Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

PART I:

"THE VOLUNTEERS"

"Blessed be the children, each and every one come to know their god
Through some senseless act of violence."
- Ptolemaea by Ethel Cain

It's a scorching summer day, like any in District Two. The heat is oppressive, so that everything seems to have a sickly yellow tinge to it. Clove Kentwell can feel cold sweat adhering the collar of her dress to the back of her neck, which irritates her. She shouldn't be nervous. She's not nervous, but her fingers itch, desperate to draw the knife hidden in her sleeve: cool and familiar, caged between stiff green linen and sticky skin.

She should be in the fifteen-year-old section. All children between twelve and eighteen are marched into roped-off areas defined by age on Reaping Day, for organizational purposes. She doesn't care. She turns her head, nearly imperceptibly, to look at her best friend, Cato Hadley, once more. He's in a crisp white button-up shirt- his best, she knows- and clean black shoes. They had a ten-minute argument this morning over whether or not he should wear a tie, but he decided it would be overkill and he'd look like a tryhard from One. (Which is true, but she's been trying to find reasons to argue with him. She wants a reason to hate him, so it will hurt less when one of them kills the other. A clean break.)

She's wearing similar shoes, black and shiny but much smaller than his. Her smooth hair, a shade of brown so dark it could just as easily be taken for black, is in a long braid, with a few rebellious strands loose around her face. Cato brushes them behind her ear with his big, calloused hand. She wants to press her fingers to his wrist to feel his pulse. Listen to it, drink it and swallow it, revel in his aliveness.

(There is no room for weakness here.)

The Masonry District is large. Villages are spread out across the mountains, each associated with a mine or quarry, although these days most are devoted to the training and housing of Peacekeepers. Even from here, she can see the train system that facilitates transporting miners from here to the Arx Rubra, their military base. The railroad runs right up to the square of their main town, where the Reaping is held. The square itself is a massive space at the foot of the Anvil Heights: tall, gray, and jagged like a muttation's teeth.

A temporary stage is set up before the justice building. It holds three chairs, a podium, and two large glass balls: one for girls, one for boys. On ten paper slips in there, 'Clove Kentwell' is written in neat, swirly Capitol handwriting. Irrelevant, because she's going to volunteer.

With her keen dark eyes, she picks through the families lined up around the perimeter. She tries to be blind to Cato's little brothers, the twins Felix and Titus, and his little sister Aurelia, and his parents that treat Clove like a daughter. Eventually, she finds her own parents, standing two feet apart. Father is grinning wide, all sagging, liver-spotted skin and gratuitous violence, elbowing anyone who will listen: "My girl could kill yours, easy." Mother's expression is flat, eyes piercing and expectant: You'll do it, won't you?

Yes. She can do this.

She will do this.

Cato's fingers graze the soft skin of her arm like bullets.

(There is no room for weakness here.)

District Two's Capitol escort, Heimera, stands onstage beside the mayor. She's unnaturally pale as porcelain, with smoky snowflakes stenciled along her pointed cheekbones. She's dressed in a high-collared coat, tailored pants dotted with diamonds at the cuffs, and midnight blue stilettos; her platinum hair is pulled back in an immaculate bun, accented with sapphire pins shaped like daggers.

The clock on the high stone tower in the square's center, overlooking one of the quarries, strikes two. There's a noticeable shift in the crowd: backs are straightened, chins lifted. Chastised children, soldiers at the ready; the two are not dissimilar here.

The mayor, Pontian Flint, steps up to the podium in his gunmetal-gray suit and reads out the same old story. (Clove's history teacher slapped her once for calling it boring. She took off a few of his fingers for that.)

She listens, despite her usual impulses, as the mayor speaks. Their country began in the ashen ruins of a place called North America. It endured the droughts, the storms, the fires, the encroaching seas that swallowed up so much of the land, and the brutal war for surviving materials- not unlike the Cornucopia Bloodbath in the Games- and Panem was born: a shining Capitol ringed by thirteen districts, benevolent, providing its citizens with peace and prosperity.

Then came the Dark Days, the uprising of the districts. Twelve were defeated, the thirteenth obliterated, and she's glad of that; District Thirteen's collapse meant the role of manufacturing weapons fell right into District Two's lap.

The Treaty of Treason created new laws to guarantee permanent peace, and as a yearly reminder that the Dark Days must never be repeated, the Hunger Games were created. The Games are a rite of passage, a chance to prove your loyalty and your strength. Each of the twelve districts provides one boy and girl, called tributes, to participate. The twenty-four enter into a vast arena and over a period of several weeks, the competitors fight until only the strongest remains.

The victor is then crowned with gold and sanguine glory. Such victors are heroes in District Two, immortalized in statues and landmarks, framed photos and children's posters. They are champions, embodiments of the district's strength and pride. They live in Victor's Village, and they are valued, or beloved, or feared. Something along those lines, something worth killing for.

The winning district is showered with prizes, largely consisting of food, for the whole year. Grain, oil, even delicacies like sugar. Clove remembers being ten and amazed at something called cinnamon buns that were provided to the Academy the year Orestes Maest won.

The Capitol favors District Two for their loyalty and military support, with manufactured weapons and trained Peacekeepers, so of course they're better fed than most other districts, as they deserve to be- though not by as much as they like to claim. Some still go hungry, the miners and the laborers, the barkeeper down the street and the three-year-old girl that starved to death in her village the year of the hated 66th Games. This hunger, this resemblance to lesser districts, is the ugly pus beneath a marvelous wound.

"It is both a time for repentance, a time for thanks, and a time to honor your country!" the mayor shouts. A battle cry goes up. The mayor then spends a long time reading the names of past District Two victors. They have the most out of any district, at seventeen. Clove fervently hopes Enobaria, victor of the 62nd Games, will be her mentor. She's already made in her image, really: she makes art of her cruelty in a way that no one else in District Two, even Cato, can.

Heimera marches to the podium. Her voice is low and monotone, but it still has that infuriating Capitol whine. "Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favor." She goes on for a while about what a privilege it is to be here, a pleasure, an honor really. And it is. Any Capitol escort would be lucky to have the strongest district rather than a shithole like Twelve.

Heimara voice arcs up in anticipation only when she says, "Time for the drawing."

Clove can feel her heart beating rapidly, slamming against her ribs like a caged animal. Her palms are sweaty. She's ready. She's incredibly ready.

"Ladies first," Heimera drawls.

