iv. THE FLIGHT
"Oh. My. God! This is going to be so much fun!"
Icara winced at the high-pitched excitement in the stylist's voice; that alone was enough to turn the wheel of dread in her gut as she waited in the sterile dungeon beneath the arena, an ever-present buzzing whirring through the surrounding walls. The more excitable the Capitolites behaved, the more deadly Icara's future promised to be.
Heavenly held up the arena outfit for Icara to see, and the tribute frowned. "What is that supposed to be?"
"Put it on, put it on!" the stylist trilled, clapping her hands once they were free of the garment.
With no small amount of difficulty, Icara unzipped the length of the strange-looking jumpsuit, sharp white accents racing through the brilliant red down its sleeves, legs, and shoulders, a large '2' emblazoned in the front. Already sporting a set of underclothes, a tank top, and athletic shorts, Icara clambered into the odd outfit, zipping it up to her neck. Lara's bracelet sat clumsily on her wrist, bunched up underneath the sleeve. The entire ensemble brought to mind the image of old-timey race car drivers, compounded by the leather helmet and aviator goggles Heavenly strapped to her head, only adding to Icara's confusion. What the hell am I about to be thrown into?
The goggles sat uncomfortably on her nose, the strap of the helmet biting into her chin. Icara attempted to adjust it with her hand only to find her movement restricted by a stretch of fabric connecting the length of her arm to the body of the jumpsuit. She could still reach her face, though looking down, she noticed another flap connecting her legs. Irritated, Icara crouched down, searching for some means of separating them.
"Oh, no, these need to stay like that," Heavenly tutted, batting Icara's hands away just as she found a zipper.
"But I can't move like this!" Icara protested, standing up.
The stylist only shrugged. "Part of the instructions, doll." A cool voice sounded over the intercom, instructing the tributes to step onto their plates. "Oh! Time to go!" Heavenly said, clapping her hands together excitedly.
The wheel was back to turning in Icara's stomach; more like a parasite now, writhing and churning. The soles beneath her feet were thin; Icara could almost feel the cold of the metal plate seeping through the rubber into the pads of her socked feet. Quickly, as if it had been a last-minute thought (and it probably was, knowing the stylist), Heavenly handed her a pair of matching white-and-red gloves; Icara swiftly slipped them over her fingers. "Good luck, dear!"
Just in time; the glass walls of the tube descended shortly after, locking Icara in place. She tried to even her breathing, clear her thoughts as the glass darkened, obscuring Heavenly from view as her plate began to rise.
Icara knew she should be excited; she could bet Alpha was, ready and eager to begin the killing spree.
All she felt was fear. Get it together, Icara, goddammit!
The darkness of the rising tunnel was so severe, so absolute in that moment. Even as it began to gently fade, the plate beneath Icara's feet locking into place, Icara felt blindsided as her eyes adjusted to what wasn't even natural light.
The room — that's what it was, a room — felt far too small, only large enough to encompass the twenty-six tributes, all wearing equally strange suits of various colors and locked within their respective glass tubes.
Why are we still in the tubes; they should've released us by now. The muted buzzing she'd felt in the arena basement seemed magnified here, a vibration almost. Icara's gloves hand pressed against the glass, feeling it hum gently beneath her fingers; the countdown had begun overhead, somewhat muted through the barrier. Icara whipped her head side to side, hoping to find a friendly face, and— Murray! Thank the 'Makers. Clad in a green jumpsuit, Murray looked just as apprehensive as Icara felt; even one pedestal down, he felt miles away.
He mouthed something to her and — oh god, thirty seconds — Icara strained to read his lips.
'Cornucopia?'
It looked like a question; he pointed to the middle of the arena, and… Nothing. No Cornucopia, just a straight shot across the way to the bright orange jumpsuit of the boy from Five. Icara's eyes widened.
How could she have only just noticed? She — twenty seconds, fuck, fuck — peered around the room, looking for something, weapons, supplies, anything. Nothing. Only Hentiretta's brows knitted in confusion a couple pedestals away, the steady pounding of Alpha's fist against the glass. Icara huffed; her district partner looked like he ached to spring free already and start snapping necks, weapons be damned.
This is gonna be a short Hunger Games.
