Chapter Text
I return home from a long day of training at the Academy, feeling exhausted but exhilarated. As I walk through the streets of District 2, I am struck by its beauty.
At night, the district takes on a whole new dimension. The streets are lit by a soft glow, casting shadows and highlighting the intricate stonework and architecture of the buildings. I pass by grand plazas and fountains, where couples stroll arm in arm, enjoying the evening air.
Despite the threat of the Hunger Games looming over us all, life in District 2 goes on as usual. People work, play, and socialize, all in a calm and orderly manner. The district is known for its strict adherence to rules and tradition, and even at night, there is a sense of discipline and purpose in the air.
But beneath the surface, I know that there is also a sense of tension and anticipation. Everyone knows that the Hunger Games are fast approaching and that the district's tributes are expected to perform well. It is a source of pride for the district to have produced so many victors in the past, and the pressure is on to continue that legacy.
As I arrive at my family's mansion, I am thankful for the life I have in District 2. We may not be as rich as the Capitol, but we have everything we need and more. I can't imagine living in one of those poorer districts. They're dirty, overcrowded, and full of people who look like they're about to drop dead any moment. It's disgusting.
I shudder at the thought of having to live like that, scavenging for scraps and living in constant misery. They don't even have proper training facilities like we do. No wonder they always get slaughtered in the arena. It's a wonder they even bother to show up for the reaping.
I know that the Games are a chance for the poorer districts to finally have a chance at prosperity, but I am convinced that they deserve their fate. After the Dark Days, they should have worked harder to earn their way out of poverty as we did in District 2. They're just lazy and content with their miserable lives. I may sound heartless, but it's the truth.
District 2, however, is a place of strength, discipline, and tradition, and I am proud to call it my home. And as I prepare for the Reaping, I know that I would do everything in my power to uphold my district’s honor and glory.
My family's mansion is a sprawling, three-story building that stood at the edge of District 2's wealthier residential neighborhood. The exterior is made of gleaming white marble, with towering pillars and intricate carvings that speak to our family's wealth and influence.
Inside, the estate is even more impressive. The walls are adorned with expensive paintings and tapestries, and the floors are made of polished hardwood that gleamed in the light of the chandeliers. The rooms are spacious and well-appointed, with plush furniture and intricate decor.
Our family has spared no expense in making our home a symbol of our status and power. But despite its grandeur, the mansion has always felt more like a prison to me than a home. I have spent most of my childhood and teenage years confined to its walls, training, studying, and preparing for the day when I will represent our district in the Hunger Games.
As I sit down to eat dinner with my parents, I can't avoid unease washing over me. My parents are both victors of past Hunger Games, and they have always been harsh and demanding. But tonight, there is an undercurrent of tension between them that I can’t quite place.
The food tonight is typical of what we usually eat. Rich meats and sauces, crisp vegetables, and decadent desserts. But as I watch the staff serving us, I feel my temper rising. They're slow, taking too much time to serve each dish, and it's making me impatient. I tap my fingers on the table, feeling the heat rise in my chest as I watch them move too slowly for my liking.
"Don't they know who we are?" I mutter under my breath, my eyes flicking between my parents and the staff. "We shouldn't have to wait for our food."
My mother shoots me a warning look, but I don't care. I'm tired of waiting, tired of feeling like I have to beg for what I deserve. I deserve to be treated well, and that means being served quickly and efficiently. Finally, the last dish is served, and I dig in with a sense of satisfaction. But even as I eat, I can't shake the feeling of frustration and anger that's building inside me. The staff should know better than to make me wait, and I won't forget this slight any time soon.
"You better volunteer, Clove. And win the games," my father says, his voice low and menacing.
"If you don't, we'll have to endure the shame of having a loser for a child," my mother adds, her eyes flashing with anger.
My father shoots her a cold look, and I can feel the tension between them crackling in the air.
"At least our child has a chance of winning," my father says, his tone cutting.
"Don't forget who trained her," my mother replies, her voice dripping with venom.
As I watch my parents bickering and arguing with each other, an inevitable sense of satisfaction washes over me. Their anger and bitterness fuel me and give me the drive and determination to succeed.
It's a twisted kind of happiness, I know, but I can't deny the rush of adrenaline that comes with knowing that their arguments are like fuel to the flames of my ambition. I'm somehow grateful for the anger that consumes them. It's a reminder that I can never let my guard down, and that I can never be weak or vulnerable in a world where only the strong survive.