Reapings can go on for hours in Career districts, if a brawl- sometimes called the Early Bloodbath- breaks out. Usually that doesn't happen in Two, because the Academy's instructors and past victors decide who's going to volunteer beforehand. This year it's Cato, of course, and Maeve Albin: tall and broad-shouldered with an axe so often strapped across a back that ripples with sinewy muscle. She's just the right amount of skilled- good enough to help Cato win, mediocre enough for him, the favorite, to kill her if it comes down to that. Killing your district partner is frowned upon in Two, but not unbearable if it's done with honor.

Clove watches Heimera's hand sweep in a long, orderly circle around the glass bowl- hurry up!- and finally pull out a slip of paper. It's Leuke Marcer, a skinny thirteen-year-old Clove knows from survival class. Maeve pushes forward to volunteer, hand flying up, up, up, and Clove can feel her mother's icy gaze on her, chilling her to the bone. (There is no room for weakness here.)

Clove pulls away from Cato, ignoring whatever he says. She can't hear it, can't hear anything. She darts through the crowd, slipping her hand into her sleeve to pull out a knife. A flash of silver in ugly yellow light; she cuts Maeve across the arm. Maeve grunts as blood streams from the wound, a shimmering ribbon. When she lowers her eyes to meet Clove's, her gaze is puppylike in its confusion, which quickly turns to outrage. She takes a swing at her with a heavy fist, bitch, so Clove drives her knife straight into her stomach-not with the intent to kill, but she needs her out of the way in order to volunteer. And who really cares if it turns out to be lethal? It's not like they can arrest her for murder after she wins.

Clove watches the drops of blood hit the stone beneath their feet, sizzling in the sunlight

Doesn't everything always come down to some sort of blood?

"I volunteer," she shouts. Her voice is high-pitched, more so than she'd like, but it doesn't tremble or crack. She raises it to repeat, "I volunteer as tribute."

Peacekeepers come and carry Maeve away. One grabs Clove's wrists as if to handcuff her, but she flashes a malicious little smile over her shoulder and he thinks better of it.

Heimera smiles, slick and superior, approving if only because she's been entertained. "Your name, young lady?" "Clove Kentwell." "Oh. How... palatable." Fuck off. Clove smiles and pinches the folds of her dress between her fingers, lifting it above her delicate ankles so she can walk onstage without tripping.

She holds her head high as she stands behind the podium. She will not search for Cato in the crowd; what's the point, when he'll be onstage with her in a few minutes? He's going to volunteer. He won't wait, not even for her, and why should he? She didn't wait for him. He should hate her. She's given him every reason to hate her.

Heimera turns to the onlookers: "Your female tribute, Clove Kentwell." The people down below look concussed in their surprise, mouths fallen open, eyes wide: A fifteen-year-old? Why did she volunteer? Why did no one try to stop her? She's so small.

Small

Unhinged

Psycho

A little girl playing with knives

She's nothing

She'll show them all: The girl who never misses, ah, yes, she's a good choice. She can win.

Mother is almost smiling, her chin dipped in acknowledgement.

(It fills Clove with warmth. She can taste iron in her mouth. Her knife is still in hand, dripping red onto the pretty wooden stage.)

Clove's friend, the elderly Academy armorer Petrus, standing with the other adults, passes out. Embarrassing for a former victor.

This is being televised right now, all across Panem. She can see the cameras. So she rearranges her face: confident, sarcastic, smirking, the angle she means to play for the sponsors.

Of course, she is confident, that's no angle. She's the best at what she does, she can win, why shouldn't she win? She should win. Doesn't she deserve it, after a lifetime of blood-thick misery?

"And now for the boys," Heimera continues. Clove doesn't even hear the name that's called, Cato lunges forward so fast: "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" Well. It would have been flattering if he'd at least hesitated for a millisecond.

Veins cord in his strong neck. He looks like a god, huge and golden with eyes as deep as the sea, as he rushes onstage. "Your name, young man?" Heimera inquires. "Cato Hadley," he responds. His little brothers squeal excitedly; his father, Consus, grins, aglow with pride. "Cato Hadley," Heimera repeats loudly.

Clove's gaze slips to him, quick as a viper, but he refuses to turn his head and look at her. Fine. Be that way. The mayor comes forward again and reads the dull, incredibly long Treaty of Treason. Halfway through, Clove is just about ready to gut something. When it's finally over, she and Cato are told to shake hands. She remembers shaking hands with him years ago, making a deal. (Win in consecutive years and bring pride to District Two. You and me, Cato and Clove, for always.) Circumstances change, she tells herself.

She takes her hand in his. Her fingers slide instinctively over his callouses, his scars, his knuckles. He could break her fingers, and he probably should; she's a knife thrower, after all, it's strategy. He doesn't.

For the first time since they met, he's the one who avoids her gaze instead of the other way around. As if he's the one who ruined all their plans, not her.

Mother and Father, you better have been right about this, Clove thinks, because fuck, what a price to pay. She can feel her sister's ghost everywhere; she can feel her phantom hands around her throat like a noose.

"Your tributes, Cato Hadley and Clove Kentwell!" Heimera barked.

"Bring honor to your district!" someone yells. "Make us proud!" The call is taken up, like an ancient chant used to rally an army: "Make us proud! Make us proud! Make us proud!"

They turn back to face the crowd as the anthem of Panem plays. Stone-cold in the sunlight.

One of them will come home with the Victor's crown. The other will come home stiff and blue-faced in a pine box.

Chapter Text

The instant the anthem ends, Peacekeepers line up on either side of them both and walk with them through the front of the Justice Building. They don't need to be dragged like some pathetic, unwilling tributes from the other districts; they're Careers. Clove isn't sure who lets go of whose hand first. He has every reason to, but he's not a reasonable person, really. They're led in separate directions; she's brought to a room and left alone. It has thick, plush carpets and two velvet couches. Velvet! Like the dresses Cato's mother put Aurelia in for today's Reaping-

No. Stop thinking about the Hadleys.

Even in District Two, velvet is a rarity. It's smooth beneath her fingertips, and soft, but she prefers knives. The guards confiscated the one she cut Maeve with, though they missed the one hidden in her shoe. She frees it now and presses it to the pale, delicate skin of her palm.

She's grounding herself with the faintest pricks of pain. She needs to be focused for the next hour, the time allotted for tributes to say goodbye to their theoretical loved ones. Her love for her parents is conditional at best and vice versa. (They'll love her when she wins, surely.)

Mother and Father come in and sit down across from her, Father slouching and red-faced with drink, Mother polished as black ice, hands clasped on her lap. "Remember your training," Mother says in a clipped tone.

