v. THE RISE

The sound of slow applause startled everyone out of their state of shock.

"About fucking time," Henrietta quipped, getting to her feet. "Thank you, Icara."

Icara didn't know what to say, so she didn't say anything. It was too soon to feel anything for what she just did, but would she? Maybe more so for putting that look on Murray's face than for killing Alpha.

He lay at her feet still, slumped over and leaking blood into the withered grass, his expression just as shocked as the others. The pool of red liquid had expanded to encompass his head like a gruesome halo, fed in part by a small trickle dripping from his open mouth. Icara found him repulsive. Just as disgraceful in death as he was in life.

Icara had done them a favor. Done the whole arena a favor, probably.

(She doubted District Two would see it that way.)

Henrietta appeared suddenly in front of her, a half-grin evident on her sun-burnt cheeks. "I'll take that," she said, weaseling the knife out of Icara's still-clenched hands. "Clean yourself up, Slate. We're going hunting."

"Well," Oberon huffed after Ziggy left the mentoring room to mourn his tribute, "the kid was kind of an asshole."

Dagmara shot her husband a glare. "Shut up."

He shrugged. "It's only fair. He did say multiple times how he intended to kill her."

"As did you."

Dagmara ignored his indignant expression. "I did not."

"Not directly." She granted him a pointed stare before turning back to her monitor, the effects of Icara's actions unfolding on the screen. "You cannot fool me, Oberon Pyke."

In the arena, the Three girl had clearly taken over the recent vacancy in Career pack leadership, though Dagmara knew enough to recognize that had always been the case. Either way, it didn't bode well for Icara.

Oberon, evidently realizing he wasn't the focus of Dagmara's attention, quieted himself, his thumb tracing comforting circles on her shoulder from where he stood behind her chair. As convoluted as their relationship could be, Dagmara was glad she still had him. After all, one person could only handle so many tragedies.

With a sigh, Dagmara leaned forwards until her nose was inches from the screen, fingers tangled in her mass of dark curls. Her eyes were closed; she didn't really need to watch her tribute cleaning the blood of her district partner from her hands. "How the hell do I salvage this," she muttered. Even among the outer districts, the killing of a district partner was considered a great taboo; that went further for Two, considering how the tributes usually spend six months preparing together after they were selected as volunteers.

Ideally, the truce would last until both tributes faced off in the final two — an honorable fight, honorable death — though rarely did things work out so evenly.

I would know.

Dagmara wasn't stupid enough to miss the tension between Icara and Alpha, hell, between Lara Albani and Alpha. The thought sent a brief flash of gratefulness through Dagmara's gut, that it had been Icara rather than Lara who'd had to deal with him in the arena, that things had gone the way they did, cruel as it was. She had no doubt that, given the chance, the bloodthirsty boy would've done similar, worse probably.

Icara had given him a coward's death.

Granted, sometimes the honorable way out wasn't possible, even when the victim deserved it. Dagmara knew that only too well. (Her aunt had even thanked her for it, for putting Ruiz down like a sick dog.)

Dagmara huffed another breath, long and slow, letting her husband's hand on her shoulder ground her from getting lost in the memory.

If Ruiz had been sick, then Alpha was rabid. Icara had saved more than just herself from his mounting wrath.

"He did a fine enough job of painting himself as the villain," Oberon murmured, matching her train of thought.

Leaning back into her chair, Dagmara shook her head. "Maybe that'll work here, but it won't look so pretty back home." Three high-pitched chirps cut through their conversation, automatically setting Dagmara's teeth on edge. Fucking Capitol notifications. "Interview tonight," she said out loud, checking her cellular.

Oberon grunted in disagreement, sensing her annoyance. "We'd better figure it out fast, then." He jutted his chin towards the screen where Icara and the others were prepping for their hunting party. "If she even makes it that far."

It would be easier if she didn't, were the words he knew better than to say.

Dagmara didn't need to hear them. She was never one for taking the easy way out, anyways.

Neither, it seemed, was Icara.

The hovercraft had come and gone, but Icara couldn't get the blood out from under her fingernails.

She spent breakfast trying instead of eating; she wasn't hungry anyways, and Murray hadn't come over to sit next to her with his meal as he usually did.

