A/N: Thank you, KenJ, for writing the fight scene for this chapter.
Chapter Seven
Clark was already awake when Marcius knocked on his door at dawn. He had slept only fitfully the night before, awakening often and peering through the wall at Becky to see how she was doing. When he had awakened to find himself floating slightly in spite of his efforts to secure himself, he had given up on sleeping and spent the rest of the night staring out the window. Clark shouted, “Come in!”
“Eager for the Games to begin, I see!” Marcius exclaimed when he walked in, with Rosaline following close behind him. Clark gave him a look that would have warned off most people, but Marcius was oblivious. “Rosaline has your tribute uniform. Once you’re dressed, she’ll escort you to the hovercraft that will take you to the arena.”
“How’s Becky?” Clark asked abruptly, cutting him off. He knew how Becky was doing — he’d checked on her just before Marcius had come in, and with his superhearing he could hear the faint crackling sound of her breathing, but he was in no mood for Marcius’ enthusiastic chatter about the Hunger Games.
Marcius gave Clark an irritated look. “She’s fine, to my knowledge,” he responded. “Someone would have said something if she wasn’t.”
Since no one besides Clark had checked on Becky since the doctor had left, Clark doubted this to be true unless she was being monitored remotely. Becky didn’t look or sound fine to him, but she was still alive, and as sick as she was, that was almost a miracle.
Marcius glanced at his watch. “Hurry and get ready,” he told Clark. “The hovercraft leaves in an hour. You’ll be on it whether you’re ready or not.” With that, he left the room and went to wake Becky.
Rosaline gave Clark a sympathetic look. “He’s a bit much to deal with at this hour, isn’t he?”
“He’s a bit much to deal with at any hour,” Clark mumbled sourly. He took the clothes and boots from Rosaline.
“You should have time to shower if you hurry,” she told him. “I’ll knock if you’re running out of time.”
Clark showered quickly, then stood in front of the mirror, using his heat vision to shave. It wouldn’t be possible to do so in the arena. When he was done, he dressed more slowly, examining the clothes to see if they might present some clue about the arena.
The tribute uniform consisted of sturdy dark brown pants and an equally sturdy dark green shirt with his district number on the back. The clothes were lightweight but encompassing.
Someplace fairly warm, Clark thought,
but probably not a desert. Maybe someplace with a forest? He couldn’t be sure. Most years, the tribute uniforms suited the environment of the arena — but not always. Some years the Gamemakers deliberately gave the tributes inappropriate clothing, then watched them freeze or swelter.
Clark quickly put on the boots, which were made of sturdy leather, with soles designed for running, and exited the bathroom to find Rosaline waiting for him.
She looked at him, nodding approvingly. Reaching into her pocket, Rosaline pulled out the framed photograph of the Kents and handed it to Clark. “The Gamemakers approved your token,” she said, “so you get to take it into the arena.”
The picture had been taken from Clark when he had arrived at the Remake Center. Glad to have it back, he put it in his pocket, asking, “Why do the Gamemakers have to approve tokens?”
“It’s to make sure your token doesn’t give you an unfair advantage in the arena. If you can use your token as a weapon, you can’t take it in with you. They did replace the glass in the frame with plastic. Speaking of which…” Rosaline held out her hand. “I’m going to have to take your glasses.”
“What? Why?” Clark had seen tributes with glasses in the arena before. Why did Rosaline need to take his glasses from him? Had someone noticed something strange about them — like the fact that they didn’t correct his eyesight?
“The Gamemakers consider them an unfair advantage because broken glass can be used as a weapon. They’re also a liability to you — if they break, you’ll be left blind, or worse, with a piece of glass in your eye.” Rosaline pulled out a glasses case and removed a pair of almost identical glasses. “These are shatterproof plastic — much safer in the arena. If you win, you’ll get your old pair back.”
Reluctantly, Clark handed Rosaline his familiar glasses. She put them in the case and handed him the plastic ones. He put them on, blinking a little as he looked through them.
As with the ones he’d brought from home, the glasses did nothing for his vision. He suspected that they would melt if he focused his heat vision on the lenses, though he didn’t dare test that theory. Clark quickly discovered that the plastic didn’t block his x-ray vision like the leaded glass of his regular glasses did, either, although that could be a distinct advantage in the arena. In truth, the plastic glasses were useless except for their familiar and therefore comforting presence on his face.
