casey's returning stare is challenging, but Nine has eyes for Aslan only. "You're getting a lot of attention around here, you know."
Aslan shrugs. He's well aware. "And you are?"
"Abraxas Copperhead, District Nine." He sticks out a hand. "Can I, ah, speak to you alone?"
Immediately, alarm bells go off in Aslan's head. "Why?"
Now, he falters. Judging by the slight wrinkle in his brow, this Abraxas isn't used to facing pushback. Aslan doesn't miss the way his eyes slide over to the girls in line, and neither, apparently, does Casey; her glare hardens.
"We're alone now," Aslan grants him.
Doubt flashes across Abraxas's pinched features, with more than a little bit of irritation. "What exactly is your game here, with the little ones?"
"Excuse me?"
"With a type like yours—" Aslan quirks a brow— "I'd just expect that you'd want to, y'know. Fight back." His gaze flicks towards the Careers.
Aslan presses his lips together. He can't deny the thought had crossed his mind. But… "Sorry." He shakes his head. "I'm not putting any of these kids into the line of fire. They just— they need someone to look out for 'em. That's all."
"And that's you?"
Something in his tone makes Aslan's lip curl. "What's it matter to you? No, seriously," he continues when Abraxas raises his hands in mock surrender. "If you have a problem with any of my allies, you take it to me, hm? Whatever you came here to say, just say it."
Unexpectedly, Abraxas smiles. "Listen, I don't want trouble, honest—"
"What do you want?" Casey interjects, slamming down her lunch tray; the Nine boy jumps.
"Easy there, tiger."
"I was actually wondering if you guys had an opening."
The table goes silent.
Abraxas's smile fades. "Look, I'm smart and all. I can contribute, it could be helpful to have someone like me around, I—I know things. People. I pay attention, y'know? I just— I don't think I could do this on my own. Odds aren't good for loners."
Aslan squints at him. District Nine… They haven't had a Victor since…
He can't remember. No wonder this Copperhead kid is so worried.
"I'm not stupid. I know it can't last. But the more numbers we have, the more we'll last, especially against them."
His gaze returns to the Careers; Pashmina's follows, clouding at the sight, though Casey looks to Aslan. Ever-so-slightly, she shakes her head.
Aslan turns to the Nine boy, and with a start, he realizes who Abraxas reminds him of. Could be the pessimism, or the way he looks incapable of relaxing, but Aslan sees flashes of his once-brother right down to the jagged fringe of Nine's pale orange hair.
(And that makes Aslan trust him even less— but it makes him want to trust Nine even more.)
So Aslan offers the kid a smile and sticks out his hand. "Welcome to the team, Abraxas Copperhead."
The other boy's grip is just as firm.
Aslan only needs one look at his little group to know they're in desperate need of some fighting skills. Weapons, self-defense, anything. So after lunch, that's what they do. Aslan's not too worried about his own abilities; for every scar on his body, someone else has a deeper one.
Simply put, Aslan Salvatici does not fuck around.
So, when Casey and Abraxas head for the now-empty knife-fighting station and Pash for the adjacent throwing range, Aslan grabs the biggest, spikiest war hammer he can find and plants himself at the edge of the mat. He doesn't move, other than to lean casually against his weapon. The trainers eye him, but continue their work with the others. He half-pays attention to Casey's glower as Pashmina recounts a seemingly-endless list of past week-long boyfriends in between throws; Aslan can't help the smile of amusement that twitches his cheeks.
"What the fuck are you smirking at?"
Aslan blinks. From across the mat, the Two boy stalks towards him, completely uninvited and looking about to blow a fuse. "Hm?"
"Nice try," Two huffs. "I know exactly what you're thinking—"
"Really? Because it sounds like you just made up something in your head and then got mad about it."
That catches Two off guard. Behind him, his cronies exchange looks, but in Aslan's peripheral, he sees his allies go rigid. Aslan shrugs calmly. "If you wanted to train here, there's room enough for all of us."
The idea only angers the Career more. "Rest assured, Five," he sneers, leaning closer to Aslan, though it seems to bother him that he has to look up. "There's nothing I need to learn here."
"Didn't ask, but okay."
