iv. THE ACCIDENT

Solaris insists on spending every goddamn minute in his presence in a frantic attempt to come up with some sort of angle that'll please their overlords.

Frankly, it's a lost cause.

But Aslan doesn't mind being a lost cause— it's his mentor that's driving him up the walls.

"I don't care how much you think you can 'wing it', this is very much a matter of life or death, Aslan!"

"Yeah, and it's my life or death, not yours, so can you just fuck off already?"

The minute he says it, guilt starts to pool in Aslan's gut, but it does the trick. Solaris leaves him be; Aslan runs a tense hand through his unruly waves, huffing heavily. He appreciates the Victor, he does, but god forbid he get any sort of reprieve.

What's wrong with being himself, other than the fact that it'll ultimately get him killed?

(It gnaws at him, but Aslan's coming to accept it, because what's the alternative? He lets Casey, Pash, Brax and the others die in his stead? He'd like to think he's not that selfish, not that much of a poison.)

(So, what, fuck everyone he left behind, then?)

Aslan shoves the thoughts away. His time now would be better spent in the company of his allies, Aslan thinks, but that's not an option, save for Casey. He tried.

And the day drags.

The following day, Solaris strikes back with a vigor, changing direction from the impending interview to arena tactics. They strategize — or rather, Aslan's mentor strategizes for him — right up until District Five prep team whisks him and Casey away for preparations.

If Aslan thought they were mad about the state of his hair post-quarantine, it's nothing compared to their fury over his face. But makeup and glitter save the day once again. Miraculously, Aslan finds himself dressed in something not dissimilar to his beloved leather coat. Dark red too, complete with matching leather pants.

It's not the same — not even close — but it's enough for Aslan to flash his team a genuine smile of thanks.

They go in reverse order again. Disquietude rumbles through the audience at the Master of Ceremonies' announcement, but they lap up the change more eagerly than the Careers. Jasper doesn't even bother to tone down his scowl.

This time, though, Casey's stuck on the Career front, and Aslan glares down the Four boy at her other side, daring him to even try and mess with her. Four raises his hands in surrender. It's enough for Aslan; he doesn't remember Four's face as one that delighted in watching Jasper beat the snot out of him.

Once interviews begin, the whole thing loses its sparkle fast. Aslan does his damndest to stay awake, pay attention— his allies deserve that much from him— but god. He'd rather be locked in a room with Keppler.

It's a relief when the host calls him up to the stage.

"From District Five, Mr. Aslan Salvatici!" Marcus Argentus crows. "Best score out of the pack right here, ladies, gentlemen, and those of us in between! Now, what is your secret, Mr. Salvatici?"

Aslan clears his throat. "Well, y'see, Marcus, I am six-foot-seven and very pissed off."

"Oh! Do tell, my friend, do tell!"

"Sure." He reclines against the plush couch cushions, the very picture of casual ease. "Between the little cunt at home and the little cunt right here, it doesn't take that much."

The host coughs; Aslan can already picture Granny wringing his neck for his language — or, at least, for referring to Keppler in such terms, and on television no less — but Jasper's face more than makes up for it. It twists into a sneer, outing him as one of the little cunts in question. Aslan shoots the Two boy a snarky wave.

"Would you care to elaborate on that, Mr. Salvatici?"

Aslan leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and smiles. "No."

He spends the rest of the interview dodging Argentus's stabs at personal questions, covering it up with witty back-and-forth. He can't see Solaris in the audience, but he can practically feel his mentor gnashing his teeth at Aslan's refusal to play the 'orphan caretaker' card.

But it's his damn interview. It's not just some angle— that's his fucking family.

He stays attentive long enough to watch Casey do well, and that's it. The specks of glitter dusting his lapel are easily more interesting than the Careers, even when he vaguely registers a certain Two boy calling him out by name. By the time interviews draw to a close, the only thing Aslan regrets is not cussing more when he had the chance.

"Is it true?" He asks Casey once they're back at the suite and out of their monkey suits. He quirks a brow, quoting her interview, "'Learning how to play guitar from the wind'?"