All around her, beyond the glass tube, nothing but metal walls. There has to be something else. This can't be it. The whirring — 'Makers, at this point, it was incessant — seemed to increase, and Icara's stomach swooped, not from nerves (she thought) but — ten seconds, shit! — almost like the room itself was swaying, well out of her control.
Glancing down at her jumpsuit again, Icara pulled at the flaps on her arms. 'Part of the instructions, doll.' And one final piece clicked into place.
Are we… on a hovercraft?
Icara didn't have time to react to the thought before the countdown reached zero.
The plate beneath her feet inexplicably disappeared, and she plummeted.
Icara knew she screamed; she could feel it even if she couldn't hear it, lost to the wind buffeting her ears and threatening to rip her to shreds.
She was falling, fast, the ground beneath her so far away, so red. Sandy red, not blood red. Not yet anyways, at this rate. It was hard to make sense of anything except the omniscient freefall enveloping her gut, but thanks to the goggles protecting her face, she caught flashes of the other tributes falling alongside her, clips of their terror-filled voices before that too was lost to the wind. We're all falling, we're all gonna die.
God, I can't, not like this.
A gust of wind swept over her, harsh and fierce; instinctively, Icara stuck her hand out to steady herself, but there was nothing for her to grab. Instead, the wind grabbed her, pushing against the fabric locking her arm to her body, Icara at the mercy of its embrace. Helpless, she felt herself careen into something unexpectedly solid.
Icara yelped, lashing out, latching out, and the responding noise sounded almost like her name. Her hand closed around an arm, and with difficulty, she maneuvered herself out of the immediate danger of another tribute, making to shove them away when their hand retaliated with a tighter grip. "Icara!"
"Murray!" She could hardly hear her own voice.
Somehow they ended up floating, bodies parallel to the ground, hands grasped tightly around wrists as the air carried them, straining against their—batsuits; whatever the Gamemakers had put them in was designed to help.
Beneath them, the red valley grew ever-nearer, shadows dancing across the surface indicating rock structures, many of them. A glint of light caught her eye, sun rays reflecting off metal, originating from a flat island of land that seemed much higher than the surrounding dirt. Icara's eyes widened. "Cornucopia!" she screamed, and Murray seemed to get it.
His fingers tightened impossibly around hers as they fell, floated, glided, holding on to her like a fucking lifeline, that's what she was.
Glancing upwards, Icara caught sight of the underbelly of the hovercraft that released them. So far away already; her curses were swallowed by the wind in her throat. The air— hard to breathe, Murray's hand in hers; good. All around, the other tributes, falling, falling, speeding—
Something shot past her and Murray, buffeting them in its tailwind; Icara caught a flash of strawberry hair, a blue jumpsuit. Henrietta.
The blue blur angled pointedly towards another — pink, struggling — someone somewhere below them having not yet discovered their wings. Icara tried to keep the airborne tussle in sight, her ally wrapping her arms around the pink tribute's neck and jerking. Instead of releasing the body — the body, 'Makers, we're really in it now — Henrietta hugged it tight, keeping it beneath her with its arms outstretched to catch wind.
If she was in a stable enough state, Icara might've felt disgusted by that, but in the midst of freefall, she didn't have room to care.
Murray squeezed her hand to get her attention. "Slow!" he shouted, and Icara nodded; somehow, they'd have to.
Against her body, the currents of air streamed past her with greedy hands; they'd easily give her to the rock when the time came. Mind racing, Icara adjusted her grip on Murray's hand, shifting her body in time with the rushing air. If we glide far enough, maybe we can slow down… But she didn't want to lose sight of Cornucopia. "Circle?"
Wordlessly, she and Murray angled themselves sideways, arms pointed inwards towards the Cornucopia in an attempt to redirect their downward velocity. Their gravity-induced fall turned to a descending spiral, better than nothing. In fact, when Icara tilted her chin upwards, the rest of her body seemed to even lift somewhat.
Somewhere along the line, the sinking pit of her stomach turned to sheer exhilaration, and she laughed.
Murray caught her smile almost infectiously; around them — above them, below them — some of the others had copied their motions, spread their limbs and let the wings of their suits catch air. Already, she noticed some gliding away from the Cornucopia, though what looked to be gusts of harsh wind seemed to prevent them from drifting too far from the action.
Like hawks, Icara and Murray circled, the Cornucopia resolving itself into a pile of weapons as they drew nearer. Icara glimpsed the other members of the pack through her goggles, the red flash of Alpha's suit, a black '1' contrasting with the bright yellow of Starla's jumpsuit as she looped above them, her blonde hair streaming behind her.
