one jump farther {iris vs mac :hell_kim:}

Another day, another death, and he wished he could feel casual about it. The pain that gutted him instead left him feeling heavier than an anchor, stretching his body until it snapped into two conflicting fragments. One half wanted to believe that this was nothing to stress about, that he was simply performing what was necessary to survive and take that one step closer to a new life. Yet the conflicting half pointed out that she was a human being. She was Lucia, she was Percy, she was Stevie and Petra and Natalie; a person with a candlelit heart he had violently blown out with pursed, bloodied lips. She probably had a family weeping for her back home. Maybe she was somebody's Lucia.

He killed her for selfish reasons. Perhaps they were valid, but he would not deny that they were selfish. Even though she had pleaded for death, it was a crime to murder. Fuck the Capitol for justifying it. Fuck the Capitol for glorifying it.

But they win anyway, because he was fighting to return to the Capitol. Oh the irony; it burned like hot irons in his veins.

He didn't loot her body. Instead, he closed his eyes and prayed. He prayed to whatever God she believed in, begging them to take care of her, and turned away. He didn't believe in anything special, but perhaps it was worth something to try. It left him feeling an ounce lighter - unless it was just the missing piece of him. Half of a leg amputated, he had little to no hope for survival. It was the putrid smell of iron that kept him going. He crawled up the staircase into breathable hair again, and then he collapsed against the rocks.

Stitching himself up took longer than he anticipated. Every movement brought a new wave of stings. He bandaged the stump to the best of his ability and waited for the anthem drenched in sweat. He wished Atlas and Justice were here to distract him from the aches. There was no morphling here - only plants to chew idly, and shadows to feed his paranoia. 

The anthem startled him out of a drowsy stupor. Two blurry faces greeted him first, and neither of them were Justice. The career was still kicking out there somewhere. He squeezed the strap of his bag in anticipation.

It was a mistake to anticipate nothing.

He exhaled and leaned back against the rock, ice pressing his heart into his spine. Atlas White was up there. The boy who could break skeletons with one thrust. The one who had been invincible in his presence.

What happened?

He didn't want to regret leaving. What choice did they have? But now Atlas was dead and he didn't think of himself as more deserving of anything. He should probably be dead instead of Atlas. Was it luck that switched their fates? Because he was tired of luck and its bullshit. There had to be something else.

He lied awake pondering until his body couldn't resist. He awoke the next day confused and sore, with the driest mouth he had ever tasted. There were no tears to salt his cheeks but the temptation was there; he had simply been empty for so long, it was difficult to cry. He felt almost less than human. Pain reminded him that he would only ever be human, as he heaved himself up using his sword as a crutch. A pinging sound drew his gaze up.

A silver parachute. A sponsor.

Inside the box was a jar of black tar and a rock. He recognized both as a combination: fire weapons. It was no uncommon practice to roast people alive in the games. Someone clearly wanted him to do the same. Which meant someone wanted him to...win?

Odd.

He slathered his sword until it was blacker than the acid lake. He hadn't wanted to backtrack to the very location where Natalie died the day before, but this cavern of rocks and shadows felt like a maze with no direction, and he didn't want to limp far. His footsteps echoed across the death water until he heard another pair join his own. "Sorry," the girl said, and he almost recognized her, "But I need to get home."

"So do I," he drawled. "But what makes you so special?"

Then her flaming sword bit into his thigh, singing the flesh around the edges and forcing a scream out of him.

Fire danced in the lake's reflection, a red rainbow to liven up dreary colors. Her sword tried to consume him whole and left blackened skin in its wake. It burned like a thousand hot needles pricking his nerves, leaving his only whole leg trembling as he struggled to swallow his own voice. He had to keep himself steady. One fall meant an acid bath or a blazing sword to the heart, and he didn't want to feel the true meaning of heartburn. This girl meant nothing to him. Was it cruel to think so? He finally recognized her from the day they battled the dragon. No name, just a face and association.

He wanted to feel something for her. Not anger, but what squeezed life into his chest when he crossed his blade with Lucrezia's skin. He didn't know if it was possible anymore. There was so much blood and so much loss, was it worth feeling anything for a complete stranger? When Atlas was in the dirt and Natalie's old bloodstains were beneath his feet, it was hard to muster anything for her.

He focused on their dueling swords instead. "It was more of a rhetorical question," he mumbled, wincing through every excruciating movement. One leg was bandaged at the stump, and the other was leaking blood through scorched flesh. The smell of it was enough to turn his stomach upside down. "Nobody is special here."

And she agreed with him. Nothing made her special. Nothing made him special either. He recalled the chess metaphor from days ago: they were all pawns, and pawns were not special.

He still hated metaphors.

Just like on that day, he found himself staring at an amputated hand at among the rocks. Another monstrous deed to add to the list, but maybe it would help him. He was crippled, after all, and there was a grave waiting for him. He wanted to keep it waiting.

Her next lunge came slower, but the flames were no less dangerous. They hissed as they burned the lining of his arm and he flinched away. It was difficult to keep death waiting when he was balancing on one and a half legs, but he would be damned if he gave everything up at this moment. "Fair enough," he grunted, "Not sure what I did to piss you off though."

