vii. THE THREADS

They're not really sure where to go from here. That being said, there aren't many options.

Towards the city.

Towards the gap.

With that in mind, the choice is easy. Aslan's just not sure if the Gamemakers will let them make it to the end.

End of the bridge, end of the Games…

(It's all the same, isn't it?)

They meander between the cars, just in case. Nothing else offers decent cover. He can tell Casey itches to scale the cords and posts that keep the bridge suspended, but that's simply not within Aslan's realm of capabilities right now.

Or ever, probably.

Regardless, Aslan expects to come across another tribute any second. He's not sure what he'll do in that event, but he keeps his bat at the ready, just in case.

(Going to kill someone with that, are you?)

Not if I don't have to.

(What are those nails for, then?)

Aslan swings the bat as he strides. Back, forth.

(You put them there, you know.)

Casey pads on ahead, silent as ever. Aslan keeps a keen eye on her as she flits between vehicles, ever-so-cautious of being seen.

Really, though, who knows how many are watching? It's a live broadcast, after all.

(Don't worry about them. Worry about the Careers. The Seven girl.)

Bailey?

(That other little one.)

Pash…

(And her.)

…He's always worried about Casey.

Aslan pauses at the front of a bright red car, shinier than the others. Maybe he should be more worried about the incoming hatchet in the reflection of the windshield.

He ducks— glass shatters like sharp raindrops over his head.

Bat in white-knuckled grip, he turns mid-crouch, and she's almost upon him, the Two girl. Teeth bared in a snarl that's half a grin, she lunges. He barely sees the second hatchet surging towards his face, but he raises the bat anyways; splinters spray from the collision, but it holds strong.

Two's stronger. Vertigo rings in Aslan's ears, but he springs upright, forcing her back.

It won't be enough. He knows that, but if he can just buy Casey some time—

"Hey! Over here!"

Horrified, Aslan's head whips towards the sound of Casey's voice just as Two lets out a cackle.

Aslan shoves, sprinting to his partner's side before the Career can even think of changing directions— "Oh, you want a chase now?" Damn, she's fucking quick, but his feet already thunder down the clear side of the road, hot on Casey's heels. Goddammit, kid! But he's got no breath to scold her, all energy poured into keeping himself between her and their pursuer.

(Bet you regret those cigarettes now, huh?)

Yeah, thanks for that one.

(Eyes ahead.)

Stop distracting me.

(Aslan—!)

Without warning, Casey stops.

Aslan's only a few feet behind, and he—can't—

On instinct, his hand shoots out—drops the bat, wraps around Casey's waist—and he tackles her, pulls her inwards. He twists midair to cushion her fall. She lands on top of him with a huff, and they skid across the pavement. He's winded too; the impact stings, but he shifts again so he's on top of her, shielding her from the bite of an axe that never comes…

…

…Something drips onto the back of his neck.

(Breathe.)

—gasp—

Drip.

A bizarre noise reaches his ears, something between a whimper and a gurgle. Aslan looks up.

Two is… there, somehow, suspended above them at some odd angle, and it doesn't—it doesn't make sense; she moves, twitches, but gets nowhere. She's so clearly stuck— Aslan doesn't understand until he sees the thin lines of red sprouting all over her body, sunlight glinting off near-invisible threads strung between the beams of the bridge. A deep scarlet smile stretches across her throat. . . .

Drip.

It lands on his upper lip.

His gaze travels past the glazed blue of the Two girl's, higher, higher. In the sky, a black spot circles, round and round and round.

"Go," he breathes.

Casey doesn't budge. She's frozen, staring up at Two in utter horror.

Aslan shoves her, harsh. "Go!" She kicks into gear, scrambling upright and Aslan's not far behind. He scoops up his bat as black wings grow larger, and they take off without a second thought for what they leave behind.

The cannon sounds far, far later than it should.

"You okay?"

It's about the fifth time Aslan asks. It's the first time he gets a response, but even then, it's only a small shake of Casey's head.

(Don't tell me you're surprised.)

He's not, not really. Who the hell would be okay after what they just saw?

He sure isn't, but Aslan hasn't been okay in a long time.

"I'm—sorry you had to see that, Casey," he says genuinely. Her gaze stays trained forwards as they walk towards the city still. "I'm sorry it came so damn close, I really am, and y'know, it's—" he huffs— "it's probably stupid and horrible to say but I wish it didn't come down to luck to get us out, I could've— I…"

The words taste rancid on his lips and he sighs, heavy. Casey doesn't respond, and that's almost worse. The pack of cigs in his pocket burns, and he tucks the bat under his elbow, fishing one out.