“Ready?” Rosaline asked.
Clark shrugged. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.” He kept his face expressionless as she opened the door for him, unwilling to admit the fear he felt — fear that he wouldn’t be able to protect Becky, fear that he would be forced to harm someone else, fear that his secret would be discovered — even fear for his own life. Fear wasn’t an emotion Clark felt often — he didn’t need to. Very little could harm him, but the prospect of the arena filled him with trepidation.
As Clark and Rosaline started down the hallway, Becky stumbled out of her room, followed by Belarius. Becky looked around groggily, not quite awake. Then she started coughing again.
Clark hurried to her side. “Becky!”
Becky looked up at him, trying to stop coughing. After a moment, she managed to get her cough under control and wiped the blood from her mouth. She took a step toward Clark, but nearly fell as her head spun dizzily and her legs started to buckle under her.
Clark caught her and held her up until she managed to steady herself. He looked at her sorrowfully, knowing that Haver was right — Becky was dying, and there was nothing anyone could do to save her, not even him.
He felt a surge of anger at the Capitol. Becky needed to be at home, surrounded by her loved ones. Instead, she was being sent into the arena, where her death, whether from lung disease or from violence, would serve as entertainment for the bored, privileged Capitolites. She would never see her family again, and the only person who would be at her side at the end was a boy she had known all of her life, but had only recently known to be a friend.
Clark offered Becky his arm. “Come on,” he told her softly. “You can lean on me.”
Becky nodded, her body convulsing in another coughing fit. When it ended, she allowed Clark to help her down the hallway. He supported her with an arm across her back and her arm in his hand. The stylists followed close behind them.
Just before they reached the elevator, Marcius, Haver, and Matilda came out of the sitting room. Quietly, they approached the tributes.
“It’s almost time,” Marcius said, less animated now than he had been earlier. “We’ll be in the Capitol, working to get sponsors for you. Remember your mentors’ advice, and … may the odds be ever in your favor.”
Clark nodded his head tersely in acknowledgment, while Becky started coughing again. Haver looked from Becky to Clark sympathetically, while Matilda just shook her head, looking sad.
As the tributes stepped into the elevator, Haver told them, “Good luck. We’ll do our best to get you sponsors.” He and Matilda put their right hands over their hearts and bowed their heads. Clark and Becky did the same in response as the elevator doors closed.
The tributes and stylists were silent on the short trip to the roof, where the hovercraft would launch from. When the elevator reached the roof, the stylists stepped out first, heading towards their section of the craft that would transport them to the catacombs from which the tributes would enter the arena.
Most of the tributes were already on the roof, milling around and trying to avoid each other while a group of Peacekeepers kept an eye on them. Clark and Becky stepped from the elevator and moved slowly towards the other tributes.
Two minutes later, the last of the tributes arrived on the roof. The pair from District 1, Platinum and Lumen, stepped out of the elevator and walked confidently over to their fellow Career tributes.
The moment the elevator doors opened, Clark knew that something was wrong. A dull pain moved through his body and his head started to ache. When the District 1 tributes came closer, the pain increased and he stumbled, falling to his knees and pulling Becky down with him.
“Clark! What’s wrong?” Becky asked, looking at him fearfully.
“Nothing,” he lied. “I just tripped.”
The Careers had seen them fall and were laughing at them. When Platinum turned and pointed at them, saying something that, to his alarm, Clark couldn’t hear, he saw what the problem was.
Platinum had a glowing green pendant suspended by a chain around her neck. The piece of Kryptonite wasn’t large, but it was enough to harm Clark. A tribute’s token wasn’t supposed to give them an unfair advantage in the arena, but no one except Clark and his parents knew how it affected him. As far as the Gamemakers were concerned, Platinum’s token was just a harmless piece of jewelry.
Becky managed to get to her feet first and stood between the Careers and Clark as he struggled to get up. Laughing harder at Becky’s attempt to protect Clark, the Careers started taunting her.
“Isn’t that cute? She’s standing up for her boyfriend!”
“I thought he was her brother.”
“Maybe he’s both!”
“Which one should we kill first?”
Clark finally managed to get to his feet. He glared at the Careers as he said weakly, “Don’t listen to them. They’re idiots.”
Becky started coughing, making the Careers back off as drops of blood flew in their direction. She leaned against Clark, though he was still having trouble staying on his own feet.
