Chapter 3: Time to start the countdown, I'm gonna burn it down

Claudius snatches the stolen slingshot from the air and gives Four a disgusted look. "Knock it off," he snaps, and tosses the weapon back to the girl from Five without looking at her. She's not important; his rivalry with Four is. "Don't you have better things to do?"

"Like what, training to beat this bunch?" Four crosses his arms, and he moves into Claudius' space. He's a little bit shorter but he's built bigger, and he's the typical gorgeous, tanned Four stock. Claudius pulls back his lip and sneers, makes it very clear how impressed and intimidated he isn't. "What do you suggest I do, build sandcastles with them like you do? Braid their hair?"

Claudius steps in closer so they're practically nose-to-nose, and he unfolds his arms to let them drop by his sides, fists clenched. Claudius learned how to threaten when he was five years old. "Maybe some of us don't need to pick on kids who are like four feet high to feel tough. Maybe some of us bring it on our own."

"Maybe some of us are so butt-fuck ugly that we don't have to do anything, we just look at people and they drop dead," Four snorts. "How you gonna get sponsors with a mug like that?"

Claudius considers rolling his eyes, but at the last minute he narrows them instead. "You wanna try me?" he asks. "I can show you exactly what I plan to do that will thrill them, but I don't think you're gonna like it. What's the the word for when you take the skin off somebody? Fillet?"

Four does roll his eyes. "That's taking the bones out of a fish, dumbass. You're thinking of 'flay'. Don't they teach you guys anything in that backwoods district of yours?"

Claudius just smiles. "Right, fish, because you're a Four, that must be why I thought of it. See, you can look pretty while you talk about it. I can do it. You just watch."

And regardless of where Four fits in the Pack hierarchy, he is a Career either way, and a verbal posturing isn't going to scare him. Claudius didn't expect him to be and he doesn't care; this isn't the audience he's playing to. "Oh I'll watch," Four says, low and dangerous. "I'll watch while I slice you open. I'll make sure to do it slow so you can watch, too. Wouldn't want you to miss all the fun."

Claudius moves in close again. "You think you want this more than me? You're wrong. The last time some kid thought he wanted something more than me, I broke his face. I pulled the smashed pieces of his skull out through his nose, and I told him I'd do worse if he ever tried to take it from me again."

He isn't lying, and he waits until Four sees it before leaning until their noses almost touch. "And do you know what I wanted then?"

There - finally, the flicker of fear in Four's eyes. He's not afraid of Claudius because he's a Two, because he thinks Claudius is stronger, or faster, or more skilled, or that the sponsors will want him. He still thinks Claudius is a joke who plays with the babies, but now he knows there's something else. He's afraid because Claudius is deeply, deeply insane. He doesn't take the bait, but it doesn't matter because Claudius already made his point to the ones who matter.

"I wanted to be here, right here right now," Claudius says, slow and deliberate. "And I am. So I wouldn't get in my way if I were you."

He turns before Four can do anything to ruin the tableau he worked so hard to create, and nearly runs into a wide-eyed Seven, standing with the medicine ball clutched in his arms. "Have you really peeled somebody's skin off?" he asks, his face white.

"Of course not," Claudius says, indulgent. "That would be disturbing."

Seven swallows, and Claudius watches the Arena swim up into the conscious part of his mind. His throat works like he's trying not to vomit. "Are you gonna peel my skin off?" he asks in a high voice.

Claudius pauses just long enough, then he shakes his head. "Nah. Like I said, only pencil dicks do that."

"Would - you show me how to throw a knife again?"

"Sure," Claudius says with a shrug. Seven doesn't ask how Claudius will kill him, even though that would be a good strategy right now. Claudius tries to imagine what it must be like to be twelve and too afraid to use a good plan just because it meant thinking about something unpleasant. He can't. "Okay look, you hold it like that and you're gonna slice your fingers off, so ..."

