vi. THE WRECKAGE

Aslan's ears ring. He acknowledges that before he realizes he's conscious. Again. Somehow.

All he remembers is fire.

A real one this time, though the one in his shoulder is still there, half-numb and smoldering. He opens his eyes, and what he sees, it doesn't register.

Smoke curls from just about everywhere. There's a new stretch in his shoulder, a heightened ringing in his skull. Steel beams dip and bend. They creak and squeal, and some even snap off, plummeting into the water below.

The splash soaks Aslan's shoes, and the water— it's so much closer than before.

He blinks. The spinning doesn't quite clear, but even he can see it now, the gaping hole where the Cornucopia used to be. The jagged length of rail, all bent and twisted and teetering downwards, where his rope still hangs.

His mind is slow to process. That gap is far, too far. The water… I still… I still can't breathe.

Acrid fumes sink into his lungs. They're heavy, so heavy, and every fiber in Aslan's being itches to cough and hack, but he can't; gravity drags him too far, for too long.

Something circles overhead.

(Get down.)

It's coming closer, Aslan thinks. Round and round and round on black wings.

(You need to get down now.)

It's almost mesmerizing. Aslan's head spins with it, his ears ring at the same frequency of the creature's cycle like clothes at the laundromat, life and death.

(Aslan!)

God, it's ugly. It lands on the network of half-shriveled beams that hover over Aslan's head, not graceful in the slightest. The steel dips under its weight.

And it watches him.

(Get out of there, goddammit!)

Ancient, hungry eyes bore into his. Wings spread; somehow, Aslan doesn't feel a thing when its talons dig into his arm.

(The knife, Aslan, where is it?!)

His body follows the instruction automatically. Fingers rifle through the pocket of his jacket, the pouch at his harness, but his eyes never leave the vulture. He watches right back as it opens its beak, snaps off something dead and necrotic, and tilts back its head. Swallows.

That's mine, he thinks absently.

His living fingers find it, the handle of the blade, and he knows he can't stay here.

Bones crack as the vulture rips off another dead digit. He can't feel it, but he wonders, was that the one where Argo tattooed a tiny toadstool onto his knuckle? Or the smiley face from Elja?

He raises the knife.

The sounds of the vulture's feast cut through the ringing, but Aslan tries not to listen. As high as it can go, the knife presses into his forearm, cuts into the rope that winds around it.

And he slices. And saws.

The bird takes no notice, too preoccupied with its task. It's hard to see straight. Aslan's vision goes in and out; hard to breathe, but he keeps cutting. Seems like all he knows now. The knife slips against flesh, but there's no blood, no nothing, only the rope. The vulture. And himself.

The final thread snaps, and it's only himself.

By the time he hits the water, there's not even that.

It's the most peaceful he's felt in a long time. Less of a flicker, more of an ebb and flow, his consciousness. A weightlessness clings to his body, but it lacks the urgency of gravity— it's more of a gentle embrace.

All the while, something tugs him. Gentle again. He registers something like green foam before his mind lulls again.

Ebb, flow. Back, forth. Round and round and round.

He's not alone. This one takes longer to understand. Dark hair and weightlessness and a mind too quiet to comment.

He floats. The once-constant st h is gone.

Green foam and grey water and tiny hands guide him through the current. Red doesn't exist in this world. Too cold; it's suddenly too cold. Aslan wants to move, but he opens his mouth and the cold seeps in.

A quiet voice tells him, "Stop. We're almost there… almost…"

It sounds exhausted. He's exhausted, but the weightlessness, it helps.

Ebb and flow. Flicker. Green foam.

…

He blinks and suddenly everything's so fucking heavy. He gasps; it's not cold anymore, but the air stings, stings his lungs with smoke and acid and however many inches they've been stretched.

He's sopping wet too.

"Aslan!"

He hacks, retches. Nothing comes out except water, where the fuck did that come from? Eyes refocus; he leans on an elbow, which itself rests on some sort of concrete sandbar. Aslan flops over, onto his back; little waves lap at his legs, soaking his shoes, that's where the cold comes from, but more importantly, a dark gaze stares back at him. He knows that face. "Casey," he mouths.

Ebb, and flow.

"—s l a n. Hey, asLAN!"

Consciousness rushes through his ears.

"You gotta sit up."

He blinks. Lifts his chin, head, swivels side to side to side, Casey! He mumbles a hello but the words don't quite form correctly.

He looks at her again. She blinks.