Together, the District 9 tributes moved to the shelter of a large potted plant and sat down heavily on a bench beside it. Clark clutched his aching head. The weakness had lessened slightly when Platinum had moved away from him, and was easing a little more now that they were sheltered somewhat from the Kryptonite, but his head still hurt, his body still ached, and he felt a little nauseous. A quick check of his x-ray vision confirmed that his strange abilities had disappeared, leaving him as vulnerable as anyone else.
By the time Becky’s cough eased, the front of her shirt was stained with blood. They looked at each other uneasily — Clark worried about how much blood Becky was losing and how painful her breathing sounded, and Becky worried because suddenly Clark was not feeling well.
“Clark,” Becky whispered, “what … what’s wrong?”
Clark shook his head. “I … I just have a headache.”
Becky touched his face. “It’s more than that. You have a fever, too.”
Clark shook his head again, rubbing his temples. “It’s nothing.”
Becky gave him a frightened look. “Do … do … you think … you … caught it from … me?” Another coughing fit convulsed her fragile body.
Clark patted her arm. “No,” he assured her. “This has nothing to do with you. I just … don’t feel well.” He couldn’t tell her what the problem actually was, and even if he could, there was nothing she could do about it. If Becky tried to take the pendant from Platinum, the larger, healthier Career girl would hurt her badly, and then both Becky and Platinum would be punished for fighting before the Games began — and probably Clark, too, for instigating it. And then his secret would be out, endangering his family and friends.
One of the Peacekeepers raised a bullhorn. “Would all tributes please report to the hovercraft? Departure is in five minutes.”
Becky froze at the announcement, looking at Clark with wide, frightened eyes. He shook his head. “It’s time,” he told her, pushing himself to his feet and offering her his arm. Becky took it, and the two of them moved toward the line to board the hovercraft, leaning against each other slightly.
The Careers were at the front of the line, eager to board. Clark was glad to see that Platinum was at the very head of the line. He guided Becky to the back of the line, putting as much distance between himself and the piece of Kryptonite as he could.
One tribute tried to break away from the others, running back toward the elevator, only to find it blocked by a force field. A Peacekeeper grabbed the terrified District 8 boy and pushed him back in the direction of the hovercraft.
As each tribute boarded the hovercraft, they were ordered to hold onto the handrail, where an electric current froze them in place while a technician injected a tracker into their left forearm.
When Clark saw this, he realized that Platinum’s Kryptonite token might be a blessing in disguise. He’d never realized that trackers were used to show where tributes were; he’d always thought that the cameras kept track of them. Under ordinary circumstances, the technician would have been unable to inject the tracker into his arm and would probably have destroyed the needle trying to do so, but because of his exposure to Kryptonite, there would be no problem inserting the tracker under his skin.
Inside the hovercraft, there was no way for Clark to get away from Platinum. He could only be grateful that she was at the other end of the compartment, putting some distance between him and the poisonous stone.
Clark sank into the seat closest to the door of the hovercraft, his legs shaking. Becky sat beside him, looking at him with worry.
After the door to the hovercraft was closed, the Peacekeeper who was in charge of the tributes until they reached the arena made an announcement.
“The flight to the catacombs beneath the arena will take about forty-five minutes. This hovercraft will remain nearby. Most of you will be returned to the Capitol in it before being shipped home to your families for burial.”
Most of the tributes shuddered at the thought. The boy who had tried to run gave a frightened sob before clapping a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound.
Ignoring the tributes’ reactions, the Peacekeeper went on. “The victor will be returned to the Capitol in a fully-equipped medical hovercraft. Once that person has recovered from their Game, they will receive adulation and rewards beyond what most of you could ever imagine.”
The Careers grinned at each other, but with less enthusiasm than before, all of them realizing how soon they would probably be dead.
The Peacekeeper took his seat. The windows of the hovercraft darkened as it took off so the tributes couldn’t see where they were going. Though there was little chance of anyone attempting to rescue them, the Gamemakers didn’t want to take any chances that a tribute might be able to tell the viewers where the arena was located.
It was unpleasantly warm inside the hovercraft — either the temperature controls were malfunctioning or the tributes were being deliberately tortured. In addition, the hovercraft encountered turbulence outside the Capitol. Soon, many of the tributes were reaching for airsickness bags, and even the Peacekeeper looked uncomfortable, in spite of the anti-motion sickness medicine given to Capitol staff before a hovercraft flight.