Pattern firmly established, now it's time for Claudius to follow it to completion, to give the Gamemakers, the audience, the sponsors, and the bookmakers just enough stability that they feel he'll be a good bet. Outliers can afford to be totally unpredictable; Careers can't, even one who's been playing against the type as much as Claudius has.

During training, he splits his time between his different images, weaving them together. He antagonizes the other Careers, forcing them to alienate him further and band together even tighter against him. He trains, efficient and silent, to show off his skills in both weapons and agility and strength. He chats with the meat, all of whom by now regard him with a mix of wariness and preference to the others.

The boy from Seven has latched on to Claudius the tightest, and Claudius knows he needs to be extra careful with this one so that the attachment doesn't go over the line. Nobody - not the kid, not anyone watching, not the Pack - can be allowed to think that Claudius would consider an alliance with him, but he still needs to make his casual friendliness toward Seven and the others obvious enough that Caesar will pick up the ball and run with it at his interview. All of this will be for nothing if Claudius doesn't get to tell them all why he's here.

Whenever he and Lyme are in front of the cameras, they play up the easy, authoritative affection as much as they can without going overboard. She doesn't hug him and he never looks to her for protection or reassurance - he can't be weak, can't be seen relying on her, just that the closeness needs to come through - but she continues to touch his shoulder, squeeze his neck or ruffle his hair. All very parental gestures, and Claudius has lost track of the line between real and performance but it's all right because Lyme says that this time it's important to do just that.

Their last public appearance together comes on the final day of training, the morning of the private sessions with the Gamemakers and the interviews with Caesar. Claudius gets singled out by the reporters more than any of the others, even drop-dead gorgeous Nikita. Lyme forced Nero's hand by showing so much warmth toward Claudius; in order to avoid accusations of copying, he's withdrawn even further from his tribute, a silent, disapproving wall. He's obviously told Nikita to pull back on the personal anecdotes to make the distinction between the two of them even clearer; she talks only about her skills, leaves teasing hints about her strategy, and what they should expect to see from her in the Arena.

Claudius will feel bad for her when he has the lifetime of luxury to do it.

"So Claudius, tell us," says a reporter, and Claudius very carefully does not allow his eyes to widen. He feels Lyme stiffen behind him, and her hand tightens on his shoulder just enough that he can feel it but the cameras won't pick it up. They know his name. They know his name. "You've hinted that you've always known you would Volunteer. Could you tell us a little what it was like to stand on that stage after all those years?"

"Being able to do my part for the Capitol is the best thing I could ever do with my life," Claudius says, and he means it. Without this he would be long dead by now; he'd amazed himself with his own creativity thinking up with ways to kill himself when he was seven. At eighteen there'd be no stopping him. "Standing up on the stage was the proudest I have ever felt, though I admit it's a close race."

"Oh?" the woman smiles and leans in closer. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to tell us what's in second place?"

"Very close second," Claudius says, and he ducks his head a little. "The next proudest moment was when I found out Lyme had chosen me."

Silence. Claudius counts out a few seconds' pause, lets them work it over in their minds to see whether a Two has really given truth to the rumour that the Volunteers have been chosen by the mentors in advance, before he continues as though unaware of what everyone is thinking. "I mean, they do it in every district, right? As long as there's more than one victor, the mentors have to decide between themselves whether they'll take the male or female tribute. Well, for me, Lyme was my hero growing up, so when I found I'd get her as my mentor, I thought I was dreaming."

One of the other reporters - a stanch Nikita supporter - narrows his eyes. "You'll forgive us if we find it a little hard to believe that someone with Lyme's history and reputation would pick you over your district partner."

Claudius expected that. What he doesn't expect is Lyme to move closer, for her hand to move so her entire arm is around his shoulders. "Well I did," she says, and the reporter jerks back and hides behind his notebook. "That's all."

"Know your audience," Lyme tells him before he goes to wait in the hallway with the others. She holds his face in her hands, not loving and tender but gripping hard, intense, grounding him with her stare. "No cameras. No sponsors. No tributes. Nothing but you and the Gamemakers. This is where you show them how you got here, and why they should allow you to walk out."