Lower, lower — we're still going too fast, goddammit — and Icara glimpsed a set of shiny points among the weapons pile: a quiver of javelins. Mine.
The stack of weapons called to her, as strong as the pull of gravity, and Icara slowly detached herself from Murray, ignoring the questioning tilt of his head as she tightened the circles she cut through the air. Risky, risky; Icara knew she'd need to come to a stop at some point, but more than that she needed to play the Games, and to do that, she needed a weapon, that one—
Narrowing her eyes, Icara ignored the ground rising up to meet her, focusing her sight on the quiver.
Icara wasn't the first to near the ground but—! She winced at the crunch of bone against rock, the bright red splatter of blood on dirt. Not important, get the quiver. Her maneuver had grown so tight her ears were almost facing the ground; as she neared, Icara righted herself, angling parallel to the ground again and diving for the weapons. It was all she could do to stretch one arm towards the sling, reaching, calling it to loop around her outstretched fingers.
She grabbed; as soon as the strap brushed her fingers, she raised her chin, praying for the wind to take her up, just a bit higher, please— she crested the edge of the mesa, her stomach skimming the grass, and the wind carried her from there, higher with the push of open air beneath her. Icara almost wanted to laugh again, laugh at her subtle victory, but she settled for a barrel roll, slinging the leather quiver over her back as she went.
The javelins shifted in place — six of them — the strap thankfully long enough not to interfere with her wings. My wings; I'm fucking flying. It felt good.
Circling back around, Icara swiftly drew a javelin from the quiver, struggling slightly to maintain her gliding pace. The tribute from before hadn't been the only one to meet an untimely fate at the hands of gravity; she tried not to look at the red smears of blood now peppering the dirt and brittle grass, the indications of a poor landing. Others still swarmed overhead, dotting the sky around her, swooping and dipping around the mesa. Some missed the stretch of land completely, disappearing into the cracks of the valley. Probably intentional, Icara thought, though it didn't matter quite yet.
A flash of blue, not Henrietta, but… Icara stayed her javelin, continuing her swirling circle through the air.
Both Icara and Alpha wore red; Murray had been in green, Starla in yellow, and Henrietta in blue, so that must've been her district partner, Leighton. Icara didn't think the calculating girl would forgive her too quickly for taking out her partner so soon.
Another form swept past her: purple, close enough in range; Icara launched her javelin without thinking, sacrificing a meter or two in height. The weapon arced through the air, Icara reeling from the momentum. It struck home with a scream of pain; the tribute — girl, ten on her chest — went limp around the protruding weapon, knocked from her flight path. The blow carried her down towards the sheer crag bearing the weight of the Cornucopia, a merciless wall of rock, and—
Icara looked away, though not soon enough.
Raising her chin, she let another current of wind carry her just a little higher, away, please from the sight, the consequence of her actions.
I killed her.
She needed to land, now.
Icara didn't draw another javelin; adjusting her body, she angled herself towards the Cornucopia, her form slicing the air into ribbons. Slow down. Slow down, I need to slow down.
Coming in from another angle, a blue jumpsuit approached. Henrietta still grasped tightly to her dead body like it was some sort of golden ticket. Icara watched as she positioned it just before touching the ground, using the poor tribute to soften the blow of her own fall in a bloody smudge. They skidded towards the edge of the mesa, Henrietta releasing the body just in time to save herself while it slid over the edge into oblivion.
'Makers, Icara wanted to hurl, but the ground was coming up too fast, too soon; it would be her lifeblood in the dirt if she wasn't careful.
Chin up, air in the suit, speed going down, she thought (hoped), the toes of her boots brushing the dry grass. The end of the mesa was coming too close, too quick, too much. A nick in her boot and she tripped, over something, nothing, a rock, it didn't matter as she rolled, helpless, towards the edge. Her fingers reached for something, finding nothing again, and then a sudden hand had her in its grip, fierce and unyielding.
Icara glanced up, dizzy from the motion, lack of motion, into Henrietta's cold green eyes behind the screen of her goggles, the source of her stopping force. "Nice of you to drop in," the Three girl said, a rare wry smile ghosting her features.
Hell. Icara laughed, breathless and stupid. I'm safe. For now.