Clark sat with his eyes closed, his head cradled in his hands. He knew it made him look weak, but at the moment, he was in too much pain to care. The Kryptonite was close enough to make him sick, but not close enough to render him unconscious — at least not quickly, though occasional waves of lightheadedness told him that passing out eventually was a distinct possibility.
Beside him, Becky’s frail body convulsed from coughing fits again and again. After each coughing fit, her breathing grew shallower and more labored. When Clark opened his eyes to look at her, her hands were covered with blood and her shirt was heavily stained with it. Becky stared back at him, terrified for both of them.
Ordinarily, the heat and the turbulence wouldn’t have bothered Clark in the slightest, but now they added to the pain and nausea from his Kryptonite exposure. Clark didn’t realize that he’d turned pale and pressed a hand over his mouth until Becky shook his arm and handed him an airsickness bag.
So many of the tributes were suffering from motion sickness that no one other than Becky noticed Clark’s distress. No one laughed or looked at him curiously when he heaved into the bag a moment later, nor did they notice when he laid his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes, fighting the dizziness that threatened to turn into unconsciousness.
Clark didn’t know how he made it through the flight, but at last the hovercraft landed. He struggled to open his eyes as the door opened and the tributes exited the stuffy, overheated compartment, grateful to be off the hovercraft even if it did bring them one step closer to the arena.
Clark and Becky were the last to leave the hovercraft. Though Clark was feeling a little better now that Platinum and her token had disappeared into the catacombs, he was still having trouble keeping his eyes open, and he nearly fell when he finally got out of his seat.
The Peacekeeper grabbed Clark’s arm irritably, keeping him from falling. “Get moving, Nine!”
“His name’s Clark —“ Becky interrupted, but Clark shook his head at her slightly, warning her not to antagonize the Peacekeeper. Becky closed her mouth, putting an arm around Clark and leaning against him, though neither was certain how much of that was to steady herself and how much was to steady him.
They walked towards the tunnels marked with nines, prodded along by the Peacekeeper and accompanied by their stylists, who had been waiting for them inside the underground rooms below where the hovercraft had stopped.
“Becky,” Clark said quietly. He leaned against the wall beside the tunnel labeled ‘District 9 Male.’ Becky moved closer. “When the gong sounds, go around the outside of the circle of tribute launch platforms. Avoid the cornucopia and come to me as fast as you can. Okay?”
Becky gave him a worried look. “Are … are you going to be … okay?”
Clark moved away from the wall, relieved to find that he could stand steadily. “I’ll be fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”
Becky looked down. “I … maybe I’ll … I’ll …” She gasped for breath and tried again. “Maybe I’ll … feel better outside … in the … arena.”
Clark squeezed her shoulder gently. “Maybe you will.” He doubted it, but he wouldn’t take that bit of hope from her.
“We need to get going if you want to have time for breakfast before the Games start,” Rosaline said, looking at the clock.
Food was the last thing Clark wanted, but he knew that Becky needed to eat. Glancing at the clock, he told Becky, “I’ll see you in half an hour.” With one last glance at his district partner, Clark let Rosaline escort him down the winding, branching tunnel to the room from which he would enter the arena.
Clark looked around. Platters of food were set out on the table in the Launch Room — or, as most people in the districts called it, the Stockyard, since it was the room from which a tribute was sent to the slaughter. The delicacies set out on the table only served to heighten that impression — that the tributes were being fattened up before being killed, or were condemned prisoners being given their last meals.
There was also a couch where the tribute and stylist could sit and wait for the moment when the tribute would enter the launch tube to be lifted into the arena. The prominent feature of the room by far was the launch tube itself. Once inside, the tribute would slowly be lifted into the arena, fifty to a hundred feet above the room. In the arena, the platform would lock in place and quickly seal to keep the tribute inside the arena. A force field inside the tube would be activated as soon as the platform was locked in place, thwarting any attempts by tributes to escape by getting back into the Launch Room.
Clark sat down on the couch, as far from the table as he could get. Though he was feeling a little stronger, his head still pounded dully and he still felt queasy.
Rosaline was at the table, serving herself breakfast. She looked at Clark in concern. “Aren’t you going to eat?”
Clark shook his head and sullenly replied, “I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat something, or at least have some water. There’s no telling when you’ll have another chance.”
“No, thanks,” he said sharply.