Claudius nods. His throat is dry and scratchy but he knows that's just nerves, Lyme makes sure he eats and drinks everything he's supposed to when he's supposed to, and Claudius doesn't disobey her even when his stomach cramps and he swears he could never keep anything down. He always does; looks like his body obeys her more than it does him, which is just fine.

"All right." Lyme's fingers dig into his chin, and Claudius has the stupid thought that he wishes it would leave bruises so everyone would know who he belonged to. Like the silent pact that lovers make only not, because these would be mentor bruises except that's not a thing and he doesn't make sense and now is not the time. Not the time. He repeats the phrase in his head like a mantra. Concentrate, concentrate, concentrate. "Don't hold back. Show them everything, you hear me?"

"Yes ma'am," Claudius says, and Lyme claps him by the side of the face and says 'good' again.

He doesn't bother to introduce himself. They know who he is, and saying his name would be nothing but a ploy for attention, as good as screaming 'love me, acknowledge me, save me' and collapsing in a pool of tears. "District Two," Claudius says instead, and he starts the countdown in his head. Fifteen minutes, but he can't count on that; he has to mark the time as well as watch the Gamemakers, see if they're losing interest, getting ready to cut him off. At least the Twos go early, making it less likely they'll be bored by him, but still, he can't take the chance of timing everything to the last second and missing the finale just because someone has itchy fingers.

He picks up a spear and drives it straight through the nearest dummy. Over the next five minutes, Claudius goes through every melee weapon in the training area, limiting himself to just enough strikes with each to show his competence. Once the five minutes are up, however, he moves on; the One boy will have spent his time on nothing but weapons work, and the last thing Claudius needs is to be a copycat at this stage in the game. He moves on instead to the obstacle course, flinging himself through it with speed and precision, the one advantage that his smaller, leaner frame gives him over the usual meaty builds from his district.

Five minutes of that, and Claudius glances to make sure they aren't bored. They're not, but they aren't satisfied, either; most of them lean forward, eyes narrowed, or back in their seats with their arms crossed. They're waiting for him to be different, but what's more they're willing to wait for it. Claudius doesn't need to be told twice. He grabs a dagger - wicked, curved, and short, good for digging out the other person's guts and flicking them aside with the flat of the blade - and twirls it in his fingers before tackling the nearest dummy to the ground.

"So you think you want this more than me, do you?" Claudius says, low and almost friendly, but with a good layer of threat underneath it. "You really think so? 'Cause I gotta say, you really don't know shit. You think you deserve this more than me? Because you're prettier than me?" He grins and drags the dagger over the dummy's face. "We can fix that pretty quick."

But he doesn't, not yet. Instead he shifts, digs his foot further into the dummy's arm so he can lean his weight back. Claudius drives the dagger into the dummy's hand to hold it still, then pulls another from his belt. "Let's see, once I wreck your pretty face, why should you deserve to win over me? You're bigger, I guess that counts for something. But you know what they say about the bigger they are ..." He trails the dagger down, over the imaginary muscles in the dummy's arm. "... the easier it is to slice them up. Just like pork. I bet you carve up real nice, you wanna see?"

He finishes just before time's up with a thrust between the ribs, leaps to his feet and slides into a graceful bow. "I look forward to the Arena," Claudius says, and stands Career-straight until they dismiss him. He doesn't let himself look at their faces because he doesn't trust himself to stay neutral and it won't matter anyway because the score is all that counts.

They give him an 11. Lyme grips him by the back of the neck, and Claudius forgets how to breathe.

That evening, after Claudius is dressed and ready in his interview suit, Lyme sits him down in his room and goes over his talking points one more time. "You have to give them a reason to root for you, not just against the others," she reminds him, and she's said it a million times but Claudius nods anyway and lets it soak into his brain so that if he freezes it won't matter. "Remember. No matter what they're asking you with words, the real question is, why do you deserve to live. You need to answer that so surely that there's no other choice."