"Shut up, Paschen wanted me to say that." She whacks his arm. "Kind of, though."

"Really?"

"No one ever really, like, taught me, y'know? Had to play it by ear." Casey shrugs, pushing back a stray lock of her dark, wavy hair. "I guess that's what we'll be doing tomorrow too."

A shadow creeps over her expression.

They sit alone in the common area. Thankfully, their mentors had left them to their peace upon request; the final dinner with their entire Capitol entourage had exhausted everyone.

Aslan could really use some fresh air. "C'mon," he says to Casey.

A few years back, the Capitol renovated the Training Center, adding balconies to each of the district suites. Solaris explained it to him at some point. The Five pair head out there now; Aslan pulls a cigarette from the pack he'd pinched from Paschen's purse when she wasn't looking. His fingers fumble once, twice, three times with the lighter before it catches. Casey watches with wide eyes as he takes a drag. "Can I try?"

"What? No!"

"Okay, but what if I die tomorrow?"

"Still no." Aslan puffs a smoky cloud over the rail, temporarily blotting out the city lights below. "I'm a bad enough influence on you already. You don't need even more poison in your life/ I'm not about to give anyone else more cancer."

Casey frowns. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't worry about it. And don't think I didn't notice what you said— you're not dying on me tomorrow, got it?"

"But what if—"

"You're not." Too intense. Aslan tones it down a bit, smiles. "Alright, y'know what? If we find any of these in the arena—" he flicks the cig— "I'll let you try. Long as you stick with me, though, okay?"

"You promise?"

"Pinky promise." Aslan holds out a hand and they link pinkies.

Casey smiles, half-shy, and some of the tension dissipates from her small frame. Despite that, a pit sits heavy in Aslan's stomach even after they bid each other goodnight. Aslan lingers on the balcony, cigarette pinched between his fingers. He knows she's still scared. How could she not be?

And as much as he'd like to laugh in the face of death come morning, so is he.

(Because it's not funny. If Aslan dies, there's no hope for Granny, no way to make up for the mess he left behind. If Aslan dies…)

Everything he's tried to build here, it cannot coexist with his gang back home. He can't be Aslan the hero in the Games if he wants to be Aslan the hero in Five.

And that… that scares him more than dying.

Just… stop.

Aslan shakes his head. Casey, the rest of his allies… They're his people now, and that means—

(They all have to die.)

—he has to protect them.

No, he will.

"Welcome all, to our final Prep Week interview. The last chance to speak with our behind-the-scenes expert before the Games begin… Give it up for our lovely Head Gamemaker, Killian Aquila!"

"Thank you, Marcus. Thank you."

"Now, this won't be long, I'm sure there's a lot of work left to do before tomorrow."

"There always is. But I am confident in the synergy of my team."

"We love to hear it! Now, the arena…"

"Patience, dear Marcus."

"Of course, of course…"

"You're curious about the order of things this year, aren't you? Reaping broadcasts, private training sessions, score reveals, interviews…?"

"Right to the point!"

"Naturally. Now, I've been Head Gamemaker for almost twenty-five years, and part of the Gamemaking team for almost fifty. Did you know that, Marcus?"

"Fifty! Quite impressive."

"Yes. My predecessors haven't been nearly as successful. But you can imagine that after twenty-five years, I've grown quite accustomed to the minutiae of the Games, and do you know what I've learned?

"A lot of it is, quite frankly, irrelevant."

"Irrelevant?"

"Irrelevant. We've been following the same exact procedure— right down to the nanosecond, give or take— for well over a century. A century, Marcus. That leaves very little room for the Games to grow. Evolve."

"Evolve? I like the sound of that."

"I was hoping you'd say that. The changes this year, they may be small, but as you have seen, there's been quite an impact on my tributes already."

"Not so irrelevant, eh?"

"People often view the Games as a delicate system, and don't get me wrong, they can be. In certain aspects, at least. But they've stood for one hundred and seventy-two years and counting. They've stood through rebellions and war and dynasties… that doesn't seem so delicate to me, does it? The Games are more flexible than most realize.