Rosaline set her plate down and looked at Clark critically. Shaking her head, she told him, “This must be the worst case of motion sickness I’ve ever seen.”
Clark shrugged. It was as good an excuse as any. In truth, turbulence didn’t ordinarily bother him. He’d never experienced it before developing the ability to fly a few months before, and then he had found that he could fly straight through it if he chose, or allow it to carry him along in order to satisfy his curiosity about where it would take him. Heat didn’t usually bother him, either — he could pick up hot coals without injury or even the slightest pain, and could work all day in the heat of summer without any worse effect than needing a little extra water.
Clark didn’t know why Kryptonite affected him the way it did, and he couldn’t have revealed the reason for his illness to Rosaline even if he had known. He could only be grateful that there was a plausible excuse for his not feeling well, one that wouldn’t bring any uncomfortable questions.
He looked up in surprise when Rosaline sat down next to him, handing him a glass of some cold beverage and a slice of plain toast. “It’s ginger ale,” she told Clark when he looked at her inquiringly. “It’ll help settle your stomach.”
Clark sipped the drink slowly, finding that it did help a little, and nibbled cautiously at the toast. He knew that he would be ravenously hungry later, assuming he lived that long — he always was after recovering from Kryptonite exposure. Now, though, even this small amount of bread was almost more than his stomach could handle.
It seemed to take an eternity, and yet was not long, before the time came for Clark to enter the arena. A female voice announced that it was time to prepare for launch. Stomach clenching with dread, Clark got up, slowly approached, and then stepped onto the metal launch plate.
Rosaline followed him and handed him a lightweight green jacket. Clark put it on, zipping it up to his chin. He looked up into the launch tube, swallowing hard, his heart pounding so hard he half-feared it would burst from his chest.
Rosaline stepped back as the glass cylinder descended over Clark. “May the odds be ever in your favor,” she told him. He nodded and looked up as the launch plate began to rise.
If the odds are in my favor, Clark reflected as darkness surrounded him during the fifteen seconds it took for the launch plate to reach the surface,
Becky will be close and Platinum will be far, far away.The moment he arrived in the arena, Clark knew that the odds weren’t in his favor. Another wave of pain went through his body and his headache turned from a dull pain to an excruciating one. Platinum stood on the launch plate to the right of his, her glowing pendant displayed against her jacket. Clark’s legs almost buckled, but he managed to brace himself in time, knowing that if he fell now he would set off the mines.
For a moment, Clark could only stare at the piece of Kryptonite — something that Platinum noticed, though she didn’t know the reason for his fascination. She also noticed his pallor and the way he swayed on his feet and moved his hands to clutch his head. A predatory smile crossed her face.
Dimly, Clark heard the voice of the announcer, Claudius Templesmith. “Ladies and gentlemen, let the Sixty-sixth Hunger Games begin!”
With effort, Clark tore his gaze away from the Kryptonite, glancing first at the clock ticking down the seconds until the tributes could leave their launch plates, then looking for Becky. She was about halfway around the semi-circle of tributes from him. In one hand, she held her token, the small wooden ball her brother had given her so she would win. Her other hand clutched her throat. Her face was panicked as her eyes darted from tribute to tribute, at last landing on Clark in relief.
Becky’s face held a bluish tint as she suddenly bent forward, her eyes and mouth wide as she tried desperately to breathe. A few seconds later, the ball fell from her hand, bouncing off the launch plate and landing on the ground.
A cannon sounded, signaling the death of a tribute, but no one heard it over the deafening explosion of the mines going off.
The tributes next to Becky screamed and cursed as they were spattered with blood and pelted with debris. Everyone stared in shock at the spot where Becky had been —
had been, because she was no longer standing there. What remained of her lay across the launch plate and the ground around it. Even the Careers were horrified at the sight.
His ears ringing from the blast, Clark stared at the spot, shock and guilt coursing through him. He’d promised Becky he would protect her — but in one horrifying moment, she was gone, and there was nothing he could have done to prevent her death.
Clark felt a fresh wave of nausea, though whether it was from the Kryptonite or from Becky’s gruesome fate, he wasn’t sure. He clamped a hand over his mouth, willing himself not to throw up, fearing that if he did he would set off the mines around his own launch platform. He fixed his gaze on the clock, watching the seconds count down until he could safely step off the platform.
