vi. THE FALL

Somewhere in the night, Icara had shifted closer to Murray in her sleep, her limbs just brushing his. She woke to find his face inches from hers, eyelashes fluttering lightly as his consciousness was lifted from his dreams. "Morning," he said, blinking awake.

Icara smiled softly in response, her cheeks heating up at their closeness.

Belatedly, she realized that they had fallen asleep on Henrietta's watch; she wondered what it meant that both of them had woken up.

"Wow." Murray wrinkled his nose, sniffing. "I love you, Icara, but you smell like ass."

Icara snorted, recoiled in mock offense. "Ouch… I mean, so do you, but I was being nice and not saying anything."

Murray laughed, quieter than usual, but enough to turn Henrietta's head from where she stood vigil, watching over the pastel horizon. They'd elected to stay on the mesa for another night, Murray too dazed to move after the Eight boy's death and Icara refusing to leave him behind; Henrietta had been forced to remain with them.

"To be fair, none of us have showered for, what, two weeks now?" Icara made a face. "I feel so gross."

Even Henrietta cracked a small smile at that.

If Icara ever got the chance again, she'd take the longest, hottest shower she possibly could; how she missed their days in the Capitol.

Now, grease had tinged her once silky-smooth hair into an oily mess she didn't have the energy to think about, her skin coated in a layer of either dried sweat or new sweat. Sand caked the creases of her jumpsuit, somehow both on the outside and the inside. Every time she removed her flight helmet, more poured out in a small shower; 'Makers only knew how it got there.

But it went further than just skin deep, further even than the dried blood still lingering persistently under her fingernails.

'I doubt your district even wants you to win after you murdered your own partner.'

Icara sighed, the heavy sound drawing her allies' attention. "We should head down today."

"We're going to," Henrietta said definitively, already making for the jetpacks, and Icara wanted to roll her eyes. Lately, Henrietta had been grating at her more than the sand in her jumpsuit; Icara's tolerance was wearing thin.

They made a quick meal of the last of their food rations, not nearly enough to sustain them; realizing they'd need to extend their provisions another night, they'd cut down even more on yesterday's dinner portions. Icara still had about half of her water bottle left, figuring she could handle the light-headedness until the end of the Games, whether that be until her Victory or her death.

Only one pinprick light remained at the battery indicator of each jetpack. "We should glide, and then only use it to stop," Henrietta suggested.

Icara and Murray readily agreed, slapping their goggles over their eyes and pushing off. The wind caught them in a familiar embrace, carrying the last three Careers across the scar of the red valley. Icara glanced at Murray as they flew, his gaze angled straight ahead. We should probably separate when we land. As necessary as it was, Icara dreaded the hour. Maybe Murray and I can team up for the finale, and then—

And then she'd have to kill him, in the end.

If you don't prepare for it, you won't be able to, Icara reminded herself. If you keep avoiding it—

An ungodly shriek interrupted her thoughts, making Icara's blood run cold. No, not again— Icara glanced over her shoulder, catching sunlight glinting off razor-sharp talons, the raptor's beak opening to release another piercing caterwaul. I thought we killed it!

"Dive!" Henrietta commanded, and they obeyed just in time, scattering as the bird bulleted through their formation. Caught in the rush of tailwind, Icara tucked her arms in, letting herself spiral in a barrel roll before steadying.

With a cry of vengeance, the bird circled around, coming at them for another pass. Icara's arm went for her javelin, yanking it from the quiver on her back; with a grunt, she chucked it towards her airborne opponent, the point spiraling right through its wing. It screamed in pain — 'Makers, this one's louder than its cousin — righting itself before channeling its fury towards her, claws outstretched.

Fuck. Icara dove again, conscious of the ground closing in. Air whooshed over her as the bird's attack just missed, a noise of frustration streaming from its lungs.

Icara reached for another javelin, but her hand grabbed at emptiness. Shit, that was my last. Glancing upwards, she drew one of the axes from her belt, turning to combat the bird. It started towards her again, fury in its movements; before it could strike, another javelin soared towards it, just nicking the base of its throat. With a screech, the bird flipped midair, streaking towards the source.

While she couldn't see Murray's expression, she noticed his recoil; he avoided the bird with quick swerving motions that could only be jetpack-influenced. Icara felt fear boil in her chest as he drew another javelin — his last.

All around her, things passed in a blur of color, her allies, the bird, the towering mesas, the red sand valley, the ground.

"Icara!" Henrietta's voice again; Icara spotted her in the valley, standing, not flying. "Land now!"