And so, I watch their arguments with a cold, calculating eye, taking in every word and gesture with a sense of detached amusement. It's like watching two animals fight over a scrap of meat, and I am convinced that I am the one who will ultimately come out on top.
Their anger is my strength, and I'm ready to use it to win the Hunger Games, no matter what the cost.
"I promise you both," I say, my voice low and fierce. "I will volunteer as tribute, and I will kill all the other tributes in the arena. I will make you proud."
My parents exchange a look, and for a moment I think I see a glimmer of pride in their eyes. But then it's gone, replaced by their usual bitterness and anger.
"You'll do what you're told," my father says gruffly. "We expect nothing less."
"I don't want to be embarrassed in front of the other victors," my mother added, her voice harsh.
I can feel the anger rising in me again, hot and fierce. I've trained my whole life for this moment, and yet it's still not enough to earn their pride and respect.
"What more do you want from me?" I snap, my voice rising. "I've done everything you've asked of me. What more do you want?"
My mother reaches across the table and takes my hand, her grip surprisingly peaceful. "We want you to be the best," she says. "We want you to win, to show the world what it means to be a true tribute from District 2."
I nod, feeling a sense of relief wash over me. At least there's some measure of approval in their words.
But even as I try to push away the anger and frustration, I know it's still there, simmering just beneath the surface. I want more than just their approval. I want their pride, their respect, and maybe even their love, but I don't ever dare admit that. I don't need love. I'm Clove.
And as I go to bed that night, I know I have to volunteer tomorrow. Because the punishment for not volunteering would be far worse than anything I could face in the arena.
My room in our mansion is spacious and luxurious, with high ceilings and elegant furnishings. The walls are painted in a deep shade of red, giving the room a warm and rich ambiance. A large four-poster bed with crimson drapes dominates the center of the room, and a plush rug in the same hue covers the polished wooden floor.
In one corner, there is a cozy reading nook, with a comfortable armchair and a small bookshelf filled with my favorite books. The windows are tall and wide, offering a stunning view of the city lights below. And on the opposite wall, there is a large vanity table, adorned with crystal perfume bottles and silver brushes.
But despite its grandeur, my room feels empty and lifeless. There are no personal touches, no photos, or mementos to make it feel like my own. It's just a place to sleep and get ready for the next day of training. I can't help but wonder if I will ever have a place to call home that feels truly mine. A place where I am not just a tribute or a weapon, but a person with hopes, dreams, and desires.
As I close my eyes, I can almost see the arena before me, with its dangerous traps, hidden dangers, and deadly opponents. But instead of feeling fear, I feel a rush of adrenaline and anticipation. I can already see myself emerging from the arena as the victor, basking in the adulation of the Capitol and the other districts. And I know that my parents will be proud of me, finally seeing me as the champion they have always dreamed of.
In the morning, I wake up to the sound of birds chirping outside my window. For a moment, I forget about the looming Reaping and bask in the peacefulness of the morning.
But the moment quickly fades, and I force myself out of bed to prepare for the day ahead. I make my way to the vanity table and start the daily routine of putting on makeup and styling my hair.
As I look at my reflection in the mirror, I see the same fierce and determined expression that I've had for as long as I can remember. My eyes are sharp and alert, and my jaw is set with determination.
I quickly finish getting ready, putting on a sleek, form-fitting outfit that allows me to move freely during training. I grab my bag and head out of my room.
As I walk down the hallway towards the stairs, I pass by my parents' bedroom. I hear their muffled voices through the door, arguing about something trivial as usual. I shake my head in annoyance and continue down the stairs, eager to get to the Academy and start training.
Today is a crucial day, and I need to be at the top of my game. The reaping is in tomorrow, and I need to prove to everyone, especially my parents, that I am the strongest and most skilled tribute from District 2.
I step into the car that will take me to the Academy and can feel the excitement bubbling up inside me. My parents are in the front seats, bickering as usual, but I tune them out and focus on the streets of District 2.
The roads are wide and well-maintained, lined with imposing gray stone buildings that house the district's wealthy and powerful. The houses and mansions are surrounded by high walls and gates, a clear sign of the district's obsession with security and control.
As we drive past the shops and markets, I can see the merchants setting up their wares for the day. The district's famous blacksmiths are already hard at work, their forges glowing brightly in the early morning light. The scent of fresh bread and roasted coffee fills the air, making my stomach growl with hunger.