They gathered their things now, packing bags and polishing weapons for the day of hunting ahead of them. Icara wondered if Henrietta would include her this time, though part of her hoped she wouldn't.

The newly anointed pack leader stood confidently now, knives strapped along her belt and forearms, jetpack latched to her back. Every inch the leader Alpha wasn't, though she'd borrowed his smirk. She'd taken custody of the remaining jetpacks, passing out one to both Leighton and Murray. "Take as many supplies as you can," she instructed briskly. "We're not coming back."

A flutter of uneasy looks oscillated around the pack; Icara briefly met Starla's concerned gaze before dropping her own. "But there's only one jetpack left."

Henrietta's grin widened. "You're right." She stalked over to the nearest end of the mesa, jetpack in hand. "Fetch."

With an air of malicious glee, she tossed it over the edge, and Icara didn't even think before she bolted, throwing herself head-first off the cliff in pursuit of the jetpack. Something that sounded like Murray's voice shouting her name carried on the wind, barely reaching her ears as Icara stiffened her body into a dive, her fingers stretching towards the falling jetpack.

It had now become her lifeline.

A sea of jagged rock lay at the bottom to greet her if she failed, and failure was near-imminent; her batsuit wouldn't catch her, not with the wings unzipped and useless. She'd done so since she first landed to allow herself more range of movement, but now it might just be her death.

Not important. Her leap had been well-angled, putting her almost directly on the jetpacks's trajectory; now if she could just reach it—

Her finger snagged the strap just as a scream echoed through the air around her; Icara pulled it to her chest, glancing over her shoulder for a half-second to see Starla speeding after her, gliding ever-closer on her outstretched wings. She must've taken the time to zip hers.

The thought slid quickly through Icara's mind as her fingers fumbled desperately over the jetpack's buttons to switch it on; the ground approaching far too close for her comfort. Please, please, please, fuck where is it, where—

A blast of scorching heat erupted from the bottom of the jetpack, singeing, burning Icara's stomach; the upwards force nearly ripped it from her grip, propelling her scream of pain through the air. Slowly, with more control, she began to rise, at least until she turned to find Starla a couple meters away and closing fast. Twisting midair, Icara brought her boot up to meet her, colliding with Starla's head in a perfectly-timed kick; the girl shrieked, careening off path, Icara herself shuddering in the air from the impact.

Gritting her teeth, Icara waited, and—

Boom.

Icara chanced a glance downwards; the red valley had grown even redder with Starla's blood spattered across the sharp sandstone. She was far closer to the ground than she'd realized, too — Icara tried not to let her mind wander towards what could've happened.

Carefully, she adjusted the jetpack to grant her a slow descent, touching down on a flat, slanted piece of rock. The burn on her stomach twinged, fiery needles shooting through her nerves, and Icara gasped, collecting herself on the slab. Quickly, as much as the wound could bear, she strapped the jetpack to her back as she'd seen the others do, zipping shut the wings of her batsuit before taking off.

With her wings, she glided much more quickly through the air, a permanent wince on her face at the air currents blowing against the raw, exposed skin of her abdomen. More quickly than she thought, she reached the top, touching down shakily.

"Icara!"

She hardly had time to process Murray's arms wrapping around her until the embrace started to suffocate, the burning from her stomach engulfing her lungs until she couldn't breathe, let alone speak. He released her immediately, noticing her gasping and clutching at her wound, the skin so red it almost matched her jumpsuit.

With care, he began to tend to her burn, his assurances and soothing tone washing over her in a wave of relief. Icara didn't often let people take care of her — usually, it was the other way around — but just this once, she needed it. The burn cream nearly drew tears from her eyes as Murray applied it, apologizing the whole time, before the coolness sank in. And she let it, releasing a sigh of contentment. He doesn't hate me. He doesn't hate me for killing Alpha.

But the relief was short-lived; behind him stood Henrietta, ever-silent, her acute gaze reminding Icara not to get too comfortable.

Icara wouldn't forget who sent her diving off the cliff in the first place.