"I will," Claudius says. "You really think talking about wanting a family is going to be enough?"

Lyme hesitates. "There's something else," she says, and this time her eyes go hard. She's angry, Claudius thinks, though he can't begin to pinpoint the target. "This year the Capitol sent in a bunch of twelve-year-olds. No matter what you say about why you're here, people will still hate you for slaughtering a bunch of children if you can't find a way to turn it around. You need to twist the target, turn the hate."

Claudius frowns. "How?"

Lyme glances up at the ceiling in reflex, but the bedrooms are one of the the only parts of the Games Complex that aren't filled with cameras. "Remember when I told you that what I as going to ask you to do would very likely get you killed? This is what I was talking about."

"Tell me," he says as his heart trips in his chest; he'd thought they'd already covered that. He didn't realize they were still playing softball. "Either way I'm dead."

Lyme nods.

The lights are so, so bright, flashing in his eyes, but they trained him for this, put him in a room with white, reflective walls and shone spotlights at him, adding pushups for every blink, and now even though he can't make out a single face in the audience at least he's not blinking and squinting like the meat.

Caesar asks him the usual questions to start off - what he first noticed about the Capitol, is there anything he would like to bring back to him to District Two - before he switches tactics. Claudius holds his breath, because if it doesn't happen now, he'll have to make it happen, and the more obvious it is that Claudius is directing the conversation, the less effective it will be.

"So Claudius, tell me." Caesar leans on one elbow, friendly, conspiratorial. "A little bird has told us that you're being quite friendly with the outlying districts' tributes this year. This is unconventional for a tribute from Two. Are you telling us you have a soft spot?"

"Not at all," Claudius says. "I mean, I like kids fine, I was a kid once and everything, if you can imagine with this face." He pauses for the polite laughter. "I also don't really see the point in terrorizing somebody half my size, but you know what, the truth is? I'm kind of angry."

"And why is that?"

And this is it. Claudius pictures the audience sitting forward in their seats; imagines President Snow pausing as he trims his infamous rose bushes. "Well, I'm sure you've noticed there are a lot of twelve-year-olds this year," he says. "I mean, look at the numbers, it's every district except for One, Two, and Four. I've heard a few people saying that this is one sick joke, and the thing is, it is. Just not the way they think it is." He sits back in his seat, looks out over the audience and lets his expression harden. "I've heard people say that it's not fair, pitting a bunch of eighteen-year-olds against the twelves, but you know why I'm here? You know why the other kids my age are here? We're here because we stood up and took the place of a scared twelve-year-old. Meanwhile, all these other kids? They're here because nobody did."

"I see your point," says Caesar after a long pause. The audience is dead silent.

Claudius curls his lip. "It's bad luck that all the names picked this year were twelves," he lies, because he has to, and everyone knows anyway. "But it's not luck that they all had to come here. That's cowardice. I know for a fact that the boy from Nine has two brothers, both of them Reaping age. So why is he here? Why is the girl from Eight? She has sisters, and she's got asthma. Most of these kids have family who could've gone in for them, but they didn't. So I guess I figured that since their own loved ones threw them under the bus like that, it wouldn't kill me to be nice."

Caesar nods. "That's a very noble goal," he says at last.

There, the opening Claudius needs. "Not quite," he says. "Look, I've been nice to the younger tributes because it's no skin off my nose either way, but I don't want anyone to get the wrong idea. I didn't volunteer because I felt sorry for the kid who got called. I volunteered for me."

"Ah, you did say something about that before, I think," Caesar says, and he's probably glad to move away from the pit of bubbling treason that Claudius was skirting. "Something about your mentor?"

"Something like that, yeah." Claudius glances back at the wings where Lyme is waiting, even though he can't see her in the darkness. "My mother abandoned me when I was seven years old. I spent almost six months on the streets, right through the middle of winter. I've been sent from home to home all my life, and nobody would take me." Caesar clucks his tongue and makes a sympathetic 'awww' sound that ripples around the audience as they pick up on it.

