Jeopardy: The Fourth Quarter Quell

Midnight - Claymore

Claymore

This is the top of the world. This is the end result of everything I have worked for, all those hours I have sweated and strained, all those arguments with Portia and all the times I’ve punched and pretended it was Jupiter’s face. Or his groin, sometimes.

Faces beam at me, an endless morphing blob of cheering colour, chanting my name, whistling and shrieking. They all want a look, a smile, a kiss blown into the crowd. There might be buildings melting into them but I can’t tell and I don’t care. Khave’s blinding smile blinds me, but nothing shines brighter than my victory right now. Every eye in Panem is on me, and they’re admiring or scared; aren’t they both the same?

I don’t know when I last ate or slept but it doesn’t matter. I live on the buzz alone, the fruit of my labours. And now I'm stood on the stage, the glittering crown on my head and I could be flying.

"Claymore, congratulations!" Khave enthuses, and shakes my hand roughly. Except that's Khave's voice but his face is more squinty, his cheeks angry red, his eyes beady and alert. Inspector Hannibal, the one who broke my nose. Though I knocked him out, so fair is fair. He's probably proud of it now.

The whole of District Two are proud of me. They have to be. I am their victor, their winner, and they love me for it.

Eyes peer at me from every direction as people everywhere call my name, thousands of different voices blended into one brilliantly deafening sheet of noise as cameras flash into my eyes. The scene shifts constantly: I’m in the training centre surrounded by gleaming blades and cheering shadows, out on the stage with the Capitol at my feet, and stood on the Overlook waving down at my district, all of whom have all come out to see me and clap and wave. The ground at my feet looks rocky but it feels like I’m stood on air, and every single face that I’ve ever seen back home looks up at me, smiling. My parents are in the front row, and I can feel them nearly bursting with pride even from up here, and Jupiter nods and concedes his final defeat somewhere in the middle and Portia…isn’t here.

My smile doesn't even falter as I sweep the scene again. Faces shift and melt into one another as soon as my eyes aren't on them, and overhead clouds speed so fast that they leave coloured impressions behind. And she’s not here.

Something skitters behind me, a tiny noise over the roar of the crowd, but I still hear it and I spin around. Portia stands there, her eyes fixed on me accusingly like something is my fault. She always thinks that something is. Except this time…this time something stirs in me, the feeling that she might be right.

Emptiness whistles over my ears.

“Portia…”

“Goodbye, Claymore.”

Her voice comes loud and clear, right by my ears, and I’m not stood up but sat down, my hand curled around something thin and wooden, and everything is dark. Someone is muttering to themselves.

My eyes snap open. A dream. Just a dream, the dream. Victory. The buzzing feeling still fizzes around my fingertips and washes over my head. It’s still dark. It must be night, late night. The pictures haven’t been up yet, and there’s at least one. It’s kind of peaceful like this. The other Careers asleep, just me and the residual feeling of the dream, except it wasn’t quite a dream, was it?

A shape slides towards the entrance from the back of the Cornucopia, moving silently with dark hair swinging around her shoulders. She’s got knives clustered around her waist and a backpack slung around her back and it’s Portia.

“Portia,” I mumble, stretching to get rid of the last traces of sleep from my limbs. The bow cracks against the side of the Cornucopia and Portia jumps, wheeling to face me. Her eyes are wide, her face pale in the moonlight. And I know that look; she’s up to something.