Henrietta had found some sort of inflatable crash-landing cushions within the Cornucopia supplies; she pulled the tag just in time to catch Alpha barreling towards them from the sky. He rolled into the dirt with a groan, and Icara visibly stifled her disappointment.
Murray, who'd landed just after Icara and a tad more roughly, caught her reaction, shaking his head while trying to hide his own chuckle.
Starla descended next, somehow ever-graceful in her crash-landing. Sliding off the mat, she made straight for the pile of weapons, immediately arming herself with a bow. Some poor kid in a teal jumpsuit attempted to make use of their landing mat; they got an arrow through their skull before they even hit the cushion. Murray's district partner, Maris, was the last to land without repercussion; Icara scanned the skies for the yellow jumpsuit of District One indicating their remaining member, finding only a diminishing number of circling outliers. Another fell from the sky as she watched, one of Starla's arrows embedded in their chest.
"Found him." Henrietta's voice interrupted her scouting, and Icara turned her head to find her pointing towards one of the large red smears, the yellow fabric barely visible through the mess.
Immediately, Starla abandoned her post, lowering her weapon as she ran to her district partner's side. "Dead," she said after a minute, wiping her hands in a patch of scraggly grass. "Sorry, Morty."
Whether she was really sorry or not didn't matter. Icara hadn't known him as well as Starla might have, but that didn't mean—
"Hey!"
Icara's head snapped towards Alpha's booming yell, and she ducked just in time as something — someone — descended on them with blinding speed. An orange blur swooped towards the weapon pile, just as she had done earlier. Icara couldn't tell if they had managed to grab anything until they swerved midair.
A projectile screamed past Icara's face and she flinched out of the way. Alpha's shout followed a heartbeat later, laced with pain and fury, and she turned to find him clutching at the handle of a throwing knife digging into his shoulder. "I'll kill the fucking bastard!" he spat.
"Who was it?" Starla asked; sure enough, the culprit had disappeared over the edge of the mesa as if they'd never been there in the first place. Orange jumpsuit. Icara kept quiet.
"I don't fucking know," Alpha snarled, yanking the knife out. "I'll kill them all, then, just in case."
The skies around them seemed eerily silent in the wake of Alpha's yells. Icara looked up to find them empty of tributes, those who had succumbed to gravity now littered around the Careers while the rest, she assumed, had escaped.
Alpha had followed her gaze. "Where are they?" he demanded, yanking a sword from the stock of weapons. "Fucking cowards, get over here and fight! I want my fucking Bloodbath!"
Icara exchanged a glance with Murray. "I think that was it, buddy," the Four boy said with a shrug.
"You're kidding me. I didn't even get to kill anyone."
"Neither did I," Murray said evenly. "I'm pretty sure most of us didn't either."
Icara wisely kept silent while they bickered (or, more accurately, while Alpha bickered), not in the mood to brag about her kill. She didn't think she'd ever be in the mood, not with the image of the Ten girl's skull splitting against the rock branded behind her eyes already.
Ten girl; you're welcome, Dagmara.
Forcing it from the forefront of her mind, Icara reinspected the weapon bounty, finding two decently-sized axes to slide onto her belt. Plenty of provisions too; picking through one of the bags, Icara pulled out a roll of bandages. "Hey," she called, interrupting her district partner's rant at how unfair it was for Starla to have two kills when he had none. "You're gonna need to bandage that," she said, nodding towards Alpha's shoulder.
"I'm fine," he growled.
"Bleed out then," Henrietta snapped, and Icara shot her a grateful look.
Grumbling, Alpha let Icara clean and wrap the wound on his shoulder after the latter reminded him of her proficiency in first aid. Not so useless a skill now, huh, Icara thought, though she kept her sardonic sentiments to herself.
Before Alpha could thank her (not that he would, Icara knew), a cannon shot sounded through the air, beginning the song of the dead.
"Thirteen," Henrietta counted once it finished.
Murray let out a low whistle. "Half," he muttered disbelievingly. "Damn."
Henrietta had the idea to count the remaining bodies on the mesa. Icara stayed behind while she roped Leighton and the others into it, checking everyone over for more severe injuries. Other than a couple bruises and scrapes, the rest of the pack — herself included — seemed to be fine. Icara could live with some battered bones as long as they weren't broken.
"Only six here," Henrietta said when they regrouped. "I know mine — Six boy — fell over the ledge when I landed, so that's seven."