Not a half hour later, Henrietta had them on their feet and packing again; this time, Icara kept her weapons on hand. The axes fit neatly on her belt, though she expected them to be a bit awkward in flight. The javelin quiver, however, sat at an odd angle on her back with the jetpack, but with Murray's help, she managed to tuck it beneath the device. Leighton and Murray strapped the supply packs to their fronts as well.

At Henrietta's signal they took off, Icara diving once again into open air. This time, the jetpack caught her like a trusted friend, the wind filling her wings. Somewhere along the line, however, it seemed to have lost its luster, between both Henrietta and Alpha's brutal leadership. Somehow, Icara had ended up the target of their lethal attention.

Icara was beginning to think the two of them weren't so different after all.

They didn't find anything for the rest of the day, no signs of life outside of small lizards and insects occupying the terrain. Henrietta didn't seem phased; she guided them to an impressive-looking cliffside cave for the night, inaccessible to any without the power of flight.

"You impressed me today, Slate," Henrietta said aside to Icara once they'd settled in for the night, her mouth curled into a shrewd smile. "Wasn't sure you had it in you."

That's not a compliment. "Thanks."

Henrietta chuckled quietly, jerking her chin towards the pile of jetpacks resting at one end of their cave. Barely visible in the gloom, a neat row of little lights dotted the side of one, only reaching halfway up the pack. "Might want to keep an eye on that," she said in a low voice, out of earshot of the other two.

Battery life. Or however these things work... Icara frowned. "Why are you telling me?"

She shrugged. "It's only fair. Yours probably used up a little more, after that escapade today."

Icara bit back a biting comment. The following morning, she made sure to switch her pack with Leighton's.

It was a while before they found anything.

They'd maneuvered lower into the valley, skimming the sandy ground by a couple of meters. Icara was surprised to see more plant life, scraggly trees bent by the wind and tall, spiky cactuses topped with colorful flowers. Not a dull sight reached her eyes, the pastel sandstone and towering red rock structures around them, the long-eared rabbit that poked its head up as they flew by before disappearing into a hole in the ground.

The landscape almost reminded her of Two, shorn of its towering trees, mountains resculpted by godly hands, and saturated in red rose. The sun beat down hotter here than it ever did back home, even in the dead of summer. So, not much like Two at all, Icara thought with quiet amusement.

It was the way she felt when she looked at it, that's what it was. Somehow old and new at the same time.

Their leader was clearly not using their flight to observe the scenery. Her arm pointed towards a spot on the ground, and Icara barely recognized it as a makeshift campsite as she flew by.

Henrietta didn't hesitate.

Icara caught the flash of her knives as she dove, a speeding bullet, just as the unfortunate owner of the campsite poked their head out of their rock-and-tarp shelter. They — she? Nine — immediately turned tail at the sight of the swooping Careers, bolting across the sandy rock.

Henrietta was faster. She swept past Nine like a bird of prey, leaving her bleeding out in the sand in less than a heartbeat; if Icara blinked, she would've missed it.

The cannon sounded as Henrietta touched down in the sand, her expression thoughtful. Icara and the others joined her silently. "Wasn't as fun as the first one," she mused, disappointment coloring her tone. "Oh well. Final Eight." She clapped her hands together, nodding to Leighton. "See if she had anything good, and then we'll head back to the cave for today. 'Makers ought to be giving us a breather from the action so they can interview everyone."

Nobody argued with her; the Nine girl didn't have much in the way of supplies, either. "I'm pretty sure these are poisonous," Murray said, nudging a couple of lumpy, spineless cacti she'd supposedly collected with his toe. Icara's eyes remained locked on Henrietta in case she decided to slip it into her bag. She didn't.

With their meager spoils, they headed back to their cliffside cave. After a quick meal of rations, Murray pulled a deck of cards from his bag, a completely useless object to include in a survival kit, but at the moment, none of them had anything better to do. Pooling some rations and odds and ends from their packs, they spend the rest of the evening playing various card games, both Henrietta and Murray taking turns wiping the table. Icara found herself smiling more than she probably should; it was an oddly light activity for such a heavy environment. A calm before the storm.

Literally, as it turned out; the next morning, the four of them woke to heavy rainfall. It continued for a solid three days, harsh and biting, as if it wanted to erode the sandstone into another cave.

Henrietta was right. Of course.