Pinched between her fingers sits a rather large syringe. "Whas…'sat?"

"Dunno, but you need it. Can you sit?"

He tries. He shifts onto his elbows…el…elbow, singular. The left one doesn't work, for some reason. But he makes do; he sits. She'd gotten his legs out of the water somehow, but the only thought in Aslan's mind is that he's in dire need of a new pair of pants.

The needle pricks his skin. Casey glances at a scrap of paper as she does it.

He ebbs again. Flows again.

Casey kneels at his side with the needle. He blinks, and she's standing, head tilted up. Nighttime; the stars are singing. He blinks; daytime—she sits cross-legged, eating a sandwich. Blink; she hovers over his arm. Blink; the sound of retching. Blink; water. Blink; headache. Blink; sandwich, Aslan chews, swallows. Blink; pants. Blink. Blink. Blink.

(Wake up.)

Aslan blinks. When he does it again, he doesn't time-jump.

Casey watches him, worry clouding her eyes as if she's afraid he'll pop right back out of existence. Fair worry.

Instead, he sits up. Pushes the hair out of his eyes. "What… day is it?"

His voice is hoarse, but he hears the relief in her words. "Don't remember the real one, but it's the fifth day in here." Aslan nods. "Want some of this?" She holds out a sandwich.

Aslan takes it, cautious—no, curious at first.

"It's peanut butter and jelly. My favorite. They sent us loads."

"Really?"

"Yeah. And that fancy medicine for you. …Whatever you had was really bad."

Aslan nods, but the sandwich briefly occupies his attention. It vanishes in seconds. Casey hands him another, and he inhales that one too.

She holds the third one out of reach, and he whines. "You're gonna throw up."

"What are you, my grandmother?"

"You can have it in an hour."

"Fine." He scoots into a cross-legged position; concrete scrapes at his pant legs. They're surprisingly new-looking. "Casey, what happened to my pants?"

"Hm? You got new ones. They came with the food."

"Uh. You didn't…"

"No, you put them on. I think you were, like, half-conscious though."

"Ah." Aslan shrugs; that sounds right. "So… what exactly happened?" He jerks his chin upwards where the bridge looms over them, the hole in its middle unexpectedly far down the road.

As she talks, Aslan chugs from the water bottle that sits between them. "It was the pedestals. I got lucky; I went up high again while the Careers were distracted by you, so I saw it all happen. It was hard to tell who died, but most of them got caught up in the blast one way or another… I wasn't really watching them 'cause I was trying to hold on, and all. That was, um… I'm not really afraid of heights, but it was… anyways, I saw you still hanging, so I went back to check, but you were—you were gone by the time I got back. Then I saw you in the water."

She pauses for breath. Aslan passes her the bottle, and she takes a drink before continuing. "I can't really swim, but a few of the cars also got blown up, and one of them had—"

"Wait, cars?"

"Yeah, there's a bunch on the bridge. They're just kind of…stopped. But they're all full of stuff. Sometimes food. This one had these floaty-thingies." Casey nods to the base of the pillar she leans against— green foam. "And then I got you back."

Aslan's head spins trying to keep up. Not like before, though; no fevers, no chills, no pounding headaches. He swallows. "You saved me."

Casey shrugs awkwardly.

I'm supposed to be saving you.

But Aslan doesn't say that out loud. Instead, he scoots towards her, pulls her into a one-armed hug. "Thank you," he whispers, hoarse.

The girl pulls away quickly, sheepish. "Wasn't gonna break my promise," she mutters, and Aslan huffs, smiling.

"What—" Aslan cuts himself off, swallowing again. "What happened to the others?"

"Oh." A shadow flickers over Casey's expression. "I—I'm not really sure. I saw what-what Abraxas did to you, and… I ran away."

A flicker of a memory resurfaces. "Ran or climbed?"

"Climbed. I went pretty far up. I think I was one of the only ones."

Aslan grins, knocking her shoulder. "Little monkey, eh?"

Her returning smile is half-shy still, but Aslan'll take it. "I'm sorry I couldn't help you though. Like, before all this. I—I saw what they did to you."

Aslan's smile drops into something more serious. "Don't worry about it, Casey. Seriously; nobody expects you to take on seven Careers."

"Four now."

"Wait—really?"

"Three of 'em died in the explosion. Four girl, Three girl, and One boy."

Aslan lets out a low whistle. "Anybody since?"

"Nope."