Despite the early hour, the streets are bustling with activity. Children in matching uniforms walk in groups toward the schools, while workers rush to their jobs in factories and mines. The occasional Peacekeeper patrols the streets, their weapons and armor gleaming in the sunlight.
As we approach the Academy, the buildings become more imposing and fortified. The walls are higher, the guards more numerous. This is where the elite of District 2 are trained for the Hunger Games, where I have spent countless hours honing my skills and preparing for the ultimate challenge.
I can feel the familiar mix of excitement and dread as we pull up to the gates. Today is the day I will volunteer for the Hunger Games, and there is no turning back now.
As I enter the Academy, I feel a sense of confidence wash over me. I know that I am one of the strongest and most skilled fighters in District 2, and I have the added advantage of being the daughter of two previous Hunger Games victors.
I can feel the eyes of my fellow trainees on me as I make my way to the volunteer selection room. They know that I am one of the top contenders for the Games, and I relish in their fear and admiration.
As I enter the room, I see the other potential volunteers nervously waiting their turn. But I am calm and collected, knowing that my family's sizable donation to the Academy practically guarantees my spot on the list.
I confidently write my name on the slip of paper and place it in the bowl, knowing that my chances of being selected are high. And even if I am not chosen this year, I know that I will have another chance in the future.
The officials take their time, examining each name on the list carefully before making their final decision. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest as the tension builds in the room. My parents, standing beside me, look calm and collected, but I know that they are just as anxious as I am.
I try to keep my composure, but every fiber of my being is screaming out for me to be chosen. I have trained for this moment my entire life, sacrificing everything in pursuit of victory. And I know that I am worthy of the honor that comes with being a tribute from District 2.
The officials continue to deliberate, taking their time to weigh the pros and cons of each candidate carefully. I can feel the tension in the room mounting with each passing moment, until finally, they make their decision.
My heart skips a beat as the official reads out the name of the female tribute from District 2. It's me. I can hardly contain my excitement as I step forward to accept my fate. This is what I have trained for, what I have sacrificed for. And now, I am one step closer to achieving my ultimate goal.
As the officials announce the name of the male tribute, I barely register it. All I can think about is the arena, the challenges that lie ahead, and the opportunity to prove myself as the greatest tribute of all time. I am ready for whatever the Games may throw at me, and I know that I will emerge victorious.
With the announcement of my name as one of the chosen volunteers, a sense of relief washes over me. I know that I have secured my place in the Games and that I will be the only one allowed to volunteer tomorrow. This means that my family's investment in the Academy has paid off, and I can finally prove to them that I am worth all the time and resources they have invested in me.
But there is also a sense of pressure that comes with this honor. I know that the eyes of District 2 are on me and that I have a lot to live up to as the daughter of two former victors. I can't afford to let them down, and I must do everything in my power to emerge as the victor.
I am now the pride of District 2, the shining star that everyone wants to bask in the glow of. The elite of our district come forward to offer their congratulations and express their admiration for me.
I can see the envy in their eyes, the longing to be in my place, to have the chance to compete in the Games and prove their worth. But I know that I am the one who deserves this honor, the one who has earned the right to represent District 2 in the Hunger Games.
As I shake the hand of the Academy president, I can feel the weight of his gaze on me.
"Congratulations, Clove," he says, his voice low and smooth. "You have made District 2 proud."
"Thank you, sir," I reply, trying to shake the usual irritation out of my voice. I know that I need to show respect to these officials if I want to maintain my position of power in the academy.
"And of course, we can't forget our male tribute, Cato," he says, gesturing to the tall, muscular boy standing next to me. "He will make an excellent partner for you in the Games."
Cato nods his head in agreement, his blue eyes flickering over me with a mix of admiration and competition. "I'm looking forward to fighting alongside you, Clove," he says, his voice deep and confident.
I meet his gaze with a smirk. "I don't need a partner to win, Cato," I say, my tone dismissive. "I can take on anyone in the arena by myself."
Cato's smile falters for a moment, but then he regains his composure. "Of course, Clove," he says smoothly. "But it doesn't hurt to have someone watching your back."
I nod curtly and turn away, already itching to get back to training. I know that Cato is a skilled fighter, but I refuse to let him outshine me in the Games. I will do whatever it takes to come out on top, even if that means betraying my own partner.
