Jeopardy: The Fourth Quarter Quell

Preparation - Claymore

Claymore

Thwunk!

I lower the bow, scrutinizing my target. Irritatingly, the arrow is lodged directly on the line between the heart zone and the torso, still quivering. Good enough to kill, but I wanted it straight in the middle. On any other day...

"You're not ready."

"You're not even doing anything," I fire back grumpily, selecting another arrow and shooting a look at Portia. As usual she's sprawled on one of the balance beams, watching with her eyes narrowed and a small smile. It vanishes as soon as she sees me looking.

"I'm not the one volunteering for my own death," she retorts.

My only answer is to fire off another arrow. This one hits dead centre of the heart zone, but the rush of pride that usually comes after a shot like that doesn't even show its head. If there's one thing Portia doesn't even try to understand, it's the Games, and why I have to take part in them.

"Don't pout at me. Can't you at least wait a year?" she presses. I shake my head and throw down the bow; it looks like we're going to have this argument again. It clatters against the cool metal floor.

"I'm ready now."

"No you're not!" she shouts suddenly, jumping to her feet with her hair flying around her shoulders. "It's not even Reaping Day yet and already your aim is shaky! How would you handle it under some serious pressure?"

"I'd -" I start, meaning to say that this is exactly what I've been trained for, that that shot was a fluke. I don't know why I bother. She's always going to cut across me when she's in this mood.

"You're not as tough as you think you are, Claymore!" she snaps. "And the Games aren't a training exercise, a bit of competition! It's your own life you're risking!"

She keeps saying that as if I don't get it.

"I know!" Barely realizing it, I take a few steps forwards, brushing my hair away from my eyes. "But I can win, and I will!"

For a second she glares at me, her mouth pressed into a thin line and sharp grey eyes lively with anger. If it was anybody but Portia, I'd have flattened her by now. No problems. Right on cue, my nose twangs slightly, reminding me of the slight tilt it sits at. Instructor Hannibal came off worse, though, and the memory stirs pride in me again.

"You're a fool, Clay." She draws out the abbreviation so that it's clear it's an insult and turns away as I approach, even though I'm only meaning to sit down and talk things through with her. Again. I won't let her give me any doubts. That arrow was really just a fluke. Nobody shoots perfectly all the time. It's not physically possible; I've tried my best.

"I -"

No point. She's on a roll now, slender hands clenched into fists, hair quivering in anger, voice quick and low. "You just don't get it, do you? There is no second place, no runner up, only -"

"If you're not going to say anything useful, get out!" I shout. I've had enough. Tomorrow I go to the Capitol, and from there into the arena. Can't she just accept that it's what I want? Does she not think that I'm good enough?

I know the answer to that already, and for once I know for sure that she's wrong.

Without a word, she wheels away from me and storms for the exit, very deliberately not looking at me. A blast of chill air whips around the room as the door is hurled open.

"Portia!" I shout. "Tomorrow -?"

The only answer is the clang of the door closing reverberating around the suddenly empty room, bouncing off the blades and ricocheting from the low ceiling and orderly dummies.