"I will," Clove answers sharply. She deserves a fucking facial expression, surely. She did this for them. "Well, thanks for the warm goodbye," she adds sarcastically. Mother's expression is surgical and remote. "Don't lose." Clove wants to burst into tears like a child, but she won't give her parents that pleasure. (Sadism is inherited, it seems.) "Wasn't planning on it," she says instead. "What's your district token?" Father demands. Clove pulls the knife-shaped emerald on her necklace from beneath her nicely folded collar. Father lurches forward with a grimace. "Who gave you that nice shit? You got a boyfriend you didn't mention?"

'Cato Hadley.' 'My district partner.' 'Golden Boy.' 'My best friend.' 'The guy I kissed one time while drunk.' "No," she says. Neither of her parents really care, so they don't push her. Most likely they're relieved they don't have to scratch up a token for her.

"All the odds are in your favor," Mother continues. "The statistics, the district partner- you are in the perfect position to win."

The juxtaposition between her and Rosemary lingers in the air between the three of them, but Father is too drunk to touch it, Mother too brisk. "Don't disappoint us." She walks out. Father pauses to give Clove, in a gravelly, half-incoherent tone, whatever passes for advice in his ruined head: "You don't scream or cry, none of that shit, you hear me? This's what you were born for. You get out there and you win the way a Career should, kid." He doesn't pat her on the shoulder or anything, which is a relief; she doesn't want him to touch her at all, ever again. He limps out after Mother, leaving her alone again in this cold, fancy room.

Four minutes and sixteen seconds. That's all the people that forged her have to offer her.

If she wins- when she wins, just like they've always wanted, they'll be proud of her, that will fix the broken, unidentifiable little thing festering inside of her, the thing that makes her feel even smaller than she is. She can't wait to see their faces when they realize she won on her own, without their help. She can't wait for them to see she doesn't need them any more than they need her.

She's surprised to hear another knock on the door. It's not Petrus, since he just passed out; he'll probably be receiving medical attention right now. Rosemary is long dead, Father has estranged his side of the family with his incessant drinking, Grandmother has refused to speak to her since she cut her pet songbird's wings off at age seven and she advised Aunt Marjoram and cousins Thyme and Fennel to do the same. Clove doesn't have or want anyone else. Except Cato, that is.

She opens the door with her knife at the ready- because who knows, it could be Maeve wanting a rematch, or Father wanting to get in one last beating before she leaves for the Capitol- and is surprised to see the long, classically beautiful face of Octavia Hadley. Mrs. Hadley brushes past Clove and sits down on the couch across from her, rubbing her temples with her white-gloved hands and murmuring, "Oh, Clove, why?"

Clove shifts her weight from foot to foot before sitting down, running her thumb over the flat of her blade. "I had to." Mrs. Hadley sighs. "And what a pity that is." Her silvery blue eyes fall to the necklace Clove wears, the emerald resting in the dip of her collarbone. "Did he give you that?" "Yeah." "I wish you'd waited. Is this really what you want, Clove?"

As if what she wants matters. What if she wants a pretty little house with Cato and a garden and a dog? What then? What if she wants to tear other tributes apart, peel the skin from the muscle from the bone, and watch them bleed out slowly? What if she wants to laugh over their dead bodies? What then what then what then-

"Yeah."

She wants to win. She wants to kill. She wants to do something with her hands and her knives and the thing she's good at, the best at; she wants to do the only thing she knows, the thing she's been taught, the thing her sister failed to do. She wants to do it this year, on her own terms.

Mrs. Hadley walks out without a word.

Fine. That's fine.

Chapter Text

They stand in the doorway of the train for a few minutes, never quite touching, barbed words directed everywhere but each other so that they ricochet, while they take pictures. He flexes his muscles. She drags the flat side of her knife along her jawline, traces her hands, even sensuously licks off the blood when she's asked to. It's her own blood, but they don't know that, and it's not liek she hasn't tasted it before.

Then they're allowed inside, finally, and the doors close behind them. (For a heartbeat, Clove has an almost animalistic urge to throw herself against them, bang her fists against the metal and scream. But she doesn't, because this is what she asked for. This is what she wants: blood on her hands and gold on her brow.)

The train begins to move at once. It's so fast her breath catches, like she's been thrown onto a training mat and had the wind knocked out of her. She's been on a train before, since that's the easiest way to travel through the mountains of District Two and go between the Academy and Shale and Diorite, but this is no ordinary train. It's one of the high-speed Capitol models that average 250 miles per hour. Their journey to the Capitol will be quick, since District Two is directly south of it.

The train is even fancier than the room in the Justice Building, Clove realizes. They're each given their own chambers with a bedroom, a dressing area, and a private bathroom. There are drawers filled with fine clothes- clothes not made of linen, that's a relief; it itches- and Heimera tells her to do whatever she pleases, everything is at her disposal, but she must be ready for supper in an hour.

Clove takes an ice-cold shower- today is too hot to do anything else. Stupid, stupid guilt clings to her skin; she scrubs hard, like she can wash it off. Peel off a layer of her flesh and find a better person underneath. Obviously, that's not the case; she gets worse the deeper you look. All her father's rot and her mother's inherited bitterness, and her sister's laugh.

She dresses in a gray shirt and simple pants. Maybe it's cruel of her to keep wearing the necklace Cato gave her, but it's the only thing that's really hers on this train, and she won't let go of it until it's wrenched forcibly out of her hands. Then she sprawls on the enormous, absurdly soft bed and flips her knife between her hands. She doesn't know what to do with herself if she's not throwing knives.

Heimera comes to collect her for supper: prim, proper, looking down her nose at her in the most familiar of ways. A dissatisfaction so cold and immediate it can only be maternal. Clove briefly considers slitting the Capitol escort's throat, but she settles for just fantasizing about it and following her through the narrow, rocking corridor into a dining room with lovely, polished walls. There's gold and silver everywhere, which is funny considering it was probably mined from their own district, and a table with very breakable dishes. It's a terrible idea to have ceramics or glass around Cato, especially when he's in a mood, which he surely will be. Heimera goes to fetch him.

By the time they get back, Clove has all the kitchen knives she's been able to find spread out in front of her, examining them.

Heimera smiles thinly. Cato shoulders brusquely past her and sits down heavily across from Clove.