He offers one to Casey. "Here. I know I promised you…"

Her eyes flick towards him, but she makes no move to grab it.

"Alright, I won't push." He puts it between his lips; the lighter's here somewhere… Gotcha. He lights the cig, takes a drag, but immediately it sends him into a fit of coughing. "God, my fucking luck in this place is insa—"

"It wasn't luck, Aslan!"

He flinches, stops in his tracks. He certainly didn't expect her to start shouting, and maybe it's better than her pained silence, but Aslan, he…he almost can't bear to see that look on her face. "What…what do you mean," he says slowly.

"Two," she chokes out.

Her eyes don't meet his. Her fingers spin and unspin the safety screw of her carabiner, fiddle with the rope at her belt, and Aslan only stares.

"Pash and Lily set a bunch of those traps on the first night, before—before they split," she finally says. "I was still following from above, and I—I saw…"

Aslan swallows*. "You led us there?"

"I saw the threads, I-I didn't know what else to do, she was gonna kill you! I couldn't let her to you, but I-I never wanted—I-I-I didn't—"

Her breath quickens into gasps. She's not crying, but despair contorts her little-girl features, and Aslan can't save her from what she did, as much as he wishes he could take her place.

Instead he wraps an arm around her and hugs her tight because he knows, even if he never wanted to. "Casey, you saved us. You saved me, again. Nobody can fault you for this, whatever the outcome, because it's not your fault you're here in the first place, remember?

"Every bad decision that you or I made, it's led to us still being alive right now, and that's—that's all we can ask for, okay?"

Two would've killed them both if she could. Of that, Aslan is sure.

He can't spare the pity for her, the kindness, because Casey's right here, and she needs him more. She needs to hear what he learned, that people can choose to be kind just as they choose to be cruel, but sometimes, all you can do is choose to live.

(Can you live with that choice, Aslan?)

They walk for what feels like the whole day, but the road stretches endlessly. The city barely grows larger. An unattainable mirage, Aslan's sure of it.

That doesn't stop them from trying.

(You'll never make it. Not with her.)

But the sun follows them, and when it sets, they stop too and watch the Two girl's cruel smile paint the sky. When it rises, they begin anew.

It's mid-afternoon when they come across the crash.

Aslan and Casey instinctively slow. He's never seen one this messy; by the look of it, the once-sleek black pickup truck got impatient and plowed into several of its smaller fellows. Either that, or it was running from something. Desperately enough to upend ten or so of its road mates.

Scraps of metal and rubber litter the road. Broken glass. Shaved-off side mirrors. Even miscellaneous things like water bottles, books, makeup, a pair of fuzzy dice linked by a string; things that likely belonged to the victims, were thrown from their cars upon impact.

The scene is unsettling at best; tragic at worst.

Only thing is, Aslan can't tell if it's real.

The traffic jam is one thing, but a Gamemaker-staged car crash? Why? Unless another tribute somehow did it— he vaguely remembers a Hunger Games where some kid hotwired a car— but the list of tributes who could've been capable are long dead. He thinks. He should've at least remembered the sound…

Or not. I've been pretty out of it.

Still, he'd bet money it was here before they launched. But that begs the question— if it was real, what happened to all the people?

Aslan's not sure he wants to find out.

He clutches his baseball bat a little tighter as Casey picks her way around the scene. "Careful, Case." In response, she pulls the hammer out from the side of her pack.

Aslan follows close behind, a looming afternoon shadow.

His hair fights the sweat at the back of his neck, itching to stand on end, and Aslan tugs at his collar. It'd be hard to point out something that isn't wrong about this scene, but even in its eerie frozen-in-time essence, nothing immediately jumps out. No creatures crawl from beneath the hoods of overturned cars. No noise aside from the light breeze that rattles the debris, but…

Something's here. Something quiet.

Aslan's never liked the quiet. "Casey," he calls again, slowly, just as she reaches out to touch something—nothing?—midair.

No, not nothing— a thin, silver thread.

"Casey."

"What?" She turns around to face him, but Aslan's eyes lock on something behind her.

Movement— he swears it.

And he's right. A glimpse of pale brown. Round, wary eyes. They've been spotted— they know it. A small frame steps out from behind a crumpled blue vehicle, knuckles white around the blade of a throwing knife, but Aslan's weapon lowers.

"Pash…"

She doesn't relax. Her eyes flick nervously between him and Casey, the studded bat, the hammer.

"It's okay," Aslan says. "We're not going to hurt you."

(Don't be a fool.)

"We're not."

But the Eight girl's not listening, he can tell.

Neither is Casey.