"Hey, don't feel sorry for me," Claudius says, raising his hands. "I did okay for myself, as you can see, and I should probably thank her even, for teaching me to be tough from an early age. But when I win, that's a whole community of people who will understand me and take me in, and a mentor who will look after me. I've only known my mentor since the Reaping, but already I'm closer to her than anyone who ever tried and failed to take me in before."

He looks out at the audience, lets them get a good, long look at him, the ugly teenager with the un-pretty features and the scars and the wild eyes, lets them imagine him as a child, small and helpless and unwanted. Lets them imagine him picking up a weapon for the first time and deciding to make his own fate.

Claudius smiles. "After I win, I get a family. And if my getting a family means some other kid back in Two gets to keep his, then I guess that counts as a bonus."

Caesar gives Claudius a long look, and one corner of his mouth twitches in a way that Claudius decides means he's awarding him points for a game well played. "Well, I hope you get what you came for," he says, and leans over to shake Claudius' hand.

The rest of the interviews can't even come close to his. Nikita is shaken and furious; Lyme's strategy means that Claudius painted her and the others as the Capitol's pet killers even more than usual, for while the districts might be at fault for the kids being in the Arena in the first place, they won't forget who's doing the actual blood-spilling. She plays her role perfectly, but it's not enough to win, Claudius thinks giddily, and she knows it.

He's not shocked, then, when she answers the question about what she's looking forward to the most. "I'm sure it's no surprise to anyone that the male tribute from my district has turned his back on the alliance," Nikita says, her eyes snapping. "I'm looking forward to digging my knife right into his chest. He showed disrespect to me, and to my district, and I'm not just going to let that stand."

Four Boy says in his that Nikita will have to fight him for it; Caesar chuckles and reminds him that there's plenty to go around, but Claudius just holds back his smile. Good. The rivalry is sealed now.

Everything goes through normally - Seven uses Claudius' suggestion and complains that not everyone in Seven knows each other and the audience laughs - until the boy from Eight breaks out into hysterics. "He's right!" he explodes in a prepubescent squeal. His voice cracks but he keeps on going. "Why am I here? Why are any of us here? Why didn't somebody volunteer? Why did nobody care? He's right! Why couldn't I be in Two? Then I'd never have to worry because somebody always volunteers! They don't let their little kids die because they're too scared!"

Claudius makes a note to find Eight and kill him as quickly as he can in thanks.

"You nailed it," Lyme hisses in Claudius' ear as they head back to the Two floor after the interviews finish. "Gold star, kid."

"This is it, though," Claudius says when they're back in his room with the door shut. They haven't seen Nero or Nikita on the Two floor at all; Claudius assumes the mentors worked out some kind of schedule to avoid meeting. It's likely that whoever wins this one, Nero and Lyme won't be buddies for a while after. He runs both hands through his hair. "This is it. Everybody's gonna be mad at me now."

"Well, the Twos will be mad at me," Lyme points out, and she sits next to him and rests her hand on the back of his neck. "You're just doing what I tell you to do and they know that. But yeah, kid, this is it."

Claudius doesn't bury his face in his hands even though the desire piles weights on his head and drags it down, because he is a Career and in less than twelve hours he will be in the Arena so he needs to be sharp. Instead he digs his nails into his palms and stares window that acts like a giant television screen; he programmed it the first day to play scenes from the woods and mountains around the Village, and that's probably a weakness he can't afford but it keeps him grounded and so Lyme hasn't said anything.

The interview repaired some of the damage he's done all week by calling out the Pack on their posturing and bullying, but it doesn't negate it by any means. He's given the people someone else to hate, as well, but Claudius is not stupid enough to think they'll thank him for calling them out on their hypocrisy. The outer districts thrive on their shared culture of victimhood, that the Capitol is evil and nothing they do is their fault; it won't feel good for one of the privileged few to tell them that this year's tragedy is of their own making. Likely they'll hate him even more. And even with this in mind, he's managed to twist Snow's attempt to control the Careers by making them his dogs.