Well, she might as well deal the first blow. "Finally gonna look at me?" Clove mocks. Cato flips the table over. Heimera hisses in indignation as glass shatters all around them, crashing into the walls and sliding around on the floor. A few pieces graze Clove's arm, leaving wire-thin lines of blood. Pretty.

"What the fuck WERE YOU THINKING?!" he shouts. "What the hell was THAT?!" "I volunteered," she snaps, unblinking. "No shit! Why?!" "Because I can win." "We had a plan, Clove! We had a plan!" He grabs her wrist and shakes her so hard a slight tremor runs through her body, hot and sudden like a chemical burn.

"Plans change!" she hisses. "Let go of me!"

He shakes her harder. Is this what it feels like, to be Cato's enemy? He was never like this when they were twelve and fourteen and hated each other's guts.

"Do you want to kill me? Do you want to fucking kill me, is that why you volunteered?!"

"Well, right now, I'm tempted!"

"We were both going to live, Clove! Now only one of us gets out!"

There's a beat of silence. She clenches her jaw and smiles. (See? I don't care. I don't care.) "Why do you give a shit? Don't you want to win?"

"Not over your dead body, you stupid, selfish, reckless"-

"Get to the fucking point!"

"You didn't even tell me!"

"What would you have done if I had?"

"Stopped you!"

"That's the problem!"

His eye twitches. For a minute, she actually thinks he might get it over with and snap her neck; then he lets her go. She steps lightly back, skirting around the broken glass. They glare at each other, little kids again, but bigger and stronger and bloodier; her hand fists around the emerald at her throat. That's when their mentors walk in.

Enobaria looks just as she does on the television. Clove has watched and rewatched her Games and her Victory Tour and her interviews religiously since she was little, memorized the symmetry of her face and the slender lethality of her fingers. She's tall and lean, with smooth light brown skin and dark curls; her cheekbones are high, her nose sharp and straight. She looks almost feline, more so when she opens her mouth to reveal her cosmetically altered teeth: sharpened to serrated points and inlaid with gold, to keep the story of her victory in mind everywhere she goes. Her eyebrows lift, almost imperceptibly, at the sight: Clove and Cato facing off over a pile of broken dishes, Heimera watching, unamused.

At Enobaria's side is Brutus, a mountain of a man, powerful and bald, nearly seven feet of bulging muscle like rock. His eyes are a neutral gray-brown color, like the feathers of an owl. In a calm tone, he inquires, "What did we just walk in on?"

"The tributes have gone mad!" Heimera spits.

Clove slides a kitchen knife up her sleeve. "Hi."

"You must be Cato and Clove," Enobaria says, slinking closer. "I've heard a lot about you." And seen a lot, Clove figures; Enobaria has come to the Academy a few times for alumni speeches, and it's hard to be anywhere in the Academy without hearing about Cato and Clove. Spears and knives, him and her, a future victor between them.

"Care to explain what's happening?" Brutus prompts. Clove reigns in her temper- it would be a terrible idea to antagonize her mentors and lifelong heroes- before she says, "He's angry that I volunteered." "Fuck, I am! You couldn't have waited two more years?!" "No, I couldn't!"

"Aggression is good," Enobaria says, with the sleek, self-contained cadence of a predator. "But whatever this is"- she gestures between the two of them- "is not. Figure it out yourselves and move on, we've got plans to make." "Clove has an issue sticking to plans," Cato snaps. Clove flicks the kitchen knife from her sleeve and throws it so that it skims just past his head. It's the exact same thing she did when they first met in the Academy's Training Center five years ago. Enobaria's eyes gleam with interest. "You have impeccable aim, my dear. This gets better and better."

Enobaria's praise sends a thrill down her spine.

Cato grabs the knife from the wall and throws it at her feet.

She knows why he's angry, and it's a double-edged blade: he couldn't save her from herself.

Chapter Text

The Capitol train is quiet after their fight. The glass is swept up, the expensive dishes replaced. She hasn't seen Cato since. They eat an early dinner alone in their respective rooms, which is fine by her. Capitol fare is weird- fancy and pretty, but not half as protein-heavy as Academy food. She feels slightly nauseous after she's eaten, although it might be from the train, swaying violently beneath her feet as it traverses the rocky landscape of District Two.

Enobaria comes in without knocking. "We're going to watch the recaps of the reapings. Are you coming?" It's barely a question; Clove isn't stupid, she won't miss her first opportunity to size up the other tributes. "Obviously," she says; then she curbs the bite in her voice, smoothing it out so it's more agreeable. "Yeah." She follows Enobaria into another compartment of the train.

He is slouching on a huge couch when she walks in. (They'd always bicker about that, back in the Academy. "Instructor Livia's going to get pissed. Sit up straight for once!" "Nah, she can never stay angry at me." "Hilarious, Golden Boy. It'll be even funnier when we're scrubbing the blood off the gym floors." "Someone's feisty today.") His clear blue eyes are fixated on the television screen. Heimera sits pompously straight-backed, drinking something green from a crystal wineglass. Brutus is sprawled in a chair that looks just about ready to break beneath his bulk. Enobaria leans against the wall, arms crossed, her gaze corrosive.

Clove sits on the other end of the couch, knees pulled up to her chest.

One by one, they see the other reapings. Names are called, the tributes step forward. Clove leans forward, examining not just the faces of these kids that will be her competition in the Games, but their builds, their posture and gait. She looks at them closely, imaging how she would kill them: where would she aim her knives, what arteries would she slash. When she blinks, she can see their guts unspooling from slit-open stomachs like silk; it's a pleasant thought.

District One's volunteers are, unsurprisingly, attractive: the boy is tall and lean, with a crooked smile, brown hair, and bright, eager eyes. The girl is tall and voluptuous, with thick blonde curls, an ample, sensual pink mouth, and a gorgeous, high-boned face. She also has huge green eyes, and she knows how to use them. She'll attract some sponsors based on looks alone, which pisses Clove off, mostly because she can't do the same thing- or at least, not as effectively. A dark-haired, flat-chested fifteen-year-old probably appeals to some twisted niche in the Capitol. (It certainly appeals to the boy sitting next to her, but that's not supposed to matter anymore.) District One is the wealthiest district, so both of them sparkle; the girl wears a dress made entirely of jewels, barely covering the necessities. Whore. In District Two, you rely on your skills and your intimidation factor, not your sex appeal.

Clove takes careful note of their demeanors; these two will inevitably be part of the traditional yearly Career Pack, their temporary allies and greatest competition, in theory. Maybe their blood is sparkly, too. The thought makes her laugh out loud.