Murray brought out the cards again and they passed the time in relative ease — at least, until their ration supply started to diminish. Sponsor gifts carried them for a while, though the quality in food had significantly decreased from earlier.

The morning of the eleventh day, the rainstorm finally abated, and Henrietta took that as a sign to get the pack moving again. They packed with care, not planning on returning to the cave.

Apparently, they were moving too slow for those on high; as Icara strapped the jetpack to her back — checking that it wasn't the lowest on fuel — and tucked her weapons to her body, she noticed an odd-looking lizard in the corner of the cave. As soon as she saw one, more appeared.

Icara froze, her eyes locked with the creature's.

"What is it?" Henrietta snapped, and in response, it shrieked, a high-pitched attack call.

That was enough to send Icara and her allies leaping from the cave's edge in a panic, abandoning half their remaining supplies. Icara sighed in relief upon catching air, passing a brief glance over her shoulder— Oh fuck they fly!

Murray, soaring next to her, had eased into a relaxed flight pattern, interrupted by Icara's frantic nudge. "Go! They're catching up!"

"Huh—what?" He ducked as Icara sent a javelin arching over his head, following its trajectory into the cloud of approaching lizard mutts. That spurred the rest of the pack on quickly enough. Icara and Murray armed themselves with their javelins, hurling them one after the other into the swarm. The weapons tumbled uselessly into the abyss; despite the numerous tiny lizard bodies packed on their shafts, the mutts remained unimpeded.

Henrietta hadn't bothered wasting her knives, hurtling ahead of the swarm with Leighton on her heels. Abandoning their fight, Icara and Murray sped up to join her. Where is she leading us? Icara wondered.

Where are the Gamemakers leading us?

She didn't have time to get lost in thought for long. Icara heard a yelp of surprise from Leighton's end; she turned to investigate, but he was gone, a low, sputtering noise leaking into the air as his jetpack died.

Glancing backwards, Icara saw him airborne still, gliding on his batsuit, though his drop in speed put him directly in the lizard swarm's path, and he knew it.

Automatically, Icara and Murray slowed, their exchange of eyes debating whether or not to go to his rescue. "Leave him, idiots!" Henrietta snapped, slowing herself to grab them. Icara couldn't tear her eyes from Leighton's terrified face, the mutts enveloping him as their window of opportunity passed. The cloud descended, Leighton lost to their writhing masses as his flight was stolen; he hit the ground with a cannon shot, though Icara, Murray, and Henrietta were long gone by then.

They decided to ditch the jetpacks after they landed, unable to predict when they'd begin to give out.

Rations were low. Weapons were low. Icara would say morale was low, but she'd never been able to get a read off Henrietta for that sort of thing.

Frankly, she didn't really care how Henrietta was feeling either, if anything.

Outside of a mild irritation at their shortage of sunscreen (both Icara and Murray didn't need it as much as her, thankfully), she hadn't expressed any sort of substantial emotion, not even at Leighton's death. Icara wouldn't be surprised to learn that the girl was a sociopath, though dwelling on that matter was as useless as worrying about their leader's feelings.

They'd set up camp on another of the flat-topped mesas, as the red valley seemed to be covered in them. This one hosted a small patch of those scraggly trees; along with a few handfuls of grass, it served as excellent firewood. Icara sat there now, sandwiched between her allies as they waited for it to die, Leighton's portrait having long since lit up the stars.

"Hey, how's the tummy?" Murray said, nudging her with his shoulder.

Like Henrietta's sunscreen, they'd seen the last of her burn cream days ago, though Icara's wound had definitely felt the effects of Capitol magic. She chuckled at his concern. "Good as new, pretty much," she said, patting the hole in her jumpsuit that she'd patched up with parachute cloth. "Just in time."

Henrietta's voice cut through the peace, half-snide, half-bored. "Aw, how sweet."

"Oh, buzz off," Icara said, rolling her eyes; Murray barked a laugh at Henrietta's disgruntled expression.

"No need to be rude," she muttered, as if her presence didn't make the air itself colder, her gaze sliding absently into the crackling fire.

Icara raised an eyebrow. "You're one to talk."