"Huh. In that case, we have some allies to find." Casey's expression is hesitant, but she nods. "First, though, can I have that sandwich now?"

(You need to get rid of it.)

You've been quiet.

(It's going to kill you, Aslan.)

"Do you think you can climb today?"

…

"Huh?"

Casey repeats the question.

Aslan stares at her, then the gargantuan pillar that rises from below the water, through their concrete platform, past the bridge itself until it brushes the clouds. "Are you serious, or…?"

"Yes."

"Alright, well…" At least there's a ladder built into this thing. "Don't think I can do that spider-monkey stuff you were doing before, y'know? Especially with…" He jerks his left shoulder forward, causing his limp arm to flap about. The movement sends a weird tingling through his nerves that's not entirely painful but feels like it should be. Probably the drugs.

Casey makes a face.

"You first, kiddo."

She takes a minute to stuff the remaining sandwiches into her pockets, clip the water bottles to her harness, and string her rope between them. Aslan tries to protest, but she hushes him, explaining that she'll be able to anchor them both as they climb. "We should be okay if you slip, but just try not to."

"Noted."

And they're off. It's… harder than Aslan expects. The magnets in his boots and gloves help and hinder at the same time, taking more force to unstick, but securing him solidly to the rungs of the ladder.

Still, he doesn't like that the ladder is completely vertical.

The wind starts to bluster as they get higher, bringing that swaying feeling back to Aslan's stomach. Don't think about that… don't. For a while, he tries to anchor himself with the glove on his unuseable hand; the magnet still works, but the effort it takes to unstick the limb isn't worth it.

He can feel Casey growing irritated by their pace. She doesn't outright say it. Instead, she calls down to him, "You gotta angle it when you pick up the magnets! Like this." She shifts her weight onto the balls of her feet; it looks easier to lift her foot.

Aslan follows suit, and she's right. It is easier.

But it makes the climb no faster. The full-body ache returns with a vengeance, and soon Aslan's lungs start to wheeze. Every few seconds, waves of lightheadedness wash over him, and Aslan has to pause, panting, while Casey waits silently.

He can't see her face, but it doesn't take much to know he's dragging her down.

Aslan glances upward, gauging the distance, and he almost wants to let go. "Casey…"

"Come on."

If she insists.

(There's no room for halfway here, Aslan.)

Don't need your input.

(You've had enough time to rest.)

Really? 'Cause I feel like I need another hundred years.

(And when was the last time someone from Five lived to be a hundred years?)

Maybe I'll be one of 'em, just after Granny.

(Right. No thanks to you.)

…

(Oh, did you not want to think about that? It's your fault she's dying, after all.)

(It's your fault they're all dying, Aslan.)

(After all, you're as poisonous as you are stup—)

He nearly rams headfirst into Casey's boot. Oh, look at that, we're here.

Here is a wide scaffolding platform that hangs beneath the bridge. A pair of skinny catwalks stretch out on either side, spanning the length of the bridge as far as Aslan's eyes can see. Right up until the gap on one side, and off into the unattainable city on the other. A network of beams criss-cross between the walkways with just enough room for a daring spider-monkey-person to dart underneath the road itself. He imagines that's where the repair workers would traverse the bridge back when it was in use. If it ever was. Somebody must have used it, though, otherwise the rickety metal staircase that connects their little platform to the road above wouldn't be here.

It's just enough stairs that Aslan refuses to look at them. Casey unhooks them from the ladder, making towards the staircase, but Aslan won't budge. "Come on, we're just about— oh. Are you okay?"

Aslan gives her a thumbs-up and promptly passes out.

He wakes to music.

It's nothing sweet or lovely, and it vanishes before he's fully awake. Casey stares out ahead from their platform, eyes wide. "There were two cannons while you were out. The Three boy, and—" she pauses, pressing her lips together— "and Lily."

Aslan's breath catches in his throat. It hurts—

And he realizes he barely remembers her face, only her knack for traps and how she made him think of Elja, so that's who he sees; he thinks of Elja, so it's her face in the sky instead. His chest wrenches. Ever-so-slightly, he curls inwards but stops when he realizes Casey's still watching, still watching.

She's still here. I haven't failed her yet.

(Just wait.)

But Casey isn't finished. "Aslan," she says slowly, "we're at the Final Eight."

(Looks like it's my time to shine.)

MARCUS ARGENTUS: Welcome everyone to our second Final Eight interview here in District Five! A rare occurrence indeed. Here we have with us the chance to speak to an acquaintance of Aslan Salvatici's. What is your name, young man?

