Claymore
The only sound all day has been the noise of the trees and it's been doing my head in. I suspect that the only reason Portia hasn't stormed out is because there's no doors to slam on her way out, and she hurls a packet of dried fruit into my face with enough venom that it stings. I rub the spot on my forehead. I'm probably a disgrace back home now. All that training to run away and skulk around like any other tribute.
"Are you cross I came with you?" I ask.
"Yes," she says, "But if you go back now, they'll slaughter us."
I open my mouth to loudly deny that they'd ever get a touch on me, let alone a deadly blow...and close it again, because she's right. Venus, Luxury, Diamond, Elton, Chase, Adrienne and Crispin. All of them, I could take on my own. But all of them at the same time would be a different matter.
And of course, this time it's us not me. I've never had that before. I can't go back. As my mother would say, I've made my bed.
This is boring. Just sitting around doing nothing is no way to play the Games. That's a rule written inside my very core, etched into my being along with the slogans engraved into the walls of the changing rooms: the Games are about glory, no pain no Games. I might not be with the Careers, but I'm still a Career. Which is why I say without thinking, "We should go hunting."
She looks up at me quickly, sharp eyes digging into mine with fierce disapproval. "Animals yes. Tributes no."
That's when it strikes me. No animals. There haven't even been birds singing. Even in the pine woods back home there's birds, as well as shadowy rumours of bears, mink, even wolves.
How can she object to hunting? Yesterday she slit the girl's throat while she looked her big sister straight in the eyes. There are still specks of blood on her hands and a blotch on her neck, under her ear. How is hunting any different?
"Hunting is for animals, Claymore," she says, as though she's read my mind, still looking at whatever it is she's carving, "Not for people."
"They've got to die."
"Then let them die of their own accord. I won't track them down."
I breathe out a long sigh, a trick that the instructors used to tell me to do to keep my patience. You've got to be patient to be an archer, and it's the only thing that still eludes me sometimes, especially when I'm talking to her.
There's a leaf jutting out of her hair and the not-so-inner perfectionist in me itches to rip it out; it looks messy and careless. I run a hand over my hair to check, but it's still fine.
"They'll be furious with me back home," I offer. She should like that, she'll latch onto it and make a few sarcastic comments.
But that's not what happens.
What happens is that she stands up in one angry movement, a blade flashes in her hand and I'm on my feet and she's in throwing stance.
"You wouldn't. You couldn't." I almost repeat it again because my heart is hammering in my ears and I can barely hear. Beads of sweat collect at the base of my neck. She has the knife ready in her hand and she knows that I won't fight back.
I try to make my voice sound confident, like I'm completely convinced that she won't, and in case she's forgotten, I reach out a hand to tap the bracelet clamped around her arm.
The next second, I'm looking at the floor with my cheek burning, the whip of the slap still cracking around my ears. A few spots dance around my eyes and retreat. I'd hit her back but my mind is still trying to work out what happened and ouch, it hurt.
"You have brought me into the situation that I loathe more than anything else in the world, except maybe your face right now, knowing full well that it's likely I'll die, perhaps planning to kill me yourself. Does it only make a difference when you're the one threatened?" My mind reels, trying to pick apart exactly what she's said and work out why she's suddenly decided to threaten me. She already knows I'm sorry, but that's clearly not good enough.
"I came with you, didn't I?"
"I didn't want you to!" Her eyes are fierce, her entire frame trembling; she'll do it. Something has snapped inside. She'll take herself down if it means I get dragged down too. But I refuse to get dragged down. I haven't trained my whole life so she can ruin it for me.
"We can win. We can live. Please, Portia. Put the knife down."
The blade flashes past my ear, shaving off a piece of my hair, and as she throws herself to the ground, I'm finding myself back in the training room, fifteen years old.
It’s been a bad day’s training, none of my arrows quite lining up. Archery is my specialism already; I’ve got the wingspan for it, the strength. Everything but the patience. Of course, you’re crazy if you only train in one discipline, and I’ve spent some time sparring before giving up on that too and retiring to the throwing knives. They always feel like something of a cop-out, exactly what everybody expects from Two, but I guess they’re a good way to unwind. You don’t even need any strength, just half-decent aim. Any fool could do it.
Except today is not my day and my knives scatter the red ring. Good, fatal, but not fatal enough for me. I collect them with a sigh and try again, hurling the first almost at random. It lodges in the border between the red and gold.
“Not bad,” says a voice behind me, and as I spin around to berate them for taking a future victor by surprise, the unmistakeable whir of a blade zips past me. No sooner has it thunked into the tiny cross in the centre than another follows it, setting so close to mine that from here it looks like they’re touching.
Once my brain has got its head around the fact that whoever I’m dealing with is some kind of talent – and it’s not very happy about that; I’m the talent here – I attempt to turn around and take a proper look.
Advancing slowly towards me is a girl with a narrow, almost rat-like face, dark hair and sharp grey eyes. Typical district features, unlike me. But even if I didn’t know who she was, the grey Peacekeeper-in-training bands around her kit would suggest that ‘typical’ is the wrong word by a long way.
This is the girl they say is mad. Weird. Not one of us. I wrack my brains but I can’t remember anybody ever saying why. She just is. And if being mad could make me throw like that, I wouldn’t mind it one bit.
“You…you throw like that?”
She saunters straight past me and yanks her knives from the target, along with mine, before replying, “No, I used my psychic powers to move them with my mind.”
My neck burns like it always does when I’m not sure whether to be amused or angry. I don’t like being mocked. She offers my knife to me, looking disinterestedly past my shoulder, and snatches her hand away as soon as I take it. Definitely weird. But I’ve never seen anybody throw like that before.
“The girl who won the Tournament must be something else if she managed to beat you. Odds all on her, any day.”
She pauses for a moment, half-turned towards the door as though she only came in to show me up, and her face flickers from annoyed to confused before settling on puzzled.
“You don’t know? Oh, wait, you’re Claymore Morningstar. You don’t pay attention.”
Should I be pleased that she’s heard of me or not? I open my mouth to protest but she waves it away with a gesture as sharp as the blades spinning between her fingers. “It’s a mandatory event. Everybody has to do it, whether they want to enter the Games or not” – that’s a strange thing to say, almost like she doesn’t – “I won.”
She says it so matter-of-fact that it catches me entirely off-guard, an unpleasant sensation. The Tournaments are the making of victors; you don’t even get the honour of considering volunteering if you don’t beat off all the others in the district to do it. This year I was knocked out in the sprint round, flat last.
“Then congratulations. If you can fight as good as you throw, you’re almost a cert.” I think this is a good little speech, nice and gracious, complimentary, even. But she narrows her eyes at me until they almost disappear.
“Do I look like a suicidal idiot to you, Claymore? Or is it Clay?”
“Claymore,” I correct quickly, “Clay makes me sound thick.” Then I process what she’s actually said and everything falls into place. Why she’s wearing Peacekeeper colours rather than training colours. Why the rest of the district think she’s weird. For the tiniest moment offense scratches at my throat. Then my eyes catch sight of the notches in the target.
“Hey, erm…”
“Portia.”
“Portia. Nice name. Do you think you could teach me to do that?”
Back in the here, back in the now, I yank the knife out of where it's lodged in the tree. Strands of gingerish hair are settled on my shoulder; another inch towards my head and I'd be dead by now. Both of us. Mentally I twitch a little at the thought that I now look lopsided.
She takes it when I hold it out to her and slumps against the tree, jamming the knife into her belt. I sit down opposite, desperate for something to say. I've had enough of silence. If this was back home I'd say something about people I'd bumped into on the way home, gossip about the ones sneaking out to spend some time together or laughing when they make fools of themselves.
There's probably other tributes around, but they'll have to be good to sneak up on us. And I could flatten them in seconds if they did.
"Well," I start, "This is awkward. I'm not sure what I'm meant to say to somebody who just nearly decapitated me." I laugh a bit too, annoyed when it falls totally flat.
"How about thanks?" she snaps back, which I don't understand so I let it drop. And the conversation is dead again. I grit my teeth for another go.
"At least try to make a proper conversation, why don't you? We usually get along. Well, when it's not about the Games, anyway," I add.
She looks up at the sky, the midday sun shining through the leaves, and sighs. "There's the problem, then. It's all about the Games now."