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The group of three took off and Icarus found that his mind had fallen on one thing and one thing only: escaping. He had forgotten (even if momentarily) how his father had left him alone and that assumedly everyone had fled Storm. Instead, his body as a whole was centered entirely around following the others and getting away from here. He couldn’t believe something could be so unbearable. He wanted to peel off his own fur, for it felt almost as if it was suffocating him. He tugged at his jeans as he walked, feeling the warmth from the heat that radiated around them soaking into the fabric. What if they didn’t make it out? What if they caught fire like everything around them?
He knew he would have cried if not for the fact that his eyes were so dry. He could barely keep them open enough to watch were he was going. Everything was effected – each sense. His vision was obscured, his hearing useless (he could only hear the roaring fire), his smell and taste occupied with the thick veil of smoke, and only his sense of touch remained. Even that gave him no comfort. He was helpless.
One foot caught on something, and the youth went tumbling. In his Optime form he was able to have his two hands out to catch himself. Yet, Icarus had them wrapped so closely to his mouth that he didn’t have time to put them out to break his fall. He collided with the earth, feeling the heat intensify. He had tripped over a fallen tree limb, and his jeans were snagged on a branch. Using both hands, he pulled himself free. Climbing to his feet, however, was a bit more difficult. His ankle felt sore as he tried to catch up with the other two. The curtain of smoke had clearly blocked him from view, so neither of his friends had notice him fall behind.