When the gong sounded, few of the tributes heard it. Still deafened by the explosion, they slowly realized that the Games had begun and began to run towards the cornucopia or away from it, depending upon their survival strategy.
Clark staggered backwards off the launch plate as soon as the countdown ended, taking two steps before falling. He saw Platinum run toward a set of knives and, fueled by a fear-induced burst of adrenaline, got to his feet and pushed himself up the slope with surprising speed, heading for the shelter of a large boulder, each step taking him farther from the Kryptonite.
When he got there, he fell to his knees, his stomach rebelling. Shaking violently, he lost what little he had eaten earlier, then tried to get up, knowing that he wasn’t yet safe.
Clark could hear the screams and sounds of fighting from the cornucopia about two hundred feet away. Bracing himself against the rock, he started to struggle to his feet.
There was the sudden thud of a body falling atop the boulder. Looking up, Clark saw the District 11 boy lying atop the rock, his dead body sliding from it, a spear in his back.
Clark pushed himself away from the rock and began to stumble uphill again, hoping that he could make it into the thick brush, where he might be able to hide until the worst effects of the Kryptonite wore off.
And if I do die, he thought grimly,
I don’t want it to happen in a pool of my own vomit. I’d like a little more dignity than that.He’d made it about twenty feet when he stumbled over a piece of concrete and metal hidden in the tall grass — the remains of what had been a picnic table centuries before. Before Clark had a chance to get back to his feet, someone else tripped over him, landing hard and knocking the wind out of both of them. A spear flew over their heads, right where the second person would have been had they not fallen.
Both tributes tried to scramble to their feet, but only succeeded in knocking each other over again. Terrified, they looked at each other, only then recognizing one another.
“Lois!” Clark gasped, finally succeeding at disentangling himself from her. He ducked as she scrambled for the spear that had barely missed her, but instead of trying to kill him, Lois turned and started up the hill away from him.
Clark had just gotten to his feet when another sharp wave of pain told him that the piece of Kryptonite was near — and with it, Platinum. Seconds later, she tackled him from behind, knocking him down again, her knife flashing in the sunlight as she yanked his head back and plunged the weapon towards his throat.
Clark was so weakened from the near proximity of the Kryptonite pendant that it took all of his strength to ward off the blow. The knife scored a bloody track along his arm. It was all that he could do to twist out from under her.
Suddenly, he couldn’t feel Platinum’s weight on him. Had he succeeded in throwing her off, or was she preparing for another attempt? His vision was clouding as the Kryptonite worked its deadly poison into his system. He had to get away from it if he was to survive. He heard the sounds of a scuffle, but he was so disoriented as a result of the Kryptonite exposure that he couldn’t see what was happening. From the sounds, there was a fight going on nearby. He could only assume that two other tributes were fighting over the privilege of killing him. He needed to get away from the Kryptonite, and that meant he had to get away from that struggle. He turned over on his stomach and started to crawl away, uphill. As the sounds of the struggle continued they were in turn moving downhill, away from him. With each passing second the distance increased, the pain decreased, and as the pain decreased, his strength increased so that he could move faster.
His vision finally started to clear and he could see Platinum and Lois engaged in battle.
Lois was still in possession of the spear that she had picked up. Rather than using it as a spear, she was using it like a quarter staff, a la Robin Hood and Little John, batting away Platinum’s attempts to rip her open with the knife she still wielded.
As long as Lois was able to keep Platinum at some distance this use of the weapon worked.
While he watched, Lois knocked the knife out of Platinum’s hand with the shaft of the spear. They both scrambled for the weapon. They were kicking, scratching, punching, and pulling each other’s hair, each seeking an advantage in getting the knife. Lois felt that a couple of her blows were effective because they elicited screams of pain from Platinum. She didn’t escape unscathed, because Platinum managed to punch Lois in the side of her face, causing her a lot of pain, but knowing what was at stake, she continued to fight.
Lois finally got a hand on the knife. Platinum bit her hand to get her to release it and succeeded in doing so. Lois rolled away to put some distance between herself and Platinum when she saw that her opponent would succeed in acquiring the weapon again. She dove for and retrieved her spear.
They circled warily for a time. Unexpectedly, Platinum charged Lois. Lois brought up her left hand to grab Platinum’s knife hand as Platinum grabbed Lois’ spear hand, each attempting to control the other’s weapon. They were pushing and shoving each other around in a deadly dance. The first one to weaken or lose control of the weapon would die. Suddenly, Platinum lost her footing and fell over backwards, dragging Lois with her.