?: Keppler Salvatici.

M. ARGENTUS: Ah, a brother, then?

K. SALVATICI: Adopted.

M. ARGENTUS: Oh, wonderful! Are you close? You must be if—

K. SALVATICI: No.

M. ARGENTUS: Oh.

K. SALVATICI: We used to be.

M. ARGENTUS: What happened?

K. SALVATICI: Nothing. Everything. We… grew apart.

M. ARGENTUS: Ah. It happens, I suppose. But now..? How does it feel to see Aslan in the Games?

K. SALVATICI: [deep sigh]

K. SALVATICI: Well, he's kept himself alive. Somehow.

M. ARGENTUS: Somehow indeed! Honestly, I have no idea how he does it. Good to have a little help, eh?

K. SALVATICI: I suppose.

M. ARGENTUS: Some interesting strategies we've seen from his end; what do you think about his alliance? Or— alliances; it looks like he'd had some plans at the beginning that didn't quite pan out.

K. SALVATICI: [snorts] I'm not surprised. He wouldn't know strategy if it slapped him in the face.

M. ARGENTUS: I see. How do you feel about his chances, then? Think he'll make it to the end?

K. SALVATICI: Honestly? I think he'll die a martyr, or he'll never really come back at all.

M. ARGENTUS: That's… harsh.

K. SALVATICI: It's what he would want.

M. ARGENTUS: You know him better than I.

K. SALVATICI: Unfortunately.

M. ARGENTUS: …Alright, that's all the time we have! Thank you again, Mr. Keppler Salvatici. I'll see you all soon in District Seven!

"Do you not smell that at all?"

Aslan frowns as Casey nods to his arm. "Um. I don't know?"

"It really reeks."

"Does it?"

She makes a face.

Aslan leans over, giving his shoulder a whiff. Nothing. Gingerly, he picks up the limb with his free hand, bringing one of the sections where the fabric is ripped up to his nose, and, "Oh, good god." The stench makes his head spin, and Aslan has to pause, leaning up against one of the broken-down cars. "Good thing we're getting rid of this puppy soon, eh?"

Casey's expression morphs into a grimace. She eyes the limb warily, and Aslan has a vague memory of her vomiting at the sight of it.

The smell probably didn't help.

They walk along the topside of the bridge now, weaving in between cars. The sun beats down; Aslan tries to ignore how faint it makes him feel. He focuses on the vehicles instead as they walk towards the city, noting colors, shapes, levels of dust that have accumulated on their hoods as he thumps each one in passing. For some reason they're all headed in the same direction— away.

Aslan tries not to think about what that means.

It leaves the right side of the road completely empty though, an escape route if they need to make a run for it.

But he and Casey are more interested in the cars. "What about this one?" She points to a squat, faded teal thing. A large pod rests on its roof; Casey climbs up to pop it open while Aslan unclips the extra carabiner she gave him, slips both the clip and his sleeve over his knuckles, and sends a fist flying into the driver's side window. It takes a couple hits before the spidery cracks give way, and Aslan unlocks the door with a grin.

Clearly, this driver was more prepared. Either them or the Gamemakers; Aslan doesn't know which.

Doesn't matter. Backseat's stuffed with a variety of suitcase and packs, and even a bag of some ancient brands of snacks. "Ayo, Casey! Jackpot!" Greedily, he rips open a bag; a bit stale, but still tasty.

She climbs down once he unfolds himself out of the backseat, a heavy-looking first aid kit in her grasp.

Aslan swallows. "Guess we're doing it, huh?"

She nods. They decide to go through their haul first. Within the pod, she extracts an entire comforter, some fluffy pillows, and a solid wooden baseball bat. Aslan can't remember ever seeing a game of baseball, but he eagerly takes the bat when she hands it to him. She pulls out a hammer for herself, a few rusted nails. Aslan takes a minute to painstakingly hammer them into his bat while she noses through the suitcases and packs.

As he drives the last nail in, Casey returns with a lighter, a pack of cigarettes, and a too-giddy grin.

"Absolutely not," Aslan deadpans.

"But you promised—"

"Kid, we're about to cut my goddamn arm off, if anyone needs them, it's me."

"Fine," she huffs, foot-stomp and exaggerated eye-roll included; Aslan can't help but snicker at the display. She chucks a tube of sunscreen at him in retaliation. "You're looking crispy, by the way."

Now that she mentions it, his cheeks have been stinging a bit more than usual. "Please, I've never used this a day in my life."

"You probably should."

"Ah, c'mon, what's another flavor of cancer to add to the list?"

She snorts and continues digging through the suitcases. Most of the clothes are too big for her, and if Aslan had to guess, a little too small for himself; the majority of the human race tended to fall within that range, and this driver didn't seem the type for kids.

He surveys Casey's handiwork. If he didn't know better, he'd think the car exploded. Clothes are strewn every which way, leaking out into the street. "Hey, we should probably clean some of this up so they don't—"

"Woah, check this out." Aslan peers over her shoulder at the large swath of worn leather she tugs out. Casey stands, holding it—a jacket— as high as she can, though the hem still drags along the asphalt. She peers around it. "Kinda looks like the one you wore on Reaping Day, yeah?"

"No."

Casey's face falls, but Aslan's still staring at the coat, entranced.

It doesn't look like his old one, though. Alright, maybe the shape is similar, the same cracked-leather feel, but this one's got a more olive tone to it. Less pockets, less hand-sewn patchwork, less memories.

But god, if it doesn't bring a half-goofy grin to his face. "It's perfect."

He throws it over his shoulders, ruffling Casey's hair—she ducks with a squawk, but she's smiling too.

Unfortunately, he has to take it off when Casey points out that he's stalling.

(Purge the rot, keep the whole.)

Casey sets up the medical supplies— disinfects the knife, lays out the bandages, the lighter. He's not sure how much help he'll need, but it's unfair—cruel, even—to force her through something she can't handle.

He's already put her through so much.

Still, she lingers when he unwraps the limb, the collar of her shirt pulled over her nose, and it's… frankly, it's so much worse than he thought. The color still doesn't make sense to his brain, a patchwork of mottled black, green, yellow-purple like a glitch in the matrix. Indented stripes mark where the rope's grip carved into his flesh, and it's odd, the ways his bones poke beneath what used to be skin.

Aslan stares at it, as if he's watching from outside his body. It doesn't feel like his— at least, not until he sees the tattoos.

Or, what's left of them, at least.

Faint lines blur beneath the necrosis, nearly lost to death's slow artwork. His fingers hover gingerly over what used to be a pile of lumpy kittens on his inner forearm— Argo. An elaborate scorpion— Keppler. There's one from Elja on here somewhere too from ages ago, but he can't see it, can't—can't remember.

The lightheadedness returns.

(Stop looking at them, Aslan.)

"What happened to your fingers?" comes Casey's muffled question.

Aslan swallows thickly. He doesn't want to remember, doesn't want to see what else was taken from him; he shakes his head, half-shrugs. There's a little driver's manual in the glove compartment. Aslan rolls it up and tells Casey to scram before shoving it between his teeth. He grips the knife.

(Stop hesitating.)

I'm not.

(It's mostly off already, just get it over with.)

It's true; Aslan glances down at his shoulder. He won't even have to cut through bone. Oh, god I don't know if that's better or worse, oh god oh god—

(Breathe. It's not your arm anymore, get rid of it. Come on, hold the knife just like that—good. Now keep going.)

I'm trying.

It really is a ridiculously small knife for such a task. He slices, gingerly; sharply. With every one, he expects pain. Sometimes there's a tingle. Sometimes it's a dull nerve-pain that makes his fingernails curl, and sometimes there's nothing. It's too unsettling to be relieving, but he slices away, through muscle, sinew, tendons; he doesn't know the difference, really, and there's no blood. At least he doesn't feel any— no warmth, no gushing— even if it feels like he should—

(There, that wasn't so bad, was it?)

Aslan doesn't look. He hears the limb fall; cringes at the sound, but he's not done. The necrosis—it still lingers, and he needs to be rid of it. Once and for all.

His teeth clench around the booklet. Drool gathers in his mouth, but that's the least of Aslan's concerns. It takes more than a few tries for his trembling fingers to flick the lighter on, and even then, he has to repeat the action when he burns himself, flinches.

But he manages a steady flame, trembling and all. Slowly, he holds it to the wound, letting the hungry little thing lick over the dead skin, destroying, cleansing.

And this—this hurts. He knows the flame, but he focuses on the paper within his teeth, the softness, the chemical tang of ink…

(It's just a little fire, it's necessary, yeah? Breathe through it. Burn off the rot.)

The rigid plastic of the lighter bites into his thumb.

(I know it hurts. I know.)

His hand cramps; his flesh sears.