Her eyes never leave Pashmina, and in his peripheral, Aslan sees her fist tighten around the hammer. She twitches, and it—it happens so fast—

(Shit.)

—the flash of a blade—

(Don't look.)

—the knife in her eye—

(Please.)

—a sharp gasp, and Casey falls—

Aslan catches her, stunned.

It—it doesn't look real, it can't be, knives don't belong in twelve year-old girls' eyes, it's not… "Casey?" She stares past him, convulsing in his arms. Little fingers find a grip in his jacket, breath comes in sharp, fast intakes, and Aslan… Aslan falls too.

I can't—I can't save you.

His knees scrape asphalt.

But he holds her, and his eyes flick upwards, towards her once-ally, now-killer and Pashmina looks just—

—just as stunned—

"I didn't…"

—just as horrified—

"I-I didn't mean to…"

"It's okay," Aslan says, but his voice is flat. Faraway.

There are no promises. No final words, no undoing this, only the low, low boom of a cannon. Casey's body goes limp.

"I didn't mean to, I-I-I swear, I didn't—" Some part of his brain registers that Pashmina's crying now, hyperventilating, and gently, so gently, he lays Casey to rest on the warm pavement. "I'm so—I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"It's. Okay."

Pashmina goes silent, still trembling, still rapid-breathing, and Aslan realizes he's standing now. His feet step closer to her.

"You didn't mean to, Pashmina. Right?"

A shadow looms over her.

She whimpers, pressing herself against the faded blue car, and Aslan doesn't realize it's his. "It's okay, Pash!"

(Aslan, stop.)

"It was an accident!" Somehow, the baseball bat materializes in his grip. "You didn't mean to!"

(Don't do this.)

"It's okay, right?! It's not your fault! You didn't—"

(Aslan!)

"—mean it!"

Crunch.

"You didn't—!" He shouts over the screams— "want to! It's not—!"

Crunch.

"—your—!"

Crunch.

"—fault!"

The car's not blue anymore. Something like copper burns his tongue, but he can't stop, his body won't listen, it's—boom—just red, all he sees is red, my favorite color, red-coated nails, flecks of white, clumps of hair on the pavement, and there's something at his feet—

A stench hits his nose. Aslan chokes. He steps backwards, wheezing; it coats the back of his throat, and it's just… "I—"

(…Aslan.)

"—didn't mean—"

(I told you to stop.)

"—didn't mean to—"

(Why didn't you stop?)

"It's not my fault, it's not my…I didn't…"

(Don't. Look.)

He looks.

That's—that's not a person. Air huffs through his teeth. Don't be ridiculous, that's not…

(…)

…I did that?

(It's the Games. That's what happens; she killed Casey, you killed her. Fair and square, right? That's how it works—)

Oh.

(You were never going to save her, but you can save yourself, okay? You can get out, you can get back home, and—)

His hand shakes. No—his whole body.

A strange sound fills the air, like laughing, gasping, sobbing. His head spins. The weapon in his hand, it's covered in—covered in—but he can't let go. His grip is a vice, a lifeline, but the two small bodies on the ground, he…

…couldn't save them.

…couldn't save anyone.

Cut off the part. Save the whole.

But what's left?

Aslan tilts his head back towards the sun. His vision blurs; he closes his eyes, and something wet rolls down his cheeks. That noise— he still hears it, gasp-laugh-sob—

She's dead now. They're all dead.

But at least they don't have to live with this.

Aslan steps back once again. For all his failures, he deserves to live with this. He flicks the bat; droplets of gore splatter against the pavement, but Aslan doesn't look as he steps away from the car crash, away from the dead.

He's alone, but all he can think is, better me than them.

[Silence]

[Unknown interruption]

MISS APRIL: Oh, it's on? Okay. Right. Um. Hello, everyone, this is— [coughs] —this is Miss April here for Daily Five Live's official Games coverage. Oh—right, and our temporary co-host, Just Elja.

[Pause]

JUST ELJA: Oh. Hi.

MISS APRIL: So I—I don't know how-how much we need to go into great detail about this, but we, um. Today we lost our female tribute Casey Bolton, and I…f—k.

[Sharp intake followed by forcefully controlled breathing]

MISS APRIL: Sorry. Aslan killed the District Eight girl.

[Pause]

JUST ELJA: Do you want to keep going?

MISS APRIL: Yes. Yeah, I'm—fine. He—this has been a hard, hard Games to watch. But Eight killed our Casey— it's only Aslan now.

JUST ELJA: Do you want to introduce our guest or should I?

[Sharp sigh]

MISS APRIL: We have a guest with us today—who requested to make an on-air appearance, by the way, he was not invited—so without further ado, Keppler Salvatici everyone.