But Murray; the bird! She could hardly see them anymore, up in the air but falling steadily, just as she was. Too fast again, too fast! Tucking her legs in, Icara rotated herself so the jetpack's exhaust pointed opposite the direction of her motion; she switched it on in a blink, feeling herself slow. Her feet brushed the ground, and she caught herself in a run, skidding across the sand and rock until she stopped.

Immediately, she scanned the sky for Murray, calling out his name as loud as she could, waving her axe in hope of catching his attention.

She found them just as the bird's talons swiped at his chest, and Murray fell like a deadweight.

"Murray!" Please Murray, please—

In a spasm of limbs, his javelin exploded upwards, burying itself into the bird's body; it screeched, and miraculously, he began to slow. The jetpack, thank god—

But the mutt didn't stop. It dove, faster than Murray could fall, and Icara barely realized she was running towards them; her legs burned, lungs burned as she cried his name, unable to see the falling combatants as they came out of the sun, screaming bleeding silhouettes.

Abruptly, the raptor released him, meters before they touched the ground in a tangle of blood and feathers — No, you're not getting away with that.

Drawing her arms back, Icara hurled her axe at the bird with a screech to match its own; the blade found home in its skull, splitting it with a resounding crack, but Icara paid it no mind, her eyes searching relentlessly for her ally. He'd fallen somewhere, no cannon, there was no cannon, he's alive—

A glimpse of green, bright green against sandy red, and Icara rushed towards it without a second thought, sinking to her knees next to Murray's face. Her hands reached up to cradle his cheeks, and he blinked, dazed, his breath coming in slow, pained gasps. "Murray, you're alive, thank-thank god."

"Icara—" he murmured, his mouth twisting into a grimace at the effort. "Ow."

Icara shushed him, her breath a near-hysterical laugh. "Don't speak. You're okay, you'll be okay."

"Icara, I'm…" he tried again, stuttering off.

Carefully, Icara adjusted him so his head rested in her lap; even at that, he hissed in pain, though he helped shift himself into a half-sitting position, Icara bearing nearly all his weight. "Shh, Murray, you'll be fine, just— sit still."

He shook his head, his eyes flashing towards the deep scores in his abdomen, and Icara's breath hitched. "Mm," he grunted. "Think my leg—broken—too."

"Murray, stop," she said, her voice quivering. "You'll be—stop."

His fingers found her hand, tightening. "Hold me," he whispered.

And she did.

She did, until the cannon went off, and his grip slackened in hers. She did, pressing a soft, tear-soaked kiss to his forehead, until the shadow of the hovercraft appeared overhead.

She did, until Henrietta had to pull her off so he could return to the sky, and she never regretted anything more than letting go.

The part of Icara's brain that insisted on still processing thoughts was confused as to why Henrietta didn't just kill her now.

Neither of them had said anything since Murray died, no snide comments or cruel smiles. Their faces were blank mirrors of each other, dead green eyes flicking every once in a while to meet dead black ones before retreating back to the red valley.

They wandered seemingly aimlessly through the sand, picking their way around sharp slabs of rock. The desert heat sapped all of Icara's energy, her body following Henrietta's on mindless instruction; she hardly even blinked when the Three girl sent a knife flying into a jackrabbit Icara hadn't seen, stopping when she stopped to cook it and make camp.

Wordlessly, Henrietta passed her a portion, and Icara took it without question, eating it without tasting. Perhaps she should've worried about her transient ally poisoning it, but Icara couldn't bring herself to care.

She doubted she would've noticed if Henrietta did so right in front of her, even.

But she didn't, judging by the fact that Icara didn't drop dead. Oh well. She didn't poison the water bottle that she passed to Icara either, having sipped from it herself; Icara would've drank the whole thing on rote instinct if Henrietta didn't pry it from her hands, quietly reminding her that they'd need it tomorrow.

The water, though warm and slimy from the plastic bottle, tasted like life.

Even now, part of her still wanted it.

The morning brought with it more water, this time in the form of a small stream trickling through the valley. It slinked through their campsite, its cold fingers pinching at Icara's toes.

The stream widened as they watched, far too quickly to be natural, and Icara and Henrietta took it in stride, casting their eyes about for higher ground. About a hundred meters out from the burgeoning river, a thin section of rock sloped upwards, a path that seemed too easy, too new. It hadn't been there yesterday, or if it had, Icara hadn't noticed it.

Either way, the Gamemakers made it very clear they wanted them to go up.

And so Icara and Henrietta went, unzipping the components of their batsuits that restricted their motion, that allowed them to glide. Icara carried her axe in her belt, freeing her hands, her javelins long-since spent. Henrietta, her knives, who-knows-how-many hidden who-knows-where along her body.