(This is your reality, Aslan, even if it wasn't your choice.)

He closes his eyes.

(You've always chosen to fight, haven't you?)

"Are you okay?"

Aslan flinches, drops the lighter. It flicks off, and Casey looks him pointedly in the eye.

"You were, uh, whimpering."

He flashes a weary thumbs-up, blinking sparks from his vision. Her gaze flicks to the arm, then back. Wordlessly, she steps over it, snagging the gauze, disinfectant, bandages, and sets to work. Aslan tries to protest, but it's merely a faint mumble. He accepts the tablets she presses into his hand, tossing them back with a swig of water. Pain pills, he realizes. Lucky find.

Looks like she uses half the bottle of disinfectant to clean the… he doesn't know what to call it, really. Too smooth for "stump", carries more weight than "wound." Either way, Casey cleans it, and it stings; Aslan can tell it stings, but he's too loopy, too delirious to do anything but groan in not-quite-pain.

She's done before he knows it, and Aslan offers her a weary smile in thanks. He can't read her expression, but she drapes the leather coat over his body, all curled up in the driver's seat as he is, and he can't help the bizarre comfort that washes over him.

(You'll never stop owing her, will you?)

Not now, Kepp.

His eyes droop.

They find it on the pavement, the thing that used to be his arm, and that fuzzy feeling dissipates.

He can't stand it, actually.

Aslan unfurls himself. He throws the jacket over his shoulder, shoves the one arm through and fastens the snaps at his collar to keep it on. In the corner of his eye, Casey's on sudden high alert, and he bends. Grabs his withered arm by the wrist. Doesn't look at it as he strides towards the edge. Breaks into a run once he hits open pavement, and he rears back, twists, launches the dead limb over the rail, and watches it fall.

The movement unbalances him. Aslan catches himself, peering over the railing as it disappears from view. His breath comes in gasps, and he can't help the sudden image that comes to mind— some poor tribute hanging out underneath or on the water while a goddamn arm falls from the sky—

Air huffs through his lungs; it morphs into something like a wheeze, and in seconds, he's doubled over, clutching onto the rail for dear life as a fit of laughter overtakes him.

Casey finds him like this, crouched against the railing.

He sees her through his tears, and the expression on her face—the caution, the sheer bewilderment— it's so fucking funny. He throws back his head in a half-mad cackle at the sheer absurdity of it all, choking on air even when it starts to fade.

The stretch in his lungs never quite goes away.

Casey still looks at him like he's losing it, and maybe he is, but she helps him up anyways. They make their way back to the car, and Aslan doesn't quite know what to say, so for once, he shuts up.

There's a ghostly throbbing in the place where his arm used to be, and when Casey tells him to take it easy, he kicks back the driver's seat and actually listens. He ebbs a bit; not entirely, but enough to watch in a daze while she re-stuffs the car with the things she'd unpacked. When the sky starts to dim, she crawls into the passenger seat with that big comforter, a bag of stale chips, and enough pillows for the both of them. As twilight falls, more PB&Js float down from the sky, but neither quite have the appetite.

Even less when someone's cannon goes off.

He lights a cigarette instead. The anthem tells them it's the Ten girl; Aslan can't remember ever seeing her face in his life.

Casey doesn't comment either, snuggling deeper within their shared blanket, and Aslan's mind drifts to the ones who remain— the ones who don't. "They came back for me, you know," he says quietly. Casey lifts her little head. "Brax and the others. He-he came back for me."

Even in the dim light, her dark gaze is disbelieving. "He did? What happened?"

"…He died."

It's nothing they both didn't know. Still, the pause is heavy.

"Carlisle died, and Miles from Seven died too," Aslan continues. "I don't—I don't know what happened with them, but Brax—" his voice falters— "they hung him right next to me."

Casey is silent.

It takes Aslan a minute to figure out why, to see the moonlight glinting off the wetness on her cheeks. Furiously, she presses a palm to her eyes, but the flow doesn't abate. A pillow rests on the console between them, and she buries her head into its softness; Aslan's remaining arm reaches around her frame to hug her, awkward but tender, and she lifts her head to speak. "I don't—I don't understand." Her voice is small, so small. "Why do they have to be so cruel?"

Why?

Why did they do that to me? What was the fucking point?

…

(You know why.)

Aslan shakes his head, ignoring the dampness on his own cheeks. "Nobody has to be cruel, Casey. Nobody ever has to be cruel. They just choose to be."