They get to watch the footage of their own Reaping- Clove slicing Maeve, Cato lunging forward to volunteer. They look so confident, so powerful- her, dark and small and quick with flashing silver up her sleeves; Cato, a golden boy with the musculature of a Victor. They only ever look uncertain when they hold hands and their eyes refuse to meet, darting from one another's like minnows.

The boy from Three is sweaty, evidently scared shitless. The girl from Four- another future member of the Pack- is tanned, black-haired, and looks strong enough; the boy is tiny and young, with short curls. Who let him volunteer?

There's a fox-faced girl with burnished red hair from District Five. A crippled boy from District Ten. The District Eleven girl is a twelve-year-old with doelike eyes, but Clove is much more interested in the boy: he's absolutely massive, bigger than Cato, nearly as big as Brutus, with deep brown skin, close-cropped black hair, and muscles so defined that with her trained knife thrower's eye, she can see them clenching and unclenching. She would have no chance against him in hand-to-hand combat, but no one can rival her when she has the high ground, so she's not too worried. Still. It might be best to keep him close at the start of the Games.

She turns to Cato. He's already looking at her. Without a word, they come to an uneasy truce. (Fitting, since their relationship was built off of stalemate after stalemate.) Keep an eye on him? he mouths. She nods. The one thing they can agree on right now is, one of them will win. Him or her. Either way, District Two will have its victor.

The District Twelve Reaping is interesting. A little girl with her hair in two braids is called, but an olive-skinned, gray-eyed girl steps in front of her and volunteers. (Has District Twelve ever had a volunteer? She doesn't think so. It's funny. You'd think someone in that little hellscape of coaldust and starvation would be happy to die in the Games, at the hands of someone more fitted for victory.) The boy is a stocky blonde, nothing special. The singular District Twelve victor, Haymitch, pitches off the stage. Clove and Cato both laugh. It must be embarrassing to have an old drunk representing your district.

The little girl bawls as her sister is taken away, as if she's special. Clove's sister was a tribute, too, but she didn't scream or cry as Rosemary was brought into the Justice Building, even though she knew the risks.

Clove remembers watching her sister die. Vividly.

The Games are live on the Kentwells' television. Clove, seven years old, sits cross-legged on the threadbare rug. She's watching intently as Rosemary prepares for another kill. She's one of three remaining tributes; so close to the crown! The boy from District Four stands in a clearing, bow raised. Marcus, Rosemary's boyfriend, is sitting beside Clove, eyes glued to the screen, chewing on his lip so hard it bleeds.

Rosemary appears behind the boy, fast and silent, just like she was taught, handaxe inches from his shoulder-

He whirls. The arrow is loosed. It lodges itself in Rosemary's throat.

Clove doesn't understand it at first. This wasn't supposed to happen. She doesn't really understand that it's a fatal wound until Rosemary stumbles backward, mouth opening and closing like a gutted fish, eyes round with panic. Her knees buckle as blood starts to gush. There's so much blood. She falls onto the ground, her head against the cold dirt. The District Four boy stands over her, eyes cold and dead and that's not fair, that's not fair because he's not the one dying-

Rosemary is.

The camera cuts to a wide shot of Rosemary, showing the blood pooling beneath her chin, her necklace from Marcus still around her eviscerated neck, her twitching, helpless hands. She writhes and gurgles, choking on her own blood. Red bubbles burst on her lips. After a few minutes, it's almost merciful when the death throes hit her: her body spasms, one final desperate jerk, before falling still. Her pretty olive eyes gaze off into nothingness. The District Four boy doesn't even bother to loot her. His gaze skims her body, searching for life. Then, satisfied, he walks away. The cannon sounds.

Father throws his wine bottle down; splinters of glass skid across the floor. He stands up, roaring. "Stupid girl! I told her to watch her flank, I TOLD HER"- He slams his fist into the wall so hard that dust rains down around them. Marcus is one his hands and knees in the corner, vomiting, bile splashing everywhere. He slips in it and falls onto the ground, curled up in fetal position.

Clove doesn't move, doesn't blink. There's a small noise in her throat, unformed and ugly, reminiscent of 'no.' Any second now, they'll make the announcement that the cannon was a mistake, that body is someone else's, Rosemary Kentwell is not dead. She can't be.

Mother inhales through her nose, sharply, hands fisting in her lap. "She hesitated," she observes critically.

Marcus slumps against the floor, staring at the screen where Rosemary's body lies cooling. His jaw trembles as he reaches his hand up toward the image like he can hold her hand through the screen. "Mary," he chokes out. "Mary..."

The screen cuts to a Capitol announcer, who grins into the camera. " Goodbye to our third-to-last tribute, Rosemary Kentwell. A slow end for District Two."

Clove starts to cry, rocking herself back and forth, arms wrapped around her knees. Tears blur her vision, and snot runs down her chin as she sniffles out, "She has to come home. She promised!"

Father knocks her against the wall and beats her until she blacks out.

The tears don't come back. Instead, they congeal in her throat for years.

Rosemary is shipped home in a wooden box. The blood has been cleaned off, but her eyes haven't been nudged shut and the arrow is still in her throat. She stares blankly up at her family. She will never see them again.  Clove barely said goodbye, she remembers as she stares into those dead olive eyes. She listened to Rosemary's strategies and accepted her promise that she'd be home soon. She talked about how one day, they'd live side-by-side in Victor's Village, and then their parents could be eaten by mutts, because they'd have each other for ever and ever.

There's a public funeral. Almost no one cries. Rosemary is buried in a stiff yellow dress that she would have hated in life. They give her a shiny gravestone in a neat row of fallen tributes. A consolation prize.

Marcus is buried across the cemetery in a cobwebbed section reserved for the poorest of the poor and the lowest of the low, because in District Two, there is no honor in suicide.

Love is a costly thing.

"What do you think?" Cato rumbles. She blinks, then snaps back into the present. "The District One boy will make a strong ally, but nothing we can't manage. The girl can get us sponsors." "Yeah. The District Four boy looks useless," Cato snorts. "Our Academy would never let a kid like that volunteer." "The girl seems strong, though," Clove adds. "I call dibs on that kill." He grins. "All yours. The Pack looks good this year."

"The cripple from Ten and the girls from Five and Eleven will be easy kills." "And the boy from Three." "Yeah, he's cannon fodder unless he can rig something." "The boy from Eleven is a problem. He's even bigger than me." Cato furrows his brow. "Yeah, but not half as well-trained," Clove says. Cato grins. "Yeah! Yeah, you're right." "The tributes from Twelve look a little healthier than usual this year." "We can take some coalminers."