They reached the trail, and it struck Icara that this was it. One way or another, she'd meet her fate up there, at the top.

In silence, they walked, maintaining it until the grinding of rock made them turn around, heads whipping over shoulders to find the trail crumbling behind them. No turning back now. Every step she'd taken since entering the arena — since volunteering — had crossed deeper and deeper past the point of no return.

Without a word, they picked up their pace, neither girl eager to get caught at the edge. They reached their destination with panting breaths: another mesa, flat-topped and covered in scraggly grass, smaller than the one that had hosted the Cornucopia and her Bloodbath.

And of course, far more dangerous. Precarious.

The others hadn't arrived yet. Icara half-hoped they'd get slaughtered by mutts sent their way courtesy of the Gamemakers; that way she wouldn't have to fight them.

Only Henrietta.

Icara glanced towards her ally to find the girl's eyes already on her. They tensed, the air tight with a decision that needed to be made.

Careers often stuck together in the end. It was a known fact that the Capitol wanted a good fight; who could give that better than two trained killers? Plus, too often Icara had seen an outlier swoop in and take the crown following a brutal Career battle, easily picking off the heavily wounded winner.

Icara could only hope Henrietta had the same train of thought.

"Look at us," Henrietta said, her tone pensive.

Careful not to reveal her intentions.

She gripped a knife in hand now, prowling along the edge of the mesa. "Me and you, just like I said, huh?"

"Can't get too cocky," Icara reminded her, drawing her axe, but keeping it relaxed at her side. "Two on one odds isn't great. Even if they're just outliers, I wouldn't want to risk it, not here."

Henrietta nodded thoughtfully, keeping Icara in her peripheral as the other girl carefully approached. "You've got a point. It's a risk," she said, pausing. Suddenly, her hand shot out, grabbing Icara by the front of her jumpsuit and yanking.

Icara yelped, her toes just hanging onto the edge, her entire weight dangling from Henrietta's grip.

"But I think I'll take it." The Three girl smiled. "Poor Icara," she sneered, the two of them locked at the tip of the precipice. "Always destined to fall."

"Henrietta, don't—!"

Icara's words were cut off by the Three girl's foot slamming into her stomach, the air stolen from her throat as it rushed up to meet her. It carried her once-ally's laughter like a cruel melody, taunting and teasing.

And Icara fell.

I'm sorry, Lara.

Wind shrieked in her ears, the face of the cliff rushing past her eyes, and the only thing Icara knew was the axe gripped tightly in her fist like a lifeline.

You could've done this so much better than me.

Scraps of rock nicked at her as she fell, bruising, scraping her shoulders, legs, arms — she thought she saw a root sticking out and her free hand shot out to grab it; she missed, scrabbling desperately against the rock and losing a fingernail or two in the process, if the pain were anything to go by.

Air flapped around the now-useless wings of her suit, and Icara drew her weapon arm back in a last-ditch attempt, driving her axe-blade into what she prayed was the rock, the added jagged friction almost wrenching the weapon from her grasp. Icara's other hand joined the fight, stinging and bleeding, and stubbornly, she hung on to the handle of the axe as it skipped against the sheer crag, the sickening force of gravity greedily reaching for another victim.

Please, 'Makers, fuck— A wrong move would send her spiraling into the abyss; Icara didn't dare squeeze her eyes shut, even with dust and rock splinters raining down on her like hellfire.

Icara felt it in her gut, the slow of her descent, the miraculous recovery of her free fall morphing into a controlled skid down the decreasing slope of the cliffside. She was still moving fast, too fast, as an outcrop of stone appeared suddenly beneath her, slamming into her legs with the force of a mountain and reverberating through her bones. A cry of shock escaped Icara's lips, but she clamped her teeth around the pain, only just realizing that she'd managed to come to a stop and— Oh god, I'm alive, I'm still fucking alive.

Dirt and grit coated her tongue, and Icara, lying face-first against the uneven rocky surface, pushed herself to her elbows, the handle of her axe still locked in her shaking, claw-like grip. Icara was alive, but at this moment, she, with sharp fire coursing through her limbs at every movement, was more afraid of how broken her body must be.

She started with the minutiae, a slight adjustment of her hips, a wiggle of her toes, working up to her ankles and knees, and when nothing prominent shifted out of place, she flopped onto her back, gasping at the pain. Nothing was broken, or as least not too broken, but fuck, if her everything didn't hurt like hell.

But she had a bigger problem.

Icara was down here, lying on her back on a slab of boulder, her exhausted eyes tracing the endless towering wall of rock she'd just tumbled down, and the fight — the final fight — was up there.