vii. THE CLIMB
It would be easier, to lay here and wait to die. Someone would come down and do it eventually, or the Gamemakers would off her for taking too long.
It would be easy. Tempting.
She'd reached her limit. The end of the line, rock bottom; Icara breaking in every sense of the word. She'd had enough, and wouldn't that be nice, not to face her consequences?
She had nothing left inside her, not anymore, but…
But.
Murray would kill her for giving up.
Hell, Lara would kill her. How inexcusable would that be, after Icara spent months drilling determination and resilience into her pupil? Not even just Lara; how dare Icara even think herself a role model to her students if she gave up here?
Icara knew what she had to do, and though even the thought made her want to break down and cry, it was the image of Lara screaming at her through the screen — 'Get up, Icara! Get up and fucking do this!' — that had her crawling into a sitting position, leaning on her axe to bring herself to unsteady feet. The axe itself would weigh her down, heavy as it was, but Icara couldn't dream of letting it go, not after it had saved her life just now.
So, tucking it through the belt of her batsuit, Icara faced the interminable shear wall ahead of her and began to climb.
She wasn't prepared.
As bad as falling had been, climbing was an unexpected hell, grueling and exhausting and terrifying all rolled into one. Every muscle in her body screamed in protest, and what do you know, she was crying after all, tears sliding down her cheeks at the effort, a half-mad laugh slipping through her teeth in her attempts to breathe.
Icara looked down once, exhausted at the sight of so much ahead of her, and nearly sobbed when she realized how close to the starting point she still was; from then on, it was only up, up.
'Makers, I said I couldn't live with giving up, but if I died I wouldn't have to, she thought, fingers trembling so much she could hardly trust them, and the idea almost tasted like relief, except dying with giving up? Now that was worse.
She realized she'd rather be pushed again than let herself fall.
And so inch after inch, rock after rock, she climbed, only noticing the blood dripping down her wrists when her hands almost slipped on the slick substance.
This is hell, this has to be hell, she knew, the fire of scorching effort threatening to eat her alive from the inside, numb her limbs until she could hardly feel, hardly move. If she stopped moving, it was over, but every inch felt like a mile, every millimeter a fucking lightyear, and how unfair is it that she has to climb after they let her fly?
Icara didn't know for how long she climbed, her only reality sun-baked sandstone and blistering, bloody fingers, the pads of her gloves long-since torn through. She'd almost managed to forget about the Games in entirety until a cannon shot nearly knocked her from the cliff, its reverb echoing through the valley. Please be Henrietta, please be Henrietta, Icara prayed, forcing her hands to uncramp as she adjusted her grip.
She had no way of knowing, not until she reached the top.
Every reach that wasn't the last chipped at her will, little bits that added up step after step. Still, Icara dug her toes in, gritting her teeth so hard she thought they might pop out. Forcibly, she ignored the way her heart fluttered in fear when the wind pressed against her back, calling to her with a kiss.
Three left, she shook it off. And one of them is me.
She almost didn't believe it when her fingertips crested the top of the mesa, grasping for stone that wasn't there. The mere thought of it sent a hope-fueled burst of adrenaline through her dead muscles, granting Icara just enough strength to roll herself up and over the edge. Oh fuck. Oh 'Makers, gods, and everything in between, thank fuck. She let herself lay there, breath coming in disbelieving gasps, and only belatedly, when the clash of steel against steel reached her ears, did Icara realize that no one had come to kill her yet.
Whoever was still alive, they hadn't yet noticed her arduous ascent.
Turning her head, Icara saw the body, a red-and-purple batsuit belonging to District… She didn't remember, couldn't tell. A suspicious amount of knives stuck out at odd angles — the cause of the red, she realized. Not Henrietta.
The traitor in question danced meters away with a small figure Icara couldn't quite make out, her former ally's voice rising and falling above the wind with stinging words.
Her chance. This was her chance. Henrietta hadn't seen her, and whoever she was fighting would be no match for a Career, even one as broken and battered as herself. Icara rolled onto her knees — oh fuck, oh god it hurts, I can't; but I have to, I— Yanking the axe from her belt, Icara used it to stand. Funny; the thing had just as much use as a walking stick as it did as a weapon.
Every movement trembled, sent her shaking like a leaf, but it didn't matter as long as she could move. And she did; though she swayed with each step, her legs quickened from a walk to a jenky run, and she almost keeled over sideways when she raised the axe—
Henrietta never saw it coming.
The blade buried itself staunchly between her shoulder blades, not enough to carve her open raw, but enough for another cannon shot to shake the mountain. Icara pitched forwards from the blow, landing on her side in the dusty grass. With a grunt, she pulled the weapon from Henrietta's body, ignoring the tide of blood gushing from the wound, the bone-white hint of splintered spine tasting air.
Elbow to axe to knee; here she was again, dragging herself to her feet. How many times? she thought, though the answer was obvious by now.
As many as it takes.
She saw the shoes first, her final opponent's hesitant footsteps drawing nearer. Icara raised her head and almost laughed.
A once-bright orange jumpsuit, the number '5' emblazoned on the front. Scruffy chestnut curls (just like Lara's) hanging over crooked glasses, one lense cracked for his troubles. A pair of knives were clenched white-knuckled in his hands like he'd never held them before, though their tips were unmistakably bloody. Fear, awe, and no small amount of determination danced in his eyes, the set of his mouth — just like Lara's.
And Five just stood there, watching as Icara summoned the last of her strength to haul herself up. Hesitating when he should be striking.
"You," Icara growled, her voice hoarse from crying. "Give me your name."
Five blinked, head tilting in confusion, though he raised his weapons in defense.
He went for the knives, Icara thought. I told him to go for the knives, and he listened. Or maybe she was absolutely fucking delusional, thinking he'd listen to anything that came out of her mouth. He went for the knives, and now he's here, with me.
It was too much.
"Give me your fucking name!" Her voice rose to a near-hysterical shriek, and Five flinched, eyes wide. "I need to know you before I fucking kill you!"
Five cleared his throat. "Gauss," he said uncertainly, but it grew stronger. "Gauss Iverson, but you don't know me." His eyes narrowed, shoulders set as if coming to a decision. "And you won't kill me."
In the blink of an eye, he struck like a Hail Mary — whatever that meant — and Icara was almost proud when the knife embedded itself into her shoulder despite the sharp, screaming pain that came with it. He listened to me. As Icara blocked his next strike with the handle of her axe, she wanted to believe it.
Tired as she was, she needed to believe it, but…
Had she been Gauss's trainer, she would've told him not to throw away his knife. She would've told him to watch the butt of her weapon as much as her blade. She would've taught him to duck under her swing, and keep his stance solid so his feet couldn't be knocked out from under him, and how to dodge the strike that was coming for his chest.
But she wasn't, and now here he lay at her feet, eyes glassy, the blade of her axe splitting open his rib cage, his last words merely an empty promise as his stuttering heart spilled its lifeblood onto her shoes, and—
"Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you, the Victor of the One Hundred and Sixty-Third Hunger Games: Icara Slate of District Two!"