It's been weeks since he was injured, long enough that he should have been healed by now if they were in a proper space for it. If he didn't have to hide it and walk on an injured knee, that is. But the thing is, Clint's knee is still no more than half-heeled, if that. There's no way this Arena isn't going to make it worse, even if he doesn't hit the Cornucopia, which Clint isn't sure he can afford to miss.

So the countdown continued, second after second, and Clint took the time to scope the Arena itself, wondering just how his outfit worked with the theme. Nothing out here makes him feel any better. There's shelter, yes, but its so obvious, so easy -- he's sure something is waiting for any tributes who tried to set up shop there. Further still, there's something really uncomfortable about a Cornucopia shaped like a pyre. Doesn't mean he's not going to force himself forward and try to make it anyway. So the second the bell rings, Clint's on his feet and running, teeth grit as his knee protests.

It's not that Clint doesn't spot Sam beelining it his way though, but the shout means Clint's looking over, nearly tripping up over his own two feet on uneven ground. So Sam dropping, grabbing at him, it takes him half by surprise. Clint struggles with a yelp, scrabbles at Sam's shoulder for purchase as he's secured.

"The hell?" One hand reaches up to push his ridiculous hat thing out of his eyes, disgruntled, "I can walk, Sam."

Which, yes, true. But the fact is, he can't run, and that's the more important factor around here.