If Icara had to guess, people usually didn't talk back to Henrietta like that. Even now, Icara kept her tone neutral and casual; if she'd been chatting with just Murray, or her friends back home, or even Lara, it wouldn't have been an issue, but Icara could see the tension in her ally's shoulders. Henrietta's skin, apparently, was thinner than Alpha's patience,

"Please," Henrietta said, feigning indifference. "I'm not the one starting shit. I doubt your district even wants you to win after you murdered your own partner."

Icara felt her jaw tighten. She's just lashing out because she feels threatened.

That didn't change the fact that it was a low blow, even more so considering Henrietta's involvement (though that, of course, could fall under plausible deniability). The red-haired girl said nothing further, perhaps realizing that making an enemy of both Icara and Murray was a stupid thing to do, the latter glaring at her with a heat greater than that of the fire she currently studied.

Maybe I should just kill her in her sleep. The thought came out of nowhere, born by a malice enough to make Icara's stomach tighten.

Whether Henrietta deserved it or not, that wasn't her.

It's not much different from how you killed Alpha, her brain argued.

Icara shut it off. She volunteered for the night watch with Henrietta (wouldn't work anyways, the girl refuses to sleep), counting the stars to pass the night.

The next day brought only a mild curse disguised as a blessing: a gift from their sponsors of three full water bottles, bearing a note that said they'd be on their own from here on out.

Icara sighed, taking only a small sip. They'd had enough water up until this point, from a combination of previous gifts and Cornucopia supplies. Unless she could ration this one up until the end of the Games, they'd need to waste time searching for water sooner rather than later. Judging by Henrietta's face, she realized the same.

What are we at, twelve days? Seven of us left; can't be much longer. Right then, a cannon sounded, and Icara amended her count with a dry huff.

Murray shot her a glance, and she shrugged. "Sucks for them, better for us."

In an unspoken agreement, they pooled the last of their food rations together; between the three of them, it would only last the day. "We'll scout for more tomorrow. These should have enough juice to take us down safely," Henrietta said, jerking her chin towards the abandoned pile of jetpacks.

When tomorrow came, they began re-checking the jetpack batteries, only to be interrupted by an odd scrabbling noise. "God, please not another mutt," Murray muttered. Icara grimaced, praying that he hadn't tempted fate (or the Gamemakers), but when they peered over the cliffside in search of the source, they came face-to-face with the District Eight boy, a good ten meters below them. Judging by the scratches peppering his face and the rips in his teal jumpsuit, he appeared to have crashed into the side of the cliff, miraculously finding purchase among the handholds trailing the length of their mesa, even with what looked to be a broken arm.

He froze, blanching at the sight of the three Careers, and Icara couldn't help the twinge of pity in her gut.

It didn't stop her from reaching for a javelin.

Henrietta let out a wicked-sounding laugh from Icara's side. "Ooh, rotten luck," she crooned, and Icara's javelin barreled towards the kid, his face hopelessness personified.

She missed; the point glanced off a small rock, skittering and clanging down the cliff.

"Thought you were supposed to be good, Nine," Henrietta sneered.

God, how Icara's fingers itched to send her last javelin through Henrietta's fucking heart.

Can't hit what's not there.

Murray picked up her slack, his own javelin striking the kid's arm; not a deadly hit, but it was enough. Eight yelped, the last of his balance stolen by the wind, and he fell, the seconds stretching painfully until his skull splattered against rock, accompanied by a cannon.

Henrietta gave her ally an appreciative shove. "Look at that, you finally got one."

"Not now, Henrietta," Murray growled.

She huffed, glancing at Icara. "Tou-chy."

Ignoring her, Icara stalked over to where Murray had sat himself by the remains of their fire, head resting pensively on his hands as he stared into the empty ashes. "Hey." He looked up at her voice. "You okay?"

Murray's answering smile seemed to have aged decades. "Not really, but I'll have to be."

Icara sank down next to him, her hand coming to rest against his shoulder, giving him a comforting squeeze. He only sighed, his gaze returning to the charred sticks, looking but not really seeing.

Such a far cry from where they'd been during training.

Five left.

Twenty-six had gone in, but the Victor was not among them, Icara knew. Not yet.

The Victor never goes into the arena. They are, by definition, only the remains of whatever comes out.