"Is it worth going back?" Claudius finds himself asking, and Lyme turns her head sharply. "I mean, I just. Are you sure they wouldn't blame me? I wouldn't blame them if they did. My interview will make the people mad, and they're too -" he waves a hand. "They're happy putting all the blame on us. What I said won't change that. They'll just get mad at us being the executioners. Which we are." He lets out a breath that's more shaky than he'd like it to be. "And don't tell me your career isn't going to suffer for this because you broke all kinds of rules and we both know how that goes down, and I don't want you to resent me."

Lyme frowns. "No," she says, and she slaps the side of his face, sharp but not hard. "Stop that, you shut that line down right now."

"I'm not talking about jumping off the platform," Claudius says. No matter how bad he thinks it will be, they'll punish Lyme for that - they always punish the loved ones of tributes who jump, make an example, and Claudius has made it very clear over the last week that it's not his parents he cares about so that's that. "I just mean, it's already impossible. It wouldn't take much for me not to come home. I'd just have to stop trying five hundred percent, that's all."

"Don't you dare," Lyme tells him. "Don't you even, you hear me? The Village doesn't give a shit what you do in your Games, not you, not anybody. You do what you can to survive and nobody will say a word because we've all done it. Every single one of us has blood on our hands, all right? We'll protect you."

"I hope so," Claudius says, and his voice sounds so small, so scared, and he hates himself so much. Maybe he should just jump. Twos aren't supposed to have doubts like this, they're not supposed to have any thoughts at all unless it's about the blood and the crown.

Except no. Lyme warned him all the way back after the tribute parade that this would be dangerous, that what she had planned could very well end up with his being killed anyway, and Claudius had said he could handle it. He'd looked her in the eye and said he was dead anyway, and he'd meant it then; why is he being such a baby now? He's never doubted himself, not in the eleven years since his mother dropped him off outside the Centre and changed the locks before he went back. He's sent eleven-year-olds to the hospital with caved-in faces. He's killed two men and one woman, all of them criminals but none of them less worthy of life than anyone else.

Claudius sits up, and he sets his jaw. "I'm sorry," he says, and this time his voice doesn't shake. "I'm the one being unworthy now. I had a - a moment, but I'm all right now, I promise. You can trust me to do what I need to do."

"Good," Lyme says, and then she stands up and claps her hands. "Up. You want some last motivation, I'm gonna give it to you." Claudius joins her, confused, and she slides her feet apart, lowering her weight onto her back leg. "You're getting a free sample of what it'll be like if you win."

Claudius has just enough time to lower himself into a defensive stance before she's on him. Claudius has trained since he was a little kid, learning moves too old for his age group after hours with the bigger kids - he's strong, he's mean, and he fights dirty - but he's no match for Lyme, who's bigger, stronger, and a victor besides. In less than a minute she gets him down on the floor and presses his shoulders to the carpet; something inside Claudius twists, desperate and greedy and every bit as lonely as he was curled up in the streets when he was homeless, but then she lets him up again. They repeat the process, and finally Lyme pins him against the wall with her forearm across his throat, and he scrabbles at her arms, fingers digging in to her biceps, but he can't budge her no matter what he does.

He's heard of mentor sparring, all the trainees who make it as far their senior year have. It's one of the perks of winning - one of the best ones for Twos, if they're being honest - because it's not just about physical conditioning. It's about proof, strong, concrete proof, that someone loves them and isn't going to leave them, ever. It's the way they comfort themselves, when they allow themselves to doubt in the middle of the night and wonder if they'll ever crawl out a person worth loving ever again, to know that on the other side someone is waiting to pin them and hold them down until they understand they're not going anywhere.

Claudius' breath leaves him in something that's almost a sob, and Lyme presses him harder against the wall. "Okay?" she says, and Claudius can't tear his eyes away and he thinks, maybe, maybe he sees a hint of the same need there, the need for him to come home so she can protect him, so she can make that promise and know she can keep it.