"So, what's the Game plan?" he asks.

She answers, "Take out the deadweights in the Bloodbath, get the supplies we need, get the Career pack together"- "Maybe not the Four boy." "Yeah. He'll be a casualty in the Bloodbath, too." "Once we've got the Careers together, we take out a bunch of the others"- "And let's get the Eleven boy while we're not too injured." "So, pretty early on in the Games. Yeah, that's smart. And then it comes down to the Careers." "And then it'll be us."

They're from District Two. They're the biggest threats in the Arena. It's nearly unavoidable for it to come down to the two of them.

"I'll make it quick, if it's me," she offers. It's an olive branch.

"Same," he says.

Chapter Text

Clove and Cato sit by the train window, peering out. The evening sky is the lavender of faded fabric, with coppery swaths of clouds. In the distance, she can see the lights of District One. She can't see the mountains of home.

What is her family doing right now? Mother might be working a late shift at the Peacekeeper center, pricking people with syringes and clicking her tongue in disapproval when they wince. Father will be long asleep, in a drunken stupor. Rosemary is busy rotting under sunbaked soil.

She tries not to think about Cato's family.

She glances over at him. His profile is smudged in candlelight- sharp jaw, strong nose, close-cropped blonde hair, stormy eyes caught between gray and blue.

"How would you want me to do it?" she asks him.

He leans back, his arms crossed above his head. "A slit throat. Fast and painless." "That's assuming you're badly injured enough for me to pin you down." "A knife to the heart, then. You?" She tips her head back, thinking. Heat sparks in her belly at the thought of Cato killing her, his powerful hands driving a spear into her stomach. But she wants a quick death. It's only natural. "Same. But with your spear."

She can hear his grimace without looking.

"Do you want to kill me?" he asks. Not as angrily as he did earlier, but there's no particular tenderness attached to the words. They're not tender people. No room for that back home.

She considers his question and whether or not to give an honest answer. "Not right now. But once we're in the Arena and you're the only thing keeping me from winning, I will then."

"Sure you will, Kentwell."

She smirks at him. Awash in gold light, he looks just like he did on that hot summer day when they kissed for the first and only time. "Cute. I might make it slower just for that." She flutters her fingertips over his broad shoulder, mimicking a funerary tradition in District Two. They cover corpses with breadcrumbs, so that the dead person has something to eat on their journey to the afterlife. She thinks it's dumb and a waste of perfectly good food.

He laughs loudly. He does everything loudly; he's doesn't know how to half-ass anything.

She looks at his throat and imagines what it would be like to cut it open. The thought doesn't appeal.

Get a grip, she tells herself. There's no point in dreading it. She should look forward to it. She'll make his death beautiful, a work of art- she'll make the Capitol remember every drop of blood spilled. She'll make them think of him and say, 'Cato Hadley was a warrior.' He's always wanted glory, gore, and fame; she owes him that much.

After about half an hour, Brutus comes in. She finds it hilarious how he has to bend down to get through the doorway. "We're pulling into the station," he says. "Don't kill your stylists, kids." "No promises," she says. She likes the vaguely alarmed look on his face, the 'is she joking?' look. She gets it a lot.

"I might. If they make me wear something stupid," Cato adds. This doesn't reassure Brutus, who grimaces. Is he grimacing? His face expresses emotion about as well as a brick wall.

The world outside of the train suddenly evaporates into blackness. She flinches; a kitchen knife slides from her sleeve and onto the floor, which she could slap herself for. Cato reaches down for it and hands it back to her. They must be in the tunnel that goes through the mountains under the Capitol. Mountains, like the ones at home. They form a natural barrier between the Capitol and the eastern districts.

Clove hates darkness. Darkness is decayed flesh, infected cuts, death and her father's eyes. Light is knives flashing in the sun, sharp edges catching the Academy lights; it's Cato's hair, it's being alive. She's glad when it comes back just a few minutes later. The train starts to slow.

She and Cato both look eagerly out the window at the Capitol, the ruling city of Panem.

The towering buildings come in a vibrant rainbow of hues. The streets are wide and paved, shiny as mirrors, with glossy cars rolling over them. Red-and-gold striped banners. The Capitol's emblem shimmers on every solid surface. All the colors look synthetic, unnatural. The citizens look like wax dolls. They're dressed oddly- thick ruffles, hats, heels as tall as she is- with painted faces and round stomachs. Right. Because they've never gone hungry, and they certainly haven't spent their entire lives training for combat. Imagine if they were in the Games. The thought amuses her- fat pigs awaiting slaughter.

They excitedly point upon seeing a tribute train coming in. The squealing only increases when they identify it as District Two's. They're always crowd pleasers.

She shuts her eyes for an instant to enjoy the noise of them screaming their heads off. She can almost pretend it's agony, not delight. Whether it's her or Cato who wins, one of them will die, and these people will cheer just as loudly then. That doesn't escape her notice.

"What are you waiting for?" Enobaria appears in the doorway, crisp as snapped bone. "'The early bird gets the worm,' or whatever they used to say."

Cato glances at Clove, hesitant. They both know he'll outshine her with his bulk; that's unavoidable. But she's not going to rob him of a chance to make an impression. Even if they were strangers, she wouldn't; the more sponsors her district partner has, the more she'll benefit, too. "Go, dumbass," she says. He stands and waves to the crowd, flashing his killer's smile and flexing his muscles. She sidles up next to him, wearing her aloof 'I could kill you' smirk. Cato has a magnetic presence, always has. Their attention will gravitate to him. But there will be some people who like to feel superior, people who would feel smart if they noticed the little brunette and the kitchen knife in her hand.

"Aren't you going to wave?" Brutus prompts.

"If I had something worthwhile to wave at," she shrugs.

"You're rude," Enobaria comments. "And abrasive."

"Shocking. I never knew that about myself."

"Sarcastic, too."

"You learn something new every day."

"I like you."

"I like her too," Cato says helpfully. She drags the flat of the kitchen knife along his arm. She's always liked to carve into things, skin best of all, but she keeps her touch light. "Yeah, I know."

Chapter Text

Because it's late and the other tributes don't get here until tomorrow, she and Cato sleep on the train in their separate rooms.