He grazed her hip and sighed in frustration, planting his sword into the dirt before the momentum kept him swinging toward the black lake. He could still see the fire from her sword on the surface like flickering red crystals. If he werent so terrified of burning the death, he could throw himself into the water and stop worrying about everything and everyone. Memories of Atlas smiling would vanish. The ring in his bag would be returned to Natalie's mourning family. If an afterlife existed, he would join Lucia and listen to Lucrezia say "I told you so."

A childish fantasy.

Reality turned him around, and he watched the girl's face twist into a scowl. She spat acid at his feet and it was stronger than any poisonous lake. She spoke of someone named Ren, someone he apparently tried to kill on the first day. That storm felt like such a distant memory. The image that stuck was Percy lying on the ground, and those around her breaking apart. Then, he had proceeded to kill two of those girls. The game had made a monster of him.

"I tried to kill someone in the Bloodbath? How scandalous," he retorted, voice laced with bitter sarcasm. The purpose of the Bloodbath was to attack and survive. What the hell did she expect? It was too far into the Games to expect truces and rainbows. He figured she probably knew that deep down, but she needed a reason to hate him. She needed fuel to kill him. For that, he couldn't blame her, but he also couldn't return the anger.

The onslaught of rage continued. Her screams were enough to wake bats from their caves. She spoke of another person he tried to kill - an ally. The only memory he had of her was the day a dragon tried to swallow him whole. Oh, right. He remembered them now, the career in their terrible, selfish glory. "Alright, you got me there," he said, wiping sweat from his brow. "I did help kill Heathcliff. I was too afraid of the dragon to do anything else. Is that what you want to hear? That I'm a coward? Because I am."

And he always would be, even as her sword reopened an old wound on his aching shoulder. He groaned and stumbled away, raising his own tar-drenched blade to defend himself. The light was suddenly gone, her fire snuffed out by darkness. He couldn't feel anything but relief, because he didn't want to burn to death. He was too scared for that, and he would scream that fear into the void if she so wished.

His vision blurred. Rocks morphed together into black blobs, and he propped his hand against a jagged edge to keep himself upright.  His breaths came in ragged huffs. He noted to himself that these were all signs of blood loss, and stared down at the red river pouring from his leg. Exhaustion had seeped into his bones like a disease, freezing his joints with nothing to help thaw him out. A half of his leg was missing, so despite being an honest coward there was nowhere he could run. It was do or die in the hellscape, and he was dying. By the end of today he could be turned to ashes. The only thing left? An insignificant legacy that would vanish in days. What a way to go.

The girl with barely a few scratches to her name agreed with him. He was a coward. Funny, she barely fucking knew him. Judging a book by its cover was an excuse to hate him, but he could accept that. Somebody had to hate him because it was too much trouble to feel contempt for himself, even after everything he had done. He could accept himself as a beast turned by the game and move on.

But what about her?

She sliced open his arm again. All he could manage was a grimace before he licked his chapped lips and spoke again. "I bet you killed somebody's ally." And he prayed it wasn't Atlas, because he knew Atlas could shatter her to pieces in one swing, and failing to do so would mean he had given up. He didn't want to imagine Atlas on his knees, pleading for death the way Lucrezia had pleaded him to end her. No, that didn't sound like him. He hoped it was somebody else, anybody else. Who else died last night? Daniel and Scout. It had to be one of them.

He tried not to care.

"So let's talk about you. I can't be the only coward here."

He was drenched in fatigue from head to toe. Memories of his agony from days ago were but a distant blur, and he wished he could rewind time to the one and only night when the four of them were together. He wanted to sit among his carefree allies and snicker at the penis drawn on Justice's face. He wanted to see Atlas smile and Stevie laugh again. It wouldn't be so bad even to visit the night he argued with Justice, because at least that pain was numb. Now he was alone. Atlas was gone, Stevie was gone, and he may never see Justice again.

The hilt of his sword was slick with a concoction of tar, sweat, and blood. He remembered the day he first held something so large and dangerous in the training center; he had been afraid of tripping and falling against the edge. A stupid death like that was the least of his worries now. After days and days of fighting and killing, he was still no expert with a sword. He was no Justice. He balanced on one leg and could hardly land a scratch on the girl. It was almost a disgrace. He had been the weakest link since day one, so why was his heart beating when Atlas' wasn't?

Wind whistled past his ear as he ducked to avoid the girl's sword. His energy was draining but he still had survival instinct lodged between every joint. It would not cease fueling him until his heart was too withered, and he was counting the blows until that happened. Nobody had wanted him dead as badly as this girl. Was that why he had survived? A low priority kill?  Save the weakest for last. His brain was clogged with too much static to determine whether it was flawed logic or not.

The girl admitted to sharing his cowardly ways. He admired the honesty; it meant she was not focused on pride or ego. She was just another regular human being like him, and perhaps that meant they were on equal grounds. She said that she had to act like she wasn't among the cowardly. A game of pretend; that was fair.

"I should do the same," he said, "But all victors are cowards. We should wear it with pride."

And die with it.