"Okay," Claudius says, and the panic and the fight and fear and everything fades, leaving him cold and quiet and determined.

"Good." Lyme steps back - Claudius has to fight back a sound of disappointment but no, he hasn't earned it yet, all he has to do is win and then he will, he can have this for real - and sits down, gesturing for him to do so as well. "I just want to go over the first five minutes, and then you're going to take what I give you and go to sleep."

"Yes ma'am," Claudius says, and for the first time, really, since climbing those stairs in the centre square, he knows he could dig around in his mind all night and find nothing but clarity. Even if he dies tomorrow, he owes Lyme everything for giving that back to him.

The hovercraft shimmers as the heat rises from the pavement. Claudius still doesn't know why they have to make it so far away from the doors - probably another kind of head game - but he's focused and that's a waste of time so he doesn't let himself think about it. Nero and Nikita have already gone, and he and Lyme stand in the shade of the Games Complex.

"Do what you came here to do." Lyme's arms grip his shoulders until they ache, her fingers digging in to the back of his neck. The cameras stationed all over the roof will be picking this up and people will be cutting this into the montage of every tribute's final moments, broadcasting the rare touching farewell from a Career district. Claudius doesn't care. He hugs her back just as hard. "You've wanted this since you were seven. You're so close. I've done everything I can but it's you now, okay? Whatever you have to do, do it. As long as you walk out, you're forgiven."

"I understand," Claudius says, and they can't stay so long that a Peacekeeper has to come separate them - not if he wants to keep any credibility at all - and so he pulls away. Lyme claps the side of his face, nods once, and steps back, letting her arm drop to her side.

"Win," Lyme says. "I'll be here."

Claudius touches his hand to his chest, fingers closed into a fist, the Two version of the outer districts' three-fingered kiss salute. "You know, I've always wanted to try brownies."

Lyme smiles, and it's grim but at the same time feels like sunlight and fingers in his hair and a quiet voice singing him to sleep. It's blood in the water and a sword in his hand with the sun glinting off the blade. "I'll make you some."

Claudius lets out a breath, then turns on his heel and strides toward the hovercraft.

He stares at the circle of light above his tube the entire time, forcing his eyes wide so he won't be left confused and blinking. They'll have a minute on the platforms before the counter hits, and Claudius needs to be alert and looking as soon as he can. Find the closest weapon. Ignore the others. No time to try to guess where they're going to run or what they'll go for. Until the buzzer hits zero, Claudius has tunnel vision. Him, the Cornucopia, and how he's going to get there.

Claudius hisses when his head clears the platform and he gets his first look at the Arena. It's picturesque, a meadow with sparkling flowers and waving grass and birds twittering overhead. Picturesque is never, ever good. He narrows his eyes, but it's not over the top like the 50th. He hopes that means something.

Still, too much thinking. Be alert, don't over-analyze. Claudius leans down in a crouch, rocking on the balls of his feet. He's practiced this, the mad dash with nothing mad about it, all speed and calculation and coiled muscles; practiced it with a band on his wrist that shocked him to the bone if he moved before the buzzer while the trainer shouted "DEAD, you're dead" from across the room.

The Cornucopia sits, shining and glittering rainbow in the sunlight, in the centre of the ring of platforms. It should take him less than ten seconds to get there. It will take Nikita nine. She's always been faster. Watch out for her.

The grass is too high to make out any of the gifts between the tributes an the Cornucopia. Of course. The timer ticks down but Claudius ignores it, he doesn't need to look because they've trained him to count down in his head just as accurately. Instead he scans the grass, looks for indentations in the smooth pattern of stalks that indicate where something waits. Assuming it is a gift and not a trap, but if it's a trap Claudius will deal with it then. No point psyching himself out now.

Someone to the right starts crying. The timer in his head reaches five. He glances at the clock to check his count - he's right - and then it's back to the Cornucopia. Back to his target.

Zero.

He runs.