She meets her prep team in the morning, and she hates them right away. Or maybe she doesn't hate them, but she definitely wants to stab them, flay them apart, slice them up. It's instinctual. Scuttling around her and chirping, pawing at her skin, wide-eyed and buoyant, they remind her of the rodents her parents had her kill when she was little, to learn the basics of slaughter. Twitches and squeaks, fur clinging to her knife, bright blood seeping onto her hand, staining it up to the wrist.

Two of them are twins- Parthenos and Pompeius, they say their names are. She's not going to remember that; it's twice as effective to call them Dumb and Dumber. They're both tall and surprisingly lean, with supple, artificially smooth skin dyed plum purple. The only difference between them is that Dumb has a silvery sheen to him, as if he's been dipped in stardust- or at least, she thinks that's the look he's going for. To her, he looks even more like a greased pig on the butcher's block in District Ten than the rest of his people do. The other is a young woman, Delphine. She has long dust-pink hair knotted into an obscenely complex bun at the base of her skull; when she grins, as she often does, jewels flash between her teeth. Clove prefers Enobaria's smile.

She doesn't like being seen naked by strangers, much less strangers who feel free to say whatever the hell they want, because they lack the survival instincts necessary to realize she could kill them as easily as breathing. She doesn't have her knives, but she could make a weapon out of half the things in this room. (Scissors. Razors.) They pouted upon seeing her- "Why did we get a fifteen-year-old?" Dumber whined. "No curves at all!"- but they quickly cheered themselves up, as idiots are so adept at doing. ("Look at those big dark eyes! What a doll!" "And the porcelain skin... the collarbones, the waist!" "Such fine bone structure! We'll make you nearly as pretty as us, sweeting.")

She's not a doll. And if they treat her like one, she'll gouge out their eyes with hairpins.

The prep team soaks her with freezing water, then hot water and soap, removes any dirt, washes and dries her hair, cuts her "atrociously long" nails into lovely, rounded shapes, and gets rid of every last bit of hair everywhere but her head and brows, although they pluck those slightly. Every part of her body hurts, from the waxing to the violent scrubbing, but she's no stranger to pain.

They step back and coo once they're done. Rodents to birds. "I must say, we've outdone ourselves," Delphine hums. "For a girl from such a brutish place, you look lovely." She can respect underhanded snideness, but she hates how Delphine doesn't even realize her own rudeness. At least Clove is conscious of what a bitch she can be. "Did it hurt to get those jewels embedded?" she asks, gesturing to Delphine's mouth. The woman tilts her head. "A tad, but beauty is pain." No, pain is beauty. "I bet it would hurt even more if I pulled them out. Maybe your teeth would come out with them." That's all it takes. Delphine runs squealing from the room; Dumb and Dumber follow suit. She giggles. Finally, some peace and quiet, although she can't do much with it, sitting here naked in a cold white room. She wants to put on a robe- that probably wouldn't be any worse than threatening three Capitol citizens as she just did, although everyone will have to put up with her demeanor because sadism sells. But then she'd just have to take it off again. No point.

A few minutes later, a tall woman with coiled, snakelike loops of red-brown hair and olive skin. Four-leaf clovers are tattooed along her sharp cheekbones and on the lids of her catlike yellow eyes in green ink. She doesn't say a word as she stalks around Clove in a circle. Is this how the rodents felt? Well, Clove's not one. She lifts her dark gaze to meet the stylist's and says, quite rudely, "What?" "Just looking at my tribute." She grabs Clove's wrist to lift up her arm, her eyes trailing up and down her body. Clove scowls, fighting the urge to shrink away from her; instead, she snatches her hand back and places it in her lap.

"I'm Faustina," the cat-eyed woman says. "You must be Clove Kentwell." "Obviously." "You left quite the impression on the prep team." "They must love me," she says sarcastically. Faustina hisses out what might be a laugh. "Personally, perhaps not. But they love the idea of you. So small, so fragile, so cruel. A paradox. A snake in the guise of a fawn." "You seem slightly less brain dead than your friends." "High praise. Now, what to do with you?" Her eyes rake her up and down again. "Reasonably attractive. Dark hair and eyes, pale skin- appealing contrast. A small build... your mentors must be disappointed." "Not really." "I'm not, certainly. I've dressed up plenty of muscle mountains; you're new, and that's exciting. I'll work out an angle for you." "What are Cato and I wearing for the tribute parade?"

"A truly inspired creation of mine. 'Gladiators In Gold,' I call it." Clove doesn't take issue with that. She's called Cato 'Golden Boy' for years; now it'll be true. 'Golden Girl' doesn't have the same ring to it, though. "It'll keep all eyes on us?" "Entirely." "Full coverage?" "No, but nothing obscene." Good enough for her. She's not as keen as the District One girl is to flash most of the country.

"It relates to the military aspect of your district, not the masonry," Faustina clarifies. Interesting that the military industry is getting publicized; it's been an open secret for as long as Clove can remember. "Good, I like that side better anyway."

Chapter Text

Her outfit is all gold. The top is sleeveless and reminiscent of a breastplate, made of metal with coppery featherlike details decorating the upper half, flaring out from the neck. It has a cinched golden belt, much like the kind she'd store her knives in back home, and a short skirt that flares out into separate triangular pieces. She's glad to have the leather underskirt (no matter how badly it chafes) and a translucent cape the color of bronze, to cover her backside. She tolerates the thick golden band on either wrist and likes the shoes: lace-up high-heeled boots that will give her several inches of extra height. She isn't particularly fond of the glitter, it's very District One, but she'll put up with it.

She does hate the helmet: golden (shocker) with a large metal feather protruding from either side. Its front sports gaudy spikes, and it's slightly too large for her head. At least it only covers the top of her head and a little of her forehead, so it doesn't interfere with her vision.

Cato comes in wearing a nearly identical costume; it's just bigger, with a wider, paler belt and a longer, rust-colored cape. Instead of bracelets, he has a single lace-up leather armband, and no heels, because he obviously doesn't need them. He's wearing a helmet, too. He looks down at her and adjusts hers. "You look ridiculous." "We're matching, dumbass." His finger brushes over her cheekbone and stops, perplexed. "Where are your freckles?" "Under the makeup, I figure," she says sarcastically.

He wipes away a hint of the makeup on the bridge of her nose. "Found 'em." Her hair is in a thick braid that nearly reaches her hips. The cosmetics are fairly subtle- smoky eyeshadow, a neutral shade of lipstick, something to brighten up her skin and make it soft and smooth as satin. Using something called 'contour', Faustina made her features a little more angular. This way, she looks older, harder. Because she can't use the 'sweet little killer' angle in Roman armor; she'd look like a child playing dress-up, and who would bet on that?