[Cricket sound effect]

KEPPLER SALVATICI: Really?

KEPPLER SALVATICI: Whatever. Given current events, I merely wanted to request that any public or financial support for Aslan be instead sent to the Salvatici Orphan fund—

JUST ELJA: What the f—k?

KEPPLER SALVATICI: Right now, these kids need it most, it's what he would w—

MISS APRIL: Did you really just come on my show to steal his sponsor money?!

KEPPLER SALVATICI: That's not what I—

MISS APRIL: Oh, I bet you think we didn't hear what you said on TV too, huh?

KEPPLER SALVATICI: I stand by that. He'd be better off dead when they hanged him.

JUST ELJA: He's your brother!

KEPPLER SALVATICI: He hasn't been my brother for a long time.

MISS APRIL: You son of a—

KEPPLER SALVATICI: [voice raises] F—king look at him, Argo!

MISS APRIL: Dude—

KEPPLER SALVATICI: I don't give a flying f—k about your stupid radio show personality, just look at him! That is not your Aslan! He's never f—king coming back, and if you ask me, the world is better off for it!

JUST ELJA: You piece of shit!

KEPPLER SALVATICI: I'm just being hon—

[Loud thump, followed by muffled shouts and sounds of physical violence]

[Show cuts off; dead air]

There's a hollow feeling in his chest that Aslan can't escape, no matter how high he climbs.

And climb he does— it's what Casey would want, he thinks.

Because thinking about her is somehow easier than remembering what he did to Pashmina—

(Watch your rope.)

Aslan pauses. He unclips the carabiner at the end of his knotted rope, moves it up the thin cable-rail, and continues the climb up the arch. The magnets in his boots cling to the thick, rounded beam of metal that forms the support arch; two cables on either side act as a rail that his rope latches onto, but Aslan can only grab onto one.

He won't make it to the top, not before he passes out or something, but Casey would love this view, he thinks.

He never did give her that cigarette.

(That's enough for now.)

Wind howls in his ears. It feels nice, though he can't escape that swaying feeling in his stomach, the ghost-pain in his absent arm.

Aslan pauses. There's another cable support up ahead. He unclips the rope again when he gets there and tucks himself behind it, lowering himself to a sitting position. He fishes them out of his pocket— the cigarettes, the lighter.

Two left.

He sighs and lights one.

It's long gone by the time the stars come out and the anthem comes on, but he doesn't let himself look, and he doesn't let himself sleep.

With morning comes the song of cannons. Aslan counts two. He's not sure who's left, but it can't be many.

They won't let him stay up here.

Correction: they won't let him stay up here and live.

He lingers anyways, taking inventory of his pockets. Cigarette, lighter, water bottle, one last sandwich. That old tube of sunscreen. Brax's knife.

And, of course, his bat.

It dangles from a secure slip on his harness, and Aslan's not sure if he should look at it or not. A chill ruffles through his mane of hair, and he tugs at the collar of his jacket. With it, the wind brings a flutter of wings.

Aslan tenses, expecting the vulture, but it's not— just a seagull.

He sighs.

Another floats down with an awkward squawk.

In the blink of an eye, it seems like he's surrounded by them. They stare with expectant, beady eyes and beaks that look razor sharp the longer he stares back.

(Time to get down.)

The closest bird lets loose an irritated cry.

"Alright, alright, I get it."

It takes Aslan longer than feels safe to fiddle one-handed with the rope. He manages to secure it around the cable support and slide down the tension line; the friction burns the inside of his elbow, the palm of his magnet-glove, but it's better than falling. He would know.

A good foot or so of slack brushes the asphalt. Aslan lands with stinging knees, but he shakes it off, unholsters his studded bat.

It feels like too long since he's thought about his people back home.

The only ones that matter, really.

He has no idea if they're still rooting for him after this, after everything. Frankly, he's not sure it matters. He gets back, and he'll set things right, whether they hate him for it or not.

It's the least he can do.

The seagulls tell him which way to go. They flock to one side of the bridge, and Aslan realizes they're herding him back to the scene of the crash. The crime. The deaths. Somehow, he'd vertically backtracked along the arch; the ever-distant city sits ahead of him now, as out of reach as it ever was.

He reaches the crash before the others, whoever they are, however many they are. It might even just be one. His eyes glaze over the scene—the pools of dried blood, the not-blue crumpled car, the loose, glinting threads that sway in the breeze.

Aslan hops onto the hood of the black pickup, the catalyst of this fucking mess, and lights his last cigarette.

(One last choice, Aslan. You, or them?)

This one's for Casey.