"Now, I know I'm not getting any younger. I have no children, that's not a secret. My legacy is right here, Marcus. When I take my last bow, I'd like to leave on a note of progress, not stagnation."

"Wow. Very, very beautifully spoken, Mr. Aquila. With that, I have one final question for you: will there be any more changes this year?"

"Oh, for that, Marcus, you will have to wait and see."

"One minute to launch."

Aslan flinches at the voice over the intercom. His stylist blusters around him with a nervous excitement that doesn't help, fiddling with the folds of his clothes, the locks of his hair, the straps of the harness around his hips.

So they weren't kidding around with that rock climbing wall…

He gets a rope, too, coiled neatly around a carabiner clip that dangles from the harness. Any flicker of delight at the so-called freebie is drowned out by the realization that he'll most definitely need it.

"Thirty seconds to launch."

The stylist shoves him towards the launch pad, and Aslan nearly trips over his steel-toed boots. "Paws off, bud, I'm gettin' there." His shoes seem to snick into place once he steps up. Aslan frowns. It takes a little more umph to lift them again.

A wave of jitters overtake him; Aslan shakes them out like a wet dog, clapping his hands together. The gloves they'd given him mute the sound. They stick, too.

Aslan pulls them apart. …Magnets?

Fuck yeah, magnets!

He puts his hands together again, getting a feel for the stickiness. It's a better use of his time than acknowledging that fluttering dread in the pit of his stomach, the vivid uncertainty.

You could be dead in two minutes' time.

So what? Better him than Casey. Pash. Brax. Lily, Carlisle, the Sevens even…

"Ten seconds to launch."

A glass tube lowers around him. Aslan feels his heart rate spike; he doesn't like the sudden compactness of it all, the confinement. His stylist mouths something that might be "Good luck!" but Aslan can't tell, doesn't bother trying. He presses his hands against the glass. For a heartbeat, his breath fogs the surface.

"Launching."

Something shifts, and the plate begins to move. Aslan braces his knees against it. He swallows, shoving down the nerves that bubble in the back of his throat.

But darkness envelops him and it's back.

He's back— back in that closed corridor, the hazmat escort, the white room…

Brilliant light cracks through the ceiling above his head, all glittering and distorted, but there's no fresh air, nothing but this enclosed tube and the oxygen Aslan's lungs recycle far too quickly. It blinds him before fading to an odd sort of blue. Dimly-shaped blobs move around him, but Aslan can't make hide nor hair of his surroundings through the murkiness.

It's only when glimmering scales flit past his nose that Aslan realizes they're underwater.

Yet the plate keeps moving.

What the fuck? He only half-registers the nervous laugh that falls from his mouth. The light overhead grows brighter; streams of bubbles fill his vision, and suddenly the capsule breaks through the surface. The walls of the container dampen the sound of rushing water, but Aslan peers through the rivulets running down the glass, terrified, stunned, relieved to find that he's not alone.

A tone resonates through the arena, a ticking clock. His fellow tributes float around him in a bizarre circular formation, just as perplexed, yet still their plates rise. Shadow flickers from above. From an adjacent plate, Abraxas's wide grey eyes find him in their panic.

Aslan looks up.

Something massive stretches over his head, far as the eye can see, and it takes a minute for Aslan to comprehend that they're under it, and still rising. Dark steel slices the daytime sky in half, supported from below by wide cement pillars that stretch from beneath the water. Industrial. Almost like Five in a way, the Five that he knows, at least. But it's one structure in a sea of… well, sea. Aslan cranes his neck, turns around; behind him, the contraption trails off into the unknown, where distant spires poke a jagged skyline into the horizon. Ahead, just barely visible to Aslan's eyes, a splotch between the sky and the water that might be land.

All connected by the strip of metal that lurks overhead— a bridge.

It's far, far wider than it first seemed. Aslan sees that much the closer they get, the higher they rise beneath its underbelly. Directly above, pinpricks of light form a circle in the center of the road. All twenty-six — Aslan doesn't need to count to know — fit neatly within the breadth of the bridge.

Still… That's not a lot of room to run.

With each passing second, the pit in his stomach grows, and it has nothing to do with the hundred-meter-and-counting drop just beneath his feet. Two scenarios play in his head. Two places to run, two places to follow, and it's back again, that familiar anger.

How are we supposed to escape?

Obvious answer— you're not.

In what feels like the blink of an eye, dark walls surround him; Aslan tenses, clenching his magnetic fists. He squints as his head pokes out from a layer of asphalt, and finally, his pedestal clicks into place.

Like hell.

"Ten."

Wait, what..?

"Nine."

Abraxas shoots him a look of utter horror.

"Eight."

Panic beats in his chest.

"Seven."

Look around, look around—!

"Six."

Okay, Cornucopia. Supplies. Bunch of packs and shit. Weapons… where—?

"Five."

Hammer. Sure. That's fine. Allies— Casey?

"Four."

He can't see her. Aslan scans the ring, [strains his neck. Woah, not too far]. Sevens. Pashmina.

"Three."

Lily, Car… Fuck— Jasper.

"Two."

No Casey.

"One."

"Casey—!"

The starting gong echoes through the arena, right down to Aslan's toes.

"Casey!"

He can't see her. He can't see—

Something knocks into him, shoving Aslan from the pedestal. A vice grips his arm— Abraxas. "Brax! I can't find—"

The Nine boy jerks his arm, drags him; Aslan stumbles, catching himself in time to sprint after his ally, directly towards the Horn. The fuck is he thinking—?

Too late now. Screams ring through open air as killers find their victims. Aslan grimaces. Brax ducks, scooping up a nearby pack, a handful of knives. Aslan's eyes flick over the scene, beyond his ally, beyond the flashes of weapons plunging into eyes, throats, cracking skulls— Pashmina. "Get out of here!" he shouts. She looks up, prize in hand. "Get out—" but the two from Seven block his view. He blinks, and they're hustling her away, the Twelves close on their heels.

They're gonna make it. Aslan could breathe a sigh of relief, but—

Brax reappears at his side. Curses bleed from his lips; hot on his trail, a flash of blonde, a flash of silver. No time to flinch before desperate hands shove Aslan into its path. The blade grazes his side — throwing knife? — and shock sends him staggering, tripping, sprawling. His hand shoots out for his ally, but Brax steps out of reach.

He hits the ground. Breath wheezes from his lungs, head spinning, and the look in the Nine boy's eyes…

Without a word, his ally takes off.

Aslan can't breathe.

("That's how the Games work.")

No— that was a choice. Abraxas's choice.

(Had it been Aslan's, he would've taken the knife without a second thought. Hasn't that always been his flaw?)

He still can't breathe. It's like his lungs are in shock too, frozen. He's not used to this— adrenaline is a familiar friend. He'd take a flying fist or another knife any day over this, lying on the pavement waiting for someone to finish off his sorry ass. God… embarrassing. At least whichever Career girl — Four? One? — that threw the knife is long gone, caught up in the massacre that still rages.

Anyone that was meant to escape by now has already done it. Aslan watches the rest from his position on the asphalt, stunned.

—the pair from Four as they skewer a tribute through the stomach, some kid whose name he never even bothered to learn—

—the spray of blood as Jasper bashes in some poor girl's face with that wicked weapon of his; the equally wicked grin of his, drenched in red—

—(a small, dark-haired figure scampering like lightning up the nearest tension cable)—

He should get up. He needs to.

Instead, his fingers gravitate towards the leaking wound in his side. Really, it's not that bad. There's enough blood to make it look worse than it is, enough that the killers don't bother him.

(Yet.)

More red stains the pavement. It's not his, though; it leaks from the open throat of the Eleven kid — Aslan sees the number stitched into his jacket — pooling on the warm surface. It creeps towards him, a slow march.

Aslan wills every muscle in his body to shift away.

Maybe it's that glazed look in the kid's dead eyes, but Aslan can't help but feel like touching it would burn. He manages to scoot away from the horn undetected. Too slowly, his breath returns, and he inches towards the guard rail.