"Mister Hadley!" his stylist- a short man with coiffed periwinkle hair, a hooked nose, and a yellow-striped suit- heaves a dramatic sigh, offended. "Do not interfere with your district partner's makeup!" "Right, sorry." Cato withdraws his hand, not looking sorry at all. "Where's your prep team?" His own trio stands behind him, clearly near to bursting with excitement. Clove smirks. "I gave them a nice District Two greeting." He grins. "Scared them off, did you?" "Yep." "That's my girl."

My girl. For an instant, there's a pleasant kind of tension between them, heat in places it shouldn't be.

(There is no room for weakness here.)

Enobaria saves her from whatever she was about to stupidly respond by walking in alongside Brutus and nodding in approval. "You look like victors."

Whatever warmth was crawling its way into Clove freezes. Right. In a few weeks, one of them will be a victor, and the other will be dead. And she knows which she'll rather be. "That's the plan," she says flatly.

Brutus looks gentler than he has any right to be. "Make sure you wave." "We will," Clove promises.

"But don't smile," Enobaria hastens to say. "Not even your little smirk, Clove. Keep your faces proud. Not hostile, but proud." "Got it," Cato says.

They're whisked into the bottom level of the Remake Center- essentially an enormous stable. Tributes are being loaded, in pairs, into chariots pulled by teams of four horses. Cato's prep team helps them both, arranging their body positions, adjusting their capes. Once they're satisfied, Brutus says, "Knock 'em dead, kids. Not literally."

Clove isn't entirely sure how to mount their chariot in these shoes. She has experience wearing heels, mostly during Reapings, funerals, and Academy ceremonies, but the pair she owns back home is nothing like these. She wobbles for an instant, before Cato wraps a well-muscled arm around her waist and hauls her up with him. She turns around with a venomous glare: "If you ever do that again, I'll cut your hands off and pull the veins out of your arms one by one."

This comment causes Cato's stylist to fan his face in horror, casting a sympathetic look at Faustina. Cato only scoffs mischievously. "You can try." "I hate you." "No, you don't."

And he's right. She wishes he weren't. Things would be so much simpler if she hated him.

"What do you think everyone else will be wearing?" she asks.

"Coal miner's suits for Twelve. Trees for District Seven. I've seen a couple of the others. Five looks like giant spoons."

She laughs. "Even with the stupid helmets, we have this carved in stone." The only district that will rival them, most likely, is District One; they always fare well at the tribute parade. Whatever. She and Cato are going to be the favorites to win, and they're dressed like it.

When he smiles, his perfectly white teeth catch the harsh light. He has some makeup on, too, smoothing out his skin, hiding a few scars- the ones she's inflicted, mostly. They've shaved his face, which is a shame because she likes the rough stubble along his jawline. She shouldn't like it, but she does. His blonde hair is nicely tousled, and there's a hint of darker contour at the corners of his eyes, just to bring out the stormy blue. Evidently, they didn't think he needed as much adjusting as she did. And they're right. He looks good; better than she'll ever admit. He starts to say something, but their conversation is cut off by the opening music. It's easy to hear, blasted about the Capitol. Massive doors slide open to reveal the crowd-lined streets.

The ride will last twenty minutes or so and end at the City Circle, where the Capitol will welcome them, play the anthem, and escort them into the Training Center, where they'll stay until the Games begin.

The tributes from One ride out in a chariot spray-painted silver. It's tasteful and pretty in a subtle way, which contrasts their outfits- a shiny suit for the boy, a short dress for the girl- are both magenta, sparkling, and covered in feathers, with elaborate, fluffy boas. They have glittering pink headdresses built to catch the eye. The crowd screams and squeals and claps, a thunderous roar Clove doubts anyone can top, but that's fine, it's what she expected. Their chariot jerks forward. The evening sky is overcast, a smoky blue like Cato's eyes, webbed with clouds. It doesn't look the way it does at home, beautiful and star-dappled above endless mountain peaks, at all.

She grabs his wrist and counts his heartbeats. A habit of hers, one that he lets her indulge. One. Two. Three. Eight. Ten. Then they're getting into position behind District One's chariot, and they're looking separate ways just like they've been trained to, so neither side of the crowd feels unacknowledged. She raises her arm to wave. It's tight and controlled, not the fluttery, flirtatious wave of the District One girl. It's hard not to scowl at the Capitol freaks in the crowd- a whole rainbow of colors, features exaggerated or shrunk, whiskers and tattoos, wigs and ridiculous outfits that could pass for costumes themselves. Do they know how disfigured they look? She'd be happy to point it out to them.

But these are potential sponsors, the people that might send her and Cato food, water, and matches if they run out of what they get at the Cornucopia. Or they could send a specific type of medicine, or a water purifier, or something otherwise lifesaving. So instead of flipping them off or giving them a "District Two greeting," she keeps her expression steely and fierce, her posture perfect. She's worth betting on.

"District Two!" the crowd screams, clapping their hands and pointing, as if anyone could miss this eyesore of a spectacle.

She glances at Cato out of the corner of her eye. He has the right expression, but he's not waving. Why isn't he waving? "Wave," she snaps at him. As if startled from a daydream, he lifts his hand and waves, showing off a muscular arm, flexing a little. He's a natural with the audience. Women in the crowd squeal; one or two actually faint. How does someone faint just at the sight of an attractive guy? She'll never understand these people. She just hopes that they notice her, too. She's as good as he is. Better.

"Clove!" "Clove Kentwell!"

So they do notice her. Her name is being called from all angles, just like Cato's. The people of the Capitol usually find the Careers' names in the program because they're strong contenders, popular and often entertaining too. She's glad this year is no different.

"Clove! Look at me!" She tries to follow the voice with her eyes, less out of responsiveness to the comment and more out of curiosity to see the type of people that are gravitating towards her. It's no use, even with her sharp knife thrower's eyesight. There are just too many people, all screaming out to her, throwing flowers that are promptly crushed beneath the chariot's wheels, or, if they're spared that fate, left to wilt on the street like corpses. Someone even throws a handful of cloves, which makes her scoff under her breath. Hilarious.

Cato nudges her, his gaze flicking upward, so she looks up slightly and sees them on the huge television screen. They are powerful, golden and gleaming, visibly dead set on winning. Tangible but untouchable. Enobaria was right: they look like victors.

She doesn't feel like one. She can feel a headache pounding in the base of her skull- from the music echoing in her too-big helmet, the lights that make her vision dance with colