Her fist darts to its victim. Within seconds, there is a sickeningly beautiful crack. There is blood. An angry face looks up at her, but the person cannot look that vicious. Red liquid drips from a cut on their forehead, made by her spear. Even more gushes from their nose. A leg is twisted at a disturbing angle. Bruises are already appearing, ugly shades of purplish green. It's the very thing Clarisse loves most. It is her idea of perfection. Victory, winning, being prepared is her only friend. Except for the person she's just hurt. This time it's different. This time there's no triumphant smirk on the girl's oily face. She isn't looking up proudly, as if a crown of pure gold was placed upon her head of stringy brown hair. This time, she's looking down at her opponent's broken form, with a look of concern on her normally tough face. If she hadn't been trying to maintain her status as emotionless, tears would have streamed down her face. It's different.
The person she's hurt is Chris Rodriguez. His dark hair is matted with thick blood from her strike to his head. Supporting him is his right arm, which really shouldn't be holding that much weight after the fight. Brown eyes stare up at her. Only one emotion is clear through them: hate. He despises her. No one could be worse. She is the most horrible person in the world.
"Why?" he screams at her.
Clarisse looks at the boy angrily. She can feel blood rising to her face. He deserves this. "Why?" she yells, mimicking him. "Seriously, you're asking why? Why do you think, Rodriguez? Why do you think?"
Even more hatred glistens in his almond-brown eyes. She thinks nothing can exceed this. Chris stares at her.
"Answer me!"
Nothing can be heard. His stare still holds the look of scorn.
Clarisse looks as if she's about to explode. Her face is bright red. Her eyebrows are raised so high, Chris wouldn't be surprised if the flew off of her face. "Fine, I'll answer for you. I attacked you because you were trying to leave Camp! You don't do that!"
His eyes shine with a terrible fire. He opens his mouth to protest.
"I know your father never claimed you! I don't care, Chris, I really don't." Her voice carries for miles around Camp Half-Blood, and she hopes no one can hear. Still, she makes no move to lower her voice in the slightest. "My father hates me, Rodriguez. He's the war god, in fact, he hates everybody! Did you know that? Yet, you don't see me trying to leave Camp! You don't see me headed for the borders! I stay put. But, for all you know, your father could just have assumed you knew. He could actually care about you! Your father could favor you of all his children! Claiming means nothing, Rodriguez, nothing! I was claimed, but look how far that's gotten me."
"You don't understand, Clarisse! You don't!"
"I don't understand?" Her voice goes shrill. "Really, that's rich."
"You've been claimed—"Chris starts unsuccessfully.
They hate each other equally now. For a moment, Clarisse thinks that it's best just to let the boy go, get himself killed, and leave her alone, but she doesn't back down. "It took my lousy dad a year to claim me, Chris, a year. I think I understand." He doesn't see the lone tear slide down her cheek.
"A year compared to three," he says coldly, "I'm sure that's the same." He pauses, waiting for a response that never comes. Finally, he adds, "Not to mention, Clarisse, dear, you actually got the satisfaction of being claimed! Don't bother telling me it's not a thing to be proud of, happy with! I know you enjoyed it plenty!"
She gives up her argument and says, "So, smart one, where are you going?"
He looks almost scared, though it is hard to trace due to the never-fading hate so obvious in his eyes. "Why do you care?"
"Why do I care?" she repeats. "I certainly shouldn't care about scum like you. For all I care, you could be going right into a monster's lair."
He looks at her with an ice-cold stare. "So, I can just go, then."
"But, I want to know. And you'll want to tell me." Clarisse holds up her spear, and it crackles with energy in response.
He mutters something she can't understand.
"Louder, buddy, let the whole camp know where your traitorous butt is headed, seeing as you're far too good for us."
"Somewhere!" he yells. "It doesn't matter!"
The electric spear flies toward him. It grazes his arm, and he shouts in pain.
She smiles sickly, as if she actually enjoys seeing him get hurt. "Go ahead, traitor, run. Run, coward."
He stays still on the grass.
"That isn't working for you? Hm, I'll have to give you some help, since you're in such a hurry the leave." She kicks her giant boot into his side. Chris rolls down the hill, moaning in pain.
Then, Clarisse sits down beside Thalia's pine and, for the first time she can remember feels something other than anger. She feels something more terrible than anger. She can't describe it, but it's like a knife in her side. It pierces her, never letting her forget. Every second becomes less bearable.
This is different indeed. His bones were shattered. He had scars. He was weak. His pain was extreme. But, Clarisse felt worse. She felt even more broken. Another traitor had left Camp. She had fought him. And this wasn't practice. This isn't a game of capture the flag to be won, and then boasted about. It's a war. There are deaths. There are betrayals. And there's pain.
AN: So, I took a little vacation from my collection/multi-chapter to write a bit of this. If you'd like to believe that there's a little Chris/Clarisse in there, go ahead because I wish I could have some. If you squint, I suppose there is a little, little, little bit. But barely. This has been collecting dust on my phone and my desktop for about a month or so, and I figured that it's about time I posted it. I have quite a bit of spare time now that school's out for the holidays (insert cheers here) and my cello lessons, art classes, etc. don't start up again until early or mid- January. So, yay! Lots of posts and all that jazz. Though some may think that bad. Anyway, if anyone's actually reading this, I hope you enjoyed.
-Lexi