Chapter Text
In the summer of her 18th year, Clove spent all her free time training. It might have been unusual for most to find comfort in a blade, but Clove was from District 2, a district known for masonry and teaching its children to be bloodthirsty from a very young age. Clove had been training for as long as she could remember, so much so that she saw her knives as an extension of herself, that they were truly a part of herself and not just a means of survival if she ever got reaped for the Games. And this next reaping, the one for the 74th Hunger Games, would be her last chance to bring glory to her district, to her parents.
It’s not that Clove didn’t want to go into the Games, she did, and she knew that if she ever got reaped she was well prepared to survive, most likely even win. It was the fear of failure that kept her hesitant. Districts 1 and 4 also trained their tributes before the Games and occasionally one of the other tributes from another district also had a well-placed trick up their sleeve. Her parents and her mentors in the training academy reassured her that she was one of the best fighters in her age group, that she was strong, quick, and could accurately hit a target every single time. But Clove knew that hitting a target was much different than killing.
Clove wished that this would be the year she would be skipped from being picked, that one of the weaker girls from District 2 were to be picked, but she had a feeling in the pit of her stomach that told her that this would be her year, whether she wanted it to be or not.
The way tributes were chosen in District 2 was complicated to say the least. Every year, maybe a month or so before the reaping, the mentors would go around and evaluate all the trainees. The mentors would then choose two trainees, a boy and a girl, for their nominees for the Games. Publicly, these nominees were just the tributes that would be chosen if District 2 had the choice. Clove thought that was bullshit, since 99% of the time those same nominees would be reaped in the following Games. She heard a rumor a few years back that it was because District 2 was the Capitol’s favorite that they gave them some choice in the tributes that were reaped. And with the facts Clove knew, how tributes from most of the other districts looked weak and underfed while District 2’s tributes at least looked healthy, she suspected that this rumor might hold some weight. Although some might call it unfair, no one in District 2 had a problem with the rigged reapings. It was a chance for their children to come home.
The only confusing part was occasionally the nominees were weaker trainees, or at least trainees that had a very slim chance at winning. Those children would never return to District 2.
The trainees whispered amongst themselves that weaker tributes were chosen either to give the other districts a chance at winning or to make the Games more entertaining for the Capitol, or perhaps both.
As Clove walked into the training academy, she could feel the tension in the air. It was about a month before the Games and all the trainees knew that evaluations were coming up, which sparked nerves all over the place. Clove breezed past the front desk and into the door to the right that led to the girls’ locker room, head held high as she walked past groups of girls huddled together and whispering. Clove learned long ago you didn’t become a victor by sitting around and worrying.
She quickly changed out of her normal clothes and into her training outfit: loose fitting black shorts and a gray tank top, and made her way into the gym, the door to the locker room banging shut behind her. The floor of the gym was made of a soft rubbery material that allowed for minimal injuries due to falling. White lines marked up the floor to section off the numerous stations: hand-to-hand combat, archery, starting a fire, plus her personal favorite: knife throwing.
Clove stopped just before the knife throwing area to stretch before her rigorous training regime. She was aware of the eyes on her while she stretched. She knew she was the most likely candidate to be chosen as the academy’s chosen trainee, she just liked to pretend she wasn’t.
So she stretched, pretending to be oblivious to the world around her and the stares. It was a lot easier this way, to pretend that it was only her, her blade, and the target before her. It’s what she would have to do in the Games, focusing on her own survival.
She walked over to the rack in the knife throwing section that was full of various sizes of knives and varying sizes of vests. She threw on one of the smaller vests and began strapping on knives all over her body.
She walked up to a target, one that was 50 meters away. She remembered when she first began, when she could barely hit the target a few meters from her, she had come a long way since then. She nodded to the mentor of the station who was helping a little girl a few targets away from her. She watched the little girl take a blade off of one of the straps on her vest and throw it at a target approximately 5 meters away from her. Clove cringed at the sound of the knife ricocheting off the target and clattering to the floor.
Clove took her eyes away from the little girl, focusing on her target once again. She took a small breath, silencing the world around her. She took another breath, reaching to grab a knife strapped to her side. The weight of the blade was more comforting than any affection her parents ever showed her. She began to position herself, one foot slightly in front of the other, weight evenly distributed betw-
Clove jumped at the hand that was placed on her shoulder. She took the blade in her hand and swiftly turned around and placed the knife against the person’s throat.
It was Lukas. A small smile on his lips and his hands raised up in surrender.
“Shit Clove, I was just trying to get your attention. No need to get violent” He still had that stupid smile on his face.
Clove removed the blade from his throat. “Then don’t fucking sneak up on me, Lukas.” Her voice was low and sharp.
“Just wanted to let you know the mentors are watching. It’s about time they choose who they want for the Games.” He gestures his head towards two people standing a bit of the way away with clipboards in their hands.
Clove shoved him away from her. Although Lukas was her only true friend, he was still annoying as hell, and seemed to want one of Clove’s knives stuck inside him as well. “Go find something else to do besides bother me,” she told him, already turning back to face her target.
“You know you love me.”
“Fuck off.”
“You’re welcome,” he shouted, finally in the process of leaving Clove alone.
She shook her head, he was ridiculous, but she couldn’t stop the smile that spread on her face.
For the remainder of the week, training was pretty similar. Mentors continued to do their evaluations and all the trainees were a bottle of nerves. Word must've gotten out to the general public about evaluations because Clove’s parents began bothering her about them as well.
She was annoyed at their numerous questions. They were too worried about Clove not getting picked to go into the Games since this was her final year for being reaped. They were worried about every little thing that might make the mentors not choose her as their nominee Clove, why were you two minutes late to training today? Clove, they said you missed one of your targets today, is something wrong? Quite frankly, Clove was more excited for evaluations week to be over not because she was excited to find out if she was chosen but because it would get her parents off her ass.
No matter what she did, her parents never seemed proud of her. They always wanted more. Clove didn’t want to go into the Games because of some teen rebellious phase to go against her parents, she just wished her parents could be proud of her without going into the Games. And honestly, no matter how much her parents denied it, there were a lot of factors that went into winning the Games besides being skilled with a weapon.
When Clove was not training, she was trying to find a job. She had just graduated school a few months ago, and had still found nothing that would suit her interests. She wished her parents pushed her to find a job earlier because now Clove was 18 years old with no interests or skills beyond knife-throwing. The only job Clove could think of that she might be good at was becoming a Peacekeeper, since District 2 supplied those to the Capitol, but she didn’t think knife-throwing could translate well into wielding a gun. Plus, despite her parents, she didn’t want to be shipped off to another district, District 2 was home.
So to distract herself from failing to find a suitable career, she threw herself into training more. She showed up multiple times a day for hours at a time. She went to the other stations around the gym, honing her other skills. If I’m going to be chosen like everyone else says I am, might as well make the most of my time here at training.
Clove’s days flew by, one day swiftly turning into another. Before she knew it, the nominations came out. She swallowed the dread rising up in her throat as she made her way to the lobby of the training academy where the results were posted. She pushed her way through the crowd already forming around the bulletin board. She could tell they were saying something, whispering something, but that all became obsolete as she made her way to the board.
Her eyes found her name. Her mind was a roar of emotions: fear, pride, happiness, and then nothing. She read the boy’s name. Once. Twice. She pushed her way out of the crowd and out of the doors of the training academy before the other trainees could see the first flicker of emotion across her face. She wanted to scream.
Because she was going into the Games. With Lukas.