"I got one from the air," Starla chipped in.
"Same," Icara said quickly, hoping to go relatively unnoticed.
"So that's nine—"
"You got one? No way."
Icara stiffened at Alpha's accusing tone, his narrowed eyes glaring right at her. Shit. "Ten girl," she clarified neutrally. "I got her when I was flying. Javelin." I saw my javelin pierce her stomach. I saw her blood on the rocks. Someone's daughter, someone's sister, friend. I killed her.
Murray backed her up. "I saw it."
Alpha only scoffed, outvoted. "This is a fucking joke."
"Cheer up, Alphie," Henrietta sneered, sharply nudging his injured shoulder and earning herself a shriveling glare. "Nobody likes a sore loser."
The sky showed them the dead that night, as would be the new usual. Another cannon had joined the chorus during the day, bringing the living down to twelve.
Henrietta sat to Icara's left. "One, five, six, six, seven, seven, eight—"
"Shut up," Alpha groaned from across the campfire.
"—nine, ten, eleven, twelve, twelve, thirteen, thirteen," Henrietta continued, as if she hadn't heard him. She seemed to be talking more to herself than any of the others, a rote memorization of the dead.
Maybe we should be more worried about who's still alive, Icara thought. Seven Careers, five outliers. Stiff competition.
They hadn't moved since landing on the mesa. Since discovering that there was, in fact, no clear-cut way down. No easy trails to follow, just sheer cliffs on every side. They figured they should be fine for the night, with the Cornucopia and its wealth of supplies, but Icara had a feeling that once they left the platform, they wouldn't be coming back.
Not until the discovered the fucking jetpacks the next morning, at least.
Nestled within the back of the Cornucopia, four of the lightweight devices sat, piled innocently upon each other as if they didn't offer such a massive advantage to their bearers. As soon as Leighton identified them, Alpha had grabbed one for himself, strapping it incorrectly to his back. Icara was fairly content to let him leap off the cliff like that, but the other two boys came to his aid, Leighton directing him on how to outfit the pack.
Henrietta claimed another, imploring how she needed to stretch her legs. Since there were only four, Icara remained seated next to their fire pit, knowing the instructions that were coming her way.
Sure enough: "You stay back with Icara," Alpha ordered, pointing to Starla.
"But I want to come hunting with you," Starla protested, no doubt hoping her puppy-dog expression would win him over.
Alpha wasn't having it. "You've already got two kills. Save some for the rest of us."
Starla made a huff about the decision, playing up her pout as she plopped down next to Icara. "I don't mind staying behind too," Murray offered, and Icara thought she caught Starla rolling her eyes before her expression changed.
With that, the four of them took off, somewhat unsteadily at first before they evened out, disappearing into the rocky crags.
After a minute of silence, Starla sighed. Picking up her bow, she set herself up on the overlook where the rest of their allies had flown off from, a vigilant sentinel. Icara and Murray spent the day slipping back into an easy chatter, talking about things that didn't matter so they didn't have to discuss their present situation. When the time came, they made a fairly decent lunch out of Cornucopia rations, helped by a generous gift of fresh fruit and warm sandwiches from their sponsors. They even set some aside for when the others returned from their trip.
And return they did, empty-handed judging by the lack of cannons and the bitter scowl on Alpha's face. Not even fresh food could wipe it off.
Days three and four held much of the same; Icara could sense restless beginning to seep through her alliance members, more than just Alpha. The hunting group, consisting of both Fours, Alpha, and Henrietta again, made no more progress than the rest of the tributes scattered across the arena.
On the fifth day, Alpha switched out Henrietta for Leighton, dragging a round of protests from Starla, who, like Icara, had been relegated to guard duty for the past three outings. Icara understood her ire; sitting on her ass like this would get them no favor from the Capitol viewers. It was Henrietta, however, who placated the One girl. "We need you more on lookout with us," she said, gesturing to herself and Icara. "The three of us are the best ranged fighters here, that's how we'll get the others."
Whether she meant 'others' as in the outliers or the rest of their allies, her words did their magic on Starla. Icara didn't say anything as Starla stalked off to her post again, bow at the ready as if aching for a reason to draw.
"There's too many of us," Henrietta murmured, slipping into a crouch next to where Icara sat.
Icara raised an eyebrow, disguising the flutter of nerves in her stomach at her ally's statement. "Us?"