Two's scowl deepens, but Aslan drums his fingers across the head of the war hammer, planted firmly between them. Movement registers in the corner of his eye that may or may not be trainers drawn to the commotion; Two's head swings back and forth before he turns on a heel and stomps towards another weapon station.
Unfortunately, the two from Twelve are already there.
The Career kid scoops up a heavy-looking mace and shoves the boy out of his path. Anger curls in Aslan's stomach. That's fucking enough. He barely registers Abraxas hissing at him to shut up! before he's on the Two boy's heels, yelling, "Hey, asshat!"
Two whirls around.
"They were there first."
He laughs sharply. "Yeah? What're you gonna do about it?"
Aslan jerks his chin towards the Twelves, gesturing for them to get behind him. "Just letting you know."
"You think I'm fucking stupid? You—"
"Jasper," the other Career interrupts. "Maybe you should just… chill out a bit?"
"Shut up, Seamus."
"Dude, really?"
Aslan leans down to the Twelves. "Time to go," he whispers with a wink, and they skitter back to the knife-fighting station, leaving the Careers to placate their mad dog.
Abraxas isn't happy about the Twelves. He doesn't say it, but Aslan can tell.
Frankly, though, he cares far more about the relief blooming across the pair's faces as they relax into the idea of allies. Lily and Carlisle, sixteen and fifteen respectively. They bicker like siblings; it brings a half-smile to Aslan's face and an almost-ache to the pit in his chest that yearns for home.
(It's been a while since he felt like a leader.)
They crowd around the traps-and-snares station. Aslan's hopeless at it, but Casey's better and Lily's almost too good. "So what's Twelve like?" Aslan asks, prompting Carlisle to begin a long-winded explanation of each individual chicken his family owns, how they were acquired, and most importantly, what he named them.
While the trainer helps Abraxas, Lily takes over for the other three, shushing her partner.
Aslan gave up long ago, too distracted by seeing Elja in the way she guides the others through the exercise, the way her district partner drags out her stubborn side. He wonders who Carlisle reminds her of.
(If he looks hard enough, Aslan thinks he'd find traces of his loved ones in each of them.)
(…He really should know better than to keep looking.)
The last day of training carries a certain weight. Feels too final for Aslan's liking, not like Solaris's discussion with him last night didn't drive that home as well. He'd wanted to go over each and every quality each ally brings to the table; the conversation—and ensuing argument— only exhausted them both.
He sees the somberness etched into their faces now. Lily paints mindless swirls of purple up and down an unusually-quiet Carlisle's arms. Casey twists together strands of dried hay into a long rope, Abraxas is mysteriously absent, and Pashmina…
She just sits there. Silent.
Nothing he says takes any of it away.
He finds Abraxas in the bathroom just before lunch. "Hey man… you okay?"
The Nine boy sighs. "Fine. Just thinking about my session. And trying not to think about the rest."
"You'll do alright, yeah?"
"Right."
He brushes past Aslan on his way to the exit, but Aslan stops him. "I mean it, Brax." The other boy tilts his head at the nickname. "We're a solid group. We'll be okay."
Abraxas presses lips together. "For a while, maybe."
Aslan follows him out, intending to continue the conversation in the buffet line, but Pashmina finds him first. She doesn't speak, instead tapping anxiously at his arm. "Aslan," she whispers, barely audible. "I'm-I'm really scared."
"Talk to me, Pash."
It spills out all at once. "I was talking with my mentor last night, and-and she told me— she thinks we're all gonna die." Her voice rises in pitch. "It happened in her Games, she-she had a group just like ours and they all—they all died right at the start! I don't know what to do; she wants me to go off alone, but I'm scared, I don't wanna die, but I don't wanna be alone, I—"
She cuts herself off with a gasp.
Aslan kneels down next to her. "Pash, hey—that's not gonna happen, I swear, not if I—"
Her muted squeak cuts him off, eyes round in terror. Aslan follows her pointed finger, turning around.
Somehow, he's not surprised to find Two headed right towards him.
Aslan stands, shuffling Pashmina behind him. She scampers towards the table where the rest of their allies sit; Aslan plants himself staunchly between them and the incoming Careers and folds his arms. "Fancy seeing you here, Two." Behind him, the pair from Four hover while the rest watch intently from across the room. Expectantly.
The Two boy— Jasper— scowls. "Not here for small talk."
"Then what are you here for?"
One if the Fours nudges him; he clears his throat. Something that might be a cross between desperation and humiliation flickers across his face, gone before Aslan can place it. "After a… long discussion," Two says through gritted teeth, "we have decided to extend you an invitation to our alliance. Refuse, and we kill you as soon as the Games start."
Someone from behind sucks in a breath; the Four girl rolls her eyes. Aslan raises a brow. "Wow Jasper. You really know how to make friends."
"Are you mocking me?"
"No, I'm honored, really! …Unfortunately, I'd rather beat your face in with a brick, so I'll have to decline. Sorry."
"Fine." Jasper rolls out his shoulders, making up in venom for what he lacks in height. "Be the first to die, then. All of you."
The temperature in the room seems to drop. He turns on a heel without another word, well aware of the effect.
(And Aslan is, what, supposed to just sit there and take it?)
He glances back at his allies. Brax has gone pale, Pash on the verge of tears. Lily and Carlisle hunch over their trays in an attempt to make themselves smaller, and Casey… For all her bravado, Aslan sees the way her hands tremble.
How fucking dare he.
Aslan's hand reaches behind him, closing around the nearest utensil— a fork. Whatever works. Jasper hasn't gotten too far, just a few steps, and Aslan lunges—
His arm wraps around Two's throat, cutting off his choked gasp. The Fours flinch back; the tines of the fork press into Jasper's chin, not deep enough to cut, but undeniably there, a threat, and Aslan hisses into his ear, "Fucking try it."
Jasper struggles. In his peripheral, white armor; heavy boots.
He lets Two spring free. Aslan backs away, grinning wildly; he points his fork at the stuttering Jasper before using it to flick him a cheeky salute. The nearest PK snatches it from his grip, slamming him into a seat and snapping, "Sit. Now."
Aslan shrugs them off. He scans his table of allies, friends, responsibilities.
Nobody dares meet his eye.
(Look at that, you did it again.)
(They're more fucked than they would've been had you just stayed away. What kind of leader are you, Aslan Salvatici? You're poison with your stupidity.
You're not a leader, you're a fool. You'll die one, too.)
(And so will they.)
Abraxas pulls him aside as they break for private sessions. "Listen, Aslan. I… don't feel good about this."
"I don't think anyone does. But—"
"I'm serious. It's only gotten worse with the Careers. I know you said you don't want to pit our alliance against theirs, but I don't think we have a choice anymore. So I recruited the Sevens."
"What?!"
"They want to help us. Or—help themselves by helping us. And we need more muscle. Look at them, they're both eighteen; almost as big as the Careers. And they can fight— hatchets and axes, obviously, but—"
"Brax, you can't just bring people in without asking—"
"Like you did with the Twelves?"
Aslan closes his mouth. "That was different."
"It's not." Abraxas's lips curl in a scowl. "No wait, you're right— it is, because the Sevens are actually worth something."
"Then you join them," Aslan hisses. "If you think we're all so worthless."
Brax folds his arms. "Not worthless. Just unfit."
(Unfit to lead. Unfit to win.)
(The other boy's never looked more like Keppler than he does now.)
(…God, I can't do this again.)
Aslan sighs through clenched teeth. "You know what? Fine. Let them join, I don't care. But you have no right to judge someone's worth like that, Copperhead. Got it?"
"Sure. Whatever."
"Do you?"
"I do, Aslan." There's something on the edge of patronizing in his tone, but Aslan doesn't have the energy to pinpoint it. "Just be advised that I'm not the only one who's judging. It's the whole damn world, Aslan. That's how the Games work."
Just then, the speakers crackle overhead, and Abraxas stalks back to his seat.
With a harsh exhale, Aslan settles down between Casey and the Four girl. He ignores Casey's questioning glance.
"Kenzie Sorrox, District Thirteen!"
The entire room goes still.
At the head of the line, the District One boy hovers over his chair, halfway to standing. His confidant expression twists into one of confusion.
It takes urging from one of the PKs for the Thirteen girl to stand.
She pads quietly into the room, and once the heavy door booms shut, Jasper spits, "What the fuck?"
Aslan and Casey exchange a look. Clearly there'd been an assumption that Careers go first. Number order or whatever. Honestly, Aslan hadn't given it much thought; even now, he really only cares if this is standard or not.
Judging by the way the Careers hiss and spit, it's not.
Aslan grins.
His humor starts to fade the longer he has to sit here and stew with the brutes. The numbers in the room dwindle. He wishes Lily good luck for her session, then Carlisle. A few tributes later, he sends Brax an reassuring nod.
Pashmina.
The Sevens.
Then Casey, and suddenly he's alone with only his self-made enemies for company.
(His knee's been bouncing since the beginning; it doesn't stop now.)
It's only a matter of time before they say something. Aslan feels their eyes on his skin like knives; still, he maintains a casual facade, reclined in his cold metal chair with a neutral half-smile that comes too easily.
Fifteen minutes 'til they call his name.
"Salvatici." Jasper's shadow reaches him first. Aslan can't make out his expression, the way he blocks out the fluorescent light, but his tone is enough. "Consider this a preview."
And something snaps across his cheek, sending Aslan sprawling. Pain flares, sharp as the shock of cold metal against his face; his limbs scramble, itching for action before his brain can process the fact that he's on the floor, but not fast enough to avoid the blow to his stomach.
Air wheezes from Aslan's lips. His head spins.
Something— someone— drags him to his feet, and Aslan's staring into Jasper's cold hazel eyes before his knuckles slam into Aslan's already-bruised jaw once again.
This time, he doesn't fall. He should, but a merciless grip holds him upright; Jasper's cronies, in his peripheral. Not the Fours— Two girl, Three girl, another he can't see. Fuckers, Aslan thinks as he takes another fist to the face. His head snaps back. Blood fills his mouth; anger like fire surges through his veins, but no matter how he thrashes, they hold him.
All Aslan can do is spit blood in Two's face. So, he does.
"Aslan Salvatici, District Five."
A fucking godsend if he ever heard one.
They release him. As he steps into the gymnasium, he passes two white-armored guards by the door. They haven't moved an inch.
Aslan pauses, and spits at their feet too.
Righteous fury lifts his chin as he strides through the door. Fuck this. He heads straight for his war hammer. Vague commotion reaches his ears from the Gamemakers' box— could be the blood, the bent nose, the look in his eyes— but Aslan doesn't stop to listen. Fuck those assholes. Fuck the Gamemakers too.
Fuck the Games.
Energy pulses through his veins, down through his fingers, into the handle of the hammer, but there's nowhere to send it, nowhere real. His eyes gloss over training dummies, things that are meant to be hit.
They pause at the racks of deadly, gleaming, unused weapons.
Let's see who can take a hit now?
A half-mad smile twists his bloody mouth, and by the time he leaves the room, not a single weapon remains unscathed.
It's kind of astounding that Aslan's gotten more professional medical care here in the Capitol, before the goddamn Games, than he's ever had in his life.
That's Five for you.
(Can anyone blame him for being so worried about his folks back home, even before all this shit?)
He's just as used to stitching wounds as he is to getting them, giving them, but regardless, he's grateful that Solaris cares so much. By the looks of it, the young mentor's never had a tribute get so fucked up before the Games even started.
What can he say— Aslan's one of a kind.
The training scores say so too.
Aslan watches with an ice pack over his cheek, one eye glued to the screen, as they go in reverse order again.
Fives for Lily and Carlisle. Six for Brax. Pash barely scrapes a four while the Sevens— only now Aslan learns their names; Bailey and Miles — each nab an eight. Another five for Casey, and Aslan…
Eleven.
Cue collective intake of breath.
But that's not all; the Careers' faces flash by, and it's eights and nines across the board.
Aslan's jaw drops.
He's not the only one. Solaris's eyes look about ready to pop out behind his glasses. Casey's hand covers her mouth, and Paschen's staring. Somewhere behind him, the escort squeals in excitement, but Aslan's brain is too busy glitching between petty satisfaction and absolute dread.
What he did clearly worked. The bold eight next to Jasper's scowling face proves it, but Aslan can connect the red, glaring dots.
It's not just the Careers that want him dead. The Capitol does, too.