Together, since their hands were locked on each other, they started to tumble down the hillside. They were tumbling over and into each other as they rolled downward with increasing speed. After about ten feet they finally broke apart. Individually they continued to tumble, bouncing off of rocks, exposed roots, through brush, and off of saplings. With almost every roll they each hit some obstacle until, forty feet further downhill, they came to rest on a small plateau.
It took some seconds for each to realize that the ordeal was over. They climbed to their feet, dizzy and disoriented, facing one another warily at a distance of ten feet. Miraculously, each had been able to maintain their hold on their weapons, although the shaft of Lois’s spear had been broken not quite in half.
Lois could feel a trickle of fluid on her upper lip and reached up to swipe at it with the back of her left hand. It came away bloody. Lois wasn’t happy about that, but decided that she had fared somewhat better than her opponent, because Lois could see a red stain growing around a small rent in Platinum’s jacket on the left side. Lois thought,
It hurt like hell when I hit that sapling. I hope it didn’t break my nose. She must have rolled over her own knife and cut herself. It might make her anxious to end this. Make her overconfident and reckless.Lois decided that she needed to lure Platinum into a reckless mistake. In order to do that, she would have to do something drastic, unexpected, and dangerous. It would all depend on just how good Platinum was with that knife.
In what, to Platinum, was an unexpected move, Lois discarded the spear as an ineffectual close-in weapon. Platinum didn’t know that Lois preferred her grappling and striking techniques anyhow, and for that, she needed her hands free.
Seeing Lois discard the spear, Platinum began to smile, envisioning two easy kills. She still had her knife and now her opponent was unarmed — or so she thought. To this point, the battle had been conducted in relative silence aside from the grunts, groans, and cries of pain.
Platinum asked, “Have you decided to give up and accept your fate? You’ve realized that you can’t win. Do you want an easy death?”
In a mocking tone, Lois taunted her, “No, I’m not looking for an easy death. Even though you have a knife, the odds might not be in your favor.”
With a sneer, Platinum rushed to the attack. She was not as experienced as she could have been with the weapon she had, though she did know enough not to throw it. She held it low, a little above waist level and almost straight in front of her, ready to stab or slice as the opening occurred.
When she got close enough, she started a straightforward stab. She was totally unprepared for what her opponent did. As Platinum rushed at Lois, Lois sidestepped and grasped the sleeve of Platinum’s knife hand. As she did, Lois began to whirl to her left. She pulled on Platinum’s arm, making her continue to move in her direction of travel, using her momentum against her. In one smooth continuous flow, Lois pulled and spun. As she continued her move, her right arm came up into Platinum’s left armpit and simultaneously she bent her knees slightly, putting her hip below the level of Platinum’s groin. When she felt Platinum’s body impact hers, Lois pulled with her right arm while straightening her legs again and finishing the spin to the left, pulling Platinum across her hip, performing a perfect Harai Goshi hip throw. Platinum’s feet left the ground headed skyward as she rolled over Lois’s right hip.
Platinum screamed as she saw the ground rushing up at her. Her scream was cut off abruptly as she hit the ground, her full weight impacting on her head and right shoulder. There was a loud crack as her right collar bone broke.
Platinum had stopped moving. Lois nudged her with the toe of her boot, rolling her over on her back. When she did, she could see blood welling from a large gash on Platinum’s head where it had hit a jagged rock, which itself was covered with Platinum’s blood.
Lois was standing over the defeated Platinum, breathing heavily, gasping from the exertion. She bent over and placed her hands on her knees as she took a minute to recover. She could feel aches all over her body from each and every root and rock she had hit in that tumble.
Wearily, Lois picked up the knife where it lay near Platinum’s unconscious form, favoring her bitten hand as she grabbed the spear. As she stuck the knife into her belt, she looked at Platinum for a moment, a look of relief crossing her face as she confirmed that the girl was still breathing. Then she turned and ran — more stumbled — up the hill, swiping at her bleeding nose with her sleeve as she went.
Clark saw her coming and crouched down, trying to conceal himself in a nearby thicket of manzanita and ribbonwood. Lois saw him and stopped, keeping her distance.
“We’re not allies, Farmboy, but I always did think the underdog deserved a chance,” she called softly before running in the direction of the woods higher up the mountain.
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