The wound stings. An odd rattling sound reaches his ears, and it takes Aslan a minute to realize it's his teeth, chattering away.

Oh. Don't like that. He clamps his jaw down, ignoring the ache of bruises.

Run, dumbass.

But where? The Careers prowl through Aslan's field of vision, toting ranged and melee weapons alike; he doesn't fancy an arrow through the skull, thank you very much.

But soon they'll disperse to let the hovercrafts collect the bodies, and then…

Then I'm home free.

"Alright, who wants to stab the corpses?"

…Maybe not.

Hell.

At least the others got away. At least you can say that much. Maybe he can't save everyone at home, but this has to count for something, right?

Right?

Two of the boys split off and begin driving their weapons through the corpses. Or, in Jasper's case, pulverizing their skulls into something unrecognizable.

No fucking way I'll let my gang bury me like that.

The chatter in his teeth starts up again; Aslan grits them even harder.

Like hell I'm gonna die sitting down and taking it.

But he waits. The other one pauses at the Eleven kid, mindlessly driving a pronged weapon through his eye. The dead boy doesn't flinch. He extracts the blade with an arc of scarlet, and god, Aslan's pounding heart will give him away if the fury in his eyes doesn't first.

But he waits. Four — that's who it is, Seamus — steps closer. Aslan's lucky; the way he's positioned now, hands splayed against the pavement, knee bent half-awkwardly beneath his stomach, he just might have a shot.

But he waits.

Waits.

(Energy coils within his muscles, potential that curls around his bones in a promise of one chance, one opportunity. He knows he's fast. The map of scars on his body prove it— something called survivorship bias, or so he's been told.

Lazily, Four lifts his weapon. He won't expect fast from a corpse.)

Aslan springs.

He collides with the Career. Four yelps; it's cut short by the shoulder that rams into his stomach. The sheer force sends him flying, and he careens into the guard rail, jerking as it catches him behind the thighs. He staggers. Windmills. Eyes wide and then—

Nothing.

"Shit," Aslan breathes.

He races to the rail in time to watch Seamus plummet right back into the water.

He's not the only one. Half the Career pack sprints over, screaming after their fallen ally, and the other half…

Something grabs the hood of his windbreaker, and fuck it if I'm not fighting now. Aslan responds with a swift punch to the nose— Jasper's nose, heh— a followup to the jaw; more hands shoot towards him, but Aslan's right there with a fist to the fucking cheek—

It takes a cold blade against the throat to subdue him. "Don't fucking try it," Jasper hisses. Blood dribbles into his mouth as he backs away, letting his goons do the work this time.

Aslan's grin is just as wild. "Or what, you'll kill me?" He expects it any second, but the others defer to their leader.

"No shit."

"Then do it, pussy."

The knife presses into his skin, just on the edge of painful. "Want me to, Jas?" the holder asks; his district partner.

Jasper's mace taps against the ground. Aslan swallows. "Come on, now, 'Tana, shouldn't we set an example?"

"I can do examples." Aslan hears her grin.

This isn't good.

(Perhaps he should've followed Seamus when he had the chance.)

Jasper steps closer. The knife at his throat forces Aslan to the Career's eye height, and once again, Aslan can't help his fucking mouth. "Go on," he spits. "Do your worst."

Something tugs at his harness. Aslan barely has time to question it before the Two boy snatches his rope, tossing away the clip. He stalks out of view, and Aslan strains his neck as much as he can. "Doesn't seem like your worst," he calls, and the knife jabs lightly at his skin.

"Shut up," the Two girl snaps.

"Make me."

"Oh, I will. If you don't—"

"Montana."

She shuts up. Jasper returns with a smug-looking expression and a loop of rope— a noose. He places it around Aslan's neck.

"Ooh, pretty."

Jasper scowls. That's better. "Get on the fucking rail."

"What if I don't?"

The Two boy jerks his chin and the knife disappears, only for his shoulder to slam into Aslan's chest.

Panic spikes. Aslan stumbles; his feet tangle among the legs of the Careers. Hands shoot out, grabbing for something, anything, hair, clothes, the rope—

And freefall takes him.