"Careers."
The fluttering increased. "You're telling me this, why?"
"Think the Gamemakers want to even it out a little bit. Before we get too boring." Henrietta spoke so casually; of course she didn't miss the flicker of Icara's eyes towards their guardian from One. "Not her," Henrietta scoffed, then raised a knowing eyebrow.
Before Icara could respond, a shriek echoed around the valley, horrible and animalistic. Starla's arrow was already drawn by the time Icara and Henrietta met her at the edge of the mesa, respective javelin and knives at the ready. Out in the air, wild movements; the swooping wings of some sort of bird sliced through jetpack smoke trails, and Icara's eyes widened.
The more she looked, the more she realized how huge the bird was, given the size of the tributes speeding closer and closer to the platform, all russet feathers and razor-sharp talons. Again, it screeched, a horrid sound that grated at Icara's ears. Tightly, she gripped her javelin, waiting for the pack to come within range, wondering if she should even chance a throw at the possibility that she might hit one of them.
One of the tributes jabbed a javelin through the bird's wing — Murray, Icara realized, his face screwed up in terror and determination — drawing its attention from his companion, another scream ripping from the raptor's beak.
Icara's breath caught in her throat; between flashes of weapons and claws, she couldn't get a good shot. That didn't seem to bother Starla; she loosed two consecutive arrows in the bird's direction, one just missing Murray's head before striking only air, the other grazing the base of the bird's wing. A strangled yell caught in Icara's throat; Murray used the distraction to relieve himself and his district partner from the bird's ire, hurtling towards the mesa. They flew past Icara, straight into the crash mat, but the bird's cry once again drew Icara's attention.
Squinting, she watched as Alpha and Leighton attempted to combat the bird with their swords, clumsily at best, before Alpha ended up with the bird's claws digging into his shoulder, sword falling from his grip into the valley. His shouts joined the bird's, and Leighton took the opportunity to hightail it towards the Cornucopia, leaving Alpha to the beast.
Starla drew another arrow.
Icara followed the direction of its point, her eyes widening when she realized it was trained not on the bird, but on its prey. As if she sensed Icara watching, Starla shifted her angle by a hair, releasing with a quiet exhale.
The arrow buried itself into the bird's chest; it shrieked in pain, releasing its grip on Alpha. He dropped a couple meters before remembering the jetpack, practically limping through the air back to their camp. Murray and Maris had thankfully vacated the crash mat by the time he landed; he didn't get up.
Icara scanned the sky for the bird — inexplicably gone — before tentatively stepping to her district partner's side. "Alpha?"
Blood leaked freely from his wound from the same shoulder that had been hit during the Bloodbath, adding to the already-copious amount covering the mat. "I killed the bird," he muttered.
Icara bit her lip, stifling the snarl that wanted to come out.
"Icara." Murray's voice carried an unexpected note of fear; that was all it took for her to abandon Alpha on the mat.
The sight of Murray kneeling over his district partner was enough to freeze the question forming on her lips, his hand pressed against her chest in an attempt to halt the rapid flow of blood from a wound Icara hadn't noticed before. Grabbing the nearest first aid pack, Icara scrambled to his side, yanking out rolls of bandages and disinfectant.
Maris's eyes seemed too dazed to offer Icara an appreciative glance, but she worked regardless, adding pressure to the wound — three deep talon marks — after disinfecting it. "She crashed into a rock," Murray supplied, his tone gravely null. "Before the bird."
Icara didn't answer, insistent in her attempt. Maris's face had gone pale, eyes unfocused, the pool of blood beneath her growing too large for comfort. "I'll need to stitch her up—"
Boom.
Icara froze, her hands still coated in Maris's blood. Her fingers, pressed to the girl's chest, detected the distinct lack of a heartbeat.
Through her own rapidly-blurring eyes, Icara saw silent tears beginning to roll down Murray's cheeks. He swiped his palms at his face, blinking rapidly. "I'm sorry, she— she was from home." Wiping her hands on a patch of gauze, Icara gave Murray's fingers a wordless squeeze. Out of the corner of her eye, Icara saw Henrietta open her mouth, but she was cut off.
"Hey!" Alpha snapped, his attempt at a sneer clouded with pain. "Care to patch up the living people instead?"
Icara didn't bother clamping down the boiling rage in her gut when she looked at him. With clenched fists, she migrated her impromptu medical set-up to where he'd decided to plop himself, far enough away from Maris's body so the hovercraft could collect her unobstructed. She didn't say a word as she disinfected his shoulder wound — again — not even when he barked at her for using probably too much stinging peroxide.
In her peripheral, she followed Murray's movements, the gentleness in his hands as he brushed stray hairs from Maris's face, the solemnness in his stance as he stepped back to let the hovercraft come.
That night, they went to bed on stomachs full of a warm, fresh meal from a combination of sponsor gifts and supplies; Icara felt selfish for nearly not being able to stomach it. When the anthem played, she sat herself next to Murray, letting him lean against her shoulder. No more tears fell from his burnt-umber eyes, but Icara could tell he appreciated it. "One of my coaches tried to discourage me from volunteering," he murmured when the others had drifted off, the two of them sitting off to the side. "Said I was too emotional to handle it, or whatever."
"They still picked you," Icara reminded him with a touch of bitterness she could only hear if she looked for it.
He chuckled. "Not really. You know how ours works; ten of us rushing the stage, scaring the bejeezus out of that poor escort." Icara snorted, the sound drawing another huff of laughter from the Four boy. "I ran the fastest, and now I'm here," he said, an odd note of finality in his tone.
Icara gave his hand another squeeze. "Now we're here."
Icara wasn't sure what woke her in the middle of the night, but she found herself blinking in moonlight and stars, inexplicably alert. No cannons, no sounds even, outside of the snoring of her peers and the distant chirping of various night creatures.
A shifting movement, maybe? Or Icara was just imagining it.
But across the camp, a pair of eyes gleamed in reflected celestial light, flickering as their owner blinked. Almost as if they willed it, Icara's hand went to her hip, her fingers closing around the handle of a small knife in her belt, right where her axe usually sat.
Henrietta's eyes closed, and Icara didn't sleep a wink.
Pretending to sleep only got her so far. As soon as Alpha woke, he kicked her 'awake', demanding that she change his bandages. It hadn't hurt, but it was the gesture more than the result that had both Icara and Murray glaring holes into the back of his head while he ordered the others to start on breakfast.
Still, he grumbled when she sat him down, gingerly lifting the blood-soaked gauze from his shoulder.
The raptor's talons had pierced far deeper than the knife; Icara bet they would've gone straight through his shoulder blade had the bird gripped any tighter. One of them had clutched onto him from the back; viscous blood and puss oozed from the wound, staining his red jumpsuit an even darker color. Icara stood behind him in order to clean it. "Hurry up, will you?" he grunted, breath hissing through his teeth. "I want to kill something today."
Icara took her time. This is a waste of fucking bandages.
Nobody else spoke, either sobered up by yesterday's events or still waking up, though all morning, Icara had noticed Henrietta's cold eyes on her, quiet and observing. Catching her stare, the Three girl blinked slowly.
Alpha seemed irritated by the silence. "Is there even anything good left over there?"
Starla looked up from her task of frying eggs on the camping stove. "I'm using the last four of these now."
Alpha scoffed in annoyance, muttering a distasteful curse.
While Icara couldn't see his face, she bet he didn't notice the irritation bleeding through Starla's expression, clear as day. Deciding the sacrifice of medical supplies was worth it, Icara chose that moment to pour a heaping amount of peroxide over his wound. Alpha yelped in pain, rounding on her. "Fuck! You're a useless fucking bitch, you know that?"
'Makers, I've had enough of this shit. Icara exchanged another glance with Henrietta, the girl's mouth stiffening into a thin line.
"It's not just her either," Alpha continued acerbically, addressing the pack. "The rest of you are just as fucking pathetic, too. In fact, these whole fucking Games are pathetic, that Bloodbath was a goddamn joke—"
Enough.
Digging her fingers into his hair, Icara yanked his head backwards, interrupting his rant and exposing his throat. In the same motion, she drew the knife at her hip; he didn't have time to react before it sank into his neck, carving his flesh into an irreparable smile.
A cannon shot drowned out the sickening gurgle of his final breath, if only for a heartbeat.
Icara closed her eyes, hiding the open-mouthed expressions of her allies, her own breath a rattling exhale.
Relief. Satisfaction. Vindication.
Icara may have more blood on her hands — so much fucking blood — but Alpha Terrero never again would.