beautiful mind // key

I am Icarus, and I am alight.

How is it that I can shatter when I’m already so completely broken? The Arena has worn me down to paper skin and glass bones and yet I still pretend I’m strong enough to fix myself after every blow. But that was a lie, wasn’t it? Because people aren’t machines. Our gears can’t be replaced, our mechanisms can’t be polished and spurred back into action. A few tools and a quick dusting can’t save us, for we are flesh and blood sinners and we have no salvation. I’m not just now breaking now because I’ve always been a faulty machine. Now, I’m finally falling apart. And I was a fool to think that death would come quietly. It always seemed like such a simple thing, a precise ending to a complex equation. To me, death was a scientific certainty that appeared often in my life. I was afraid of the unpredictably, of course, but I accepted it as something unavoidable. Before the Arena, I hoped that it would take me gently. After the Reaping, I prayed that it would come quickly. Now I know better.

When death comes for me it burns me alive, just like it did my father.

(Icarus was a boy who needed to escape, who longed to fly away from his prison, so his father built him beautiful wings. His father was brilliant, like mine, but unlike mine he survived. It was Icarus who was killed when he ignored Daedalus’s warning and flew too close to the sun. His false wings melted in the heat and he tumbled like a falling star. The sun wasn’t to blame for his death, though.

It was arrogance that killed Icarus.)

For a moment, the pain is blinding. It explodes white and black and red against my eyelids as I stagger back, mouth gaping open but unable to produce sound, and in that moment of weakness my mind spins completely out of control. Vital part damaged. Not enough blood for proper repair. Momentary loss of motor control. (- system took quite a shock - ) Increased heart rate. Increased adrenaline levels. ( - cowards don’t deserve mercy - ) Motor control reestablished. Equilibrium displaced. ( - they can’t be fixed - ) Transportation of oxygen disrupted. Muscles failing. And then, finally, the pain blots out all my broken thoughts and I collapse.

The world blurs in and out of focus, the taste of blood sharp as poison in my mouth, and like a coward I cling to life. Sloppy tears leak down my filthy face as I lie on my back, trying to catch my breath even though every inhale sends more liquid life spilling from my abdomen. Ashes rise up around me, settling on my skin. I try to curl my fingers and feel something cold and hard in one hand. My head drops to the side, eyes catching on a flash of metal. Knife. I suck in a breath so sharp that it slices through me and I cry out in pain before gritting my teeth and putting all my strength into releasing the weapon and shoving it away as if was searing my hand. It glides across the charred earth and I watch it with wide eyes, trying to pretend that it was the knife and not me that took so many lives. But that’s a lie, too. Another lie meant to try and fix myself.

I’m beyond fixing, though, so I suppose I’m beyond lying, too.

And so I let the truth pour out.



I am despicable. I am a killer. I have a broken heart. I was never worth saving. At first it hurts, a blade that drives deeper than Wyatt’s ever could. But slowly, it becomes less agonizing. I made mistakes. I’m still just a child. It flutters away from my chest like an invisible bird, floating on the breeze and never coming back. I made friends. I tried to protect them. I loved people, once. It wasn't all my fault. And then it is just simple, the little truths that I cling to because they remind me of who I am. I am a clockwork girl. I love machines. I only ever wanted to fly.

And maybe I still can.

“Wyatt,” I croak. More blood stains my shirt black. “Wyatt, I need - I n-need to tell you a story.”

I’m fading too quickly, my voice is too hoarse.

I’ve lost everything to them. They won’t take this, too.

“My mama told me that there was once a boy who never grew up. He knew how to fly.” He did not live in a tragedy. Mama said he was always happy, and that’s why he could fly, and later in life I learned that if the key to flight was happiness then I was doomed to be landlocked forever. “And he - h-he loved to listen to the stories that little girls and boys told about him. So one day he took some girls and boys away so that he could hear the stories all the time.”

It rises up in me suddenly, a panic I didn’t know was there. My limbs spasm and my hands grasp at the ashes, pain ripping through me. More tears tumble down my cheeks. I can’t help myself - I sob because dammit, I don’t want to die. “W-w-why would he d-do that, Wyatt? W-why would h-he take children f-f-from their homes? Doesn’t h-he know th-th-that that’s wrong?” A pause, and through a sob that makes the blood absolutely pour, I manage, “I j-just want to go back h-home.”

The fear doesn’t leave, but the energy does. I can’t find the strength to cry anymore. I’m too weak to fight death for much longer. And all I can think to do anymore is keep telling the story, because some desperate part of me needs him to hear the rest. It's all that I can do anymore. “He… he took them to a distant place.” The darkness at the edges of my vision begins to creep inward and I forget to listen for his replies, forget to look for his face, forget to do anything but keep on talking. “A b-better… a better place, w-with fairies and… magic… and pirates. Th-they were… happy there.” My voice drops down to a trembling whisper as everything turns into shapes, then colors. I see the shadow of my arm as I lift it, pointing at nothing. “It’s right there, you see? Second… second star to the right and straight… on ‘til… m-morning…”

The last thing I see is my arm falling back to the ground before the darkness swallows me.

For a moment, it's terrifying. But then something lifts my chest and suddenly I feel lighter than air. I catch glimpses of pale skin and red hair before the world comes back into focus and I’m staring down at my own bloodied, battered body over Wyatt’s shoulders. This must be death. But no, my chest is still moving, gasping in little breaths. I frown, confused, and try to drift farther away. Something anchors me here, though. Something even more powerful than death itself, a willpower that remains after every other part of me was broken. As I glance toward the setting sun, I think I understand. And so I nestle down beside what is left of Kiena Ward, tugging my knees up to my chest and watching the stars with Wyatt.

The night is long. The body of Kiena Ward doesn't move, but she keeps on breathing. Wyatt stays nearby. I don't think he has anywhere else to go. I ignore my own face in the Anthem, instead focusing on the fact that Kirito is still alive. He could make it. He could win. When the music fades I simply sit and watch the stars dance, the pocket watch ticking in my body's pocket. They're beautiful, even for a projection, and I occupy myself for hours by finding shapes in them just like I did back in Three atop the clock tower.

As they begin to fade I sense her. I glance up and see her standing there, beautiful even in death. She has two arms, and there’s no blood on her chest. She’s so silent I wonder how long she's been standing there, watching me. Waiting. Her eyes are bright as she meets my gaze. Her hand stretches out. “It’s time to leave, Key.”

I frown and look back toward the stars. “Not yet. Just a bit longer.”

I can hear voices - my father, Rowan, Rhyme, Simon, Sue. The chorus of death is a siren’s song but I cling to my body, watching the sky through narrowed eyes.

“Wait. Wait.”

And then the sun rises, staining the horizon bloodred, and I smile.

“Okay.”

(Key’s cannon fires.)