As I ride home, I can't help but think about the upcoming Games and the alliances that will be formed. It's well known that tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4 usually form a Career pack, to take out the weaker tributes and increase their chances of survival.
I do not doubt that I will join the Careers. Not only do I want to increase my own chances of survival, but I also relish the opportunity to take out as many opponents as possible. The final battle should be even bloodier with the Careers in control.
I can already envision the other tributes cowering before us, trembling with fear as we make our way through the arena. And I know that I will be a force to be reckoned with, my skills and training unmatched by any of my opponents.
As I wake up on the morning of the reaping, I can feel the excitement bubbling inside me. This is my chance to show everyone what I'm capable of, to prove that I'm the best tribute District 2 has ever seen. I head to my closet and pull out a sleek black dress, one that I feel confident and powerful in.
But as I emerge from my room, my mother intercepts me with a scowl on her face. "Oh no, you're not wearing that," she says, eyeing my chosen outfit with disdain.
"What do you mean?" I ask, confused. "This is what I want to wear."
My mother scoffs. "You can't wear black to the reaping, Clove. It's too morbid. You need to wear something more...appropriate."
And with that, she thrusts the silver gown she wore the day she volunteered into my hands. I can feel my anger rising within me as I slip into the dress, cringing at the way it clung to my skin, the way it makes me feel exposed and vulnerable.
But I know better than to argue with my mother. I put on a brave face and head out the door, determined to show everyone that I am not to be underestimated, no matter what I'm wearing.
In the car, my parents ramble on about their own triumphs in the Hunger Games. I can feel my frustration building. I don't need their advice or their strategies. I've been training for this my whole life, and I know what I'm doing.
But they just won't stop. They're like a broken record, going on and on about the traps they set, the alliances they formed, the weapons they used. I tune them out and focus on the passing scenery instead. As the car approaches the center of District 2, I gaze out the window, taking in the towering buildings that surround us. They are all made of smooth gray stone, with sharp edges and clean lines that give them an imposing and almost intimidating appearance. Some of them are adorned with the emblem of District 2, a stylized eagle with wings outstretched in flight.
The buildings here are mostly government and administrative offices, as well as some luxury apartments for the most powerful and wealthy residents of the district. They all look pristine and well-maintained, a testament to the rigorous standards of cleanliness and order that District 2 is known for.
As we up to the main square, I take a deep breath and steel myself for what's to come. I'll do whatever it takes to win, with or without my parents' help. The Hunger Games are mine to conquer, and no one can stand in my way.
In the square, as I wait for my chance to volunteer, I can't help but notice the girls around me. They all look up to me, with admiration and envy written on their faces. I can tell they want to be in my position, to have the chance to compete in the Games and prove themselves.
But they don't know what it takes. They don't have the same drive and determination that I do. They don't have the same training and skills that I've sharpened over the years.
I see them whispering to each other, their eyes darting to me now and then. Some of them even smile and wave, trying to catch my attention. But I remain focused, my eyes fixed on the stage ahead. I know that I am the only one who can do this, the only one who has what it takes to come out on top.
As the escort calls out the name of a girl I know, I feel a twinge of guilt. I know she wanted to be a tribute, to have a chance at glory and honor. But I can't let that stop me from fulfilling my destiny.
Without hesitation, I step forward and call out, "I volunteer as tribute!"
The crowd murmurs and I can feel their eyes on me as I make my way to the stage. I'm filled with a sense of pride and determination, knowing that I'm one step closer to achieving my ultimate goal.
But as I pass the girl I know, I catch a glimpse of her face. She looks devastated, and I can't resist feeling a pang of sympathy for her. I know what it's like to be passed over, to feel like you're not good enough.
But at this moment, I have to focus on myself. I have to be strong, to be fierce, to be the best tribute District 2 has ever seen. And I won't let anyone, not even my own conscience, stand in my way.
As Cato steps forward to volunteer, I find myself feeling a sense of satisfaction. The Capitol will be watching, and they'll see that District 2 is a force to be reckoned with. But as I stare into the camera, my mind begins to wander.
I think of the Capitol, with its garish colors and twisted sense of entertainment. I think of the Games and the blood that will be spilled in the arena. And for a brief instant, I wonder if it's all worth it.
But then I shake my head, clearing away the doubts. I know what I have to do, what I've been trained to do since I was old enough to hold a weapon. I'll win the Games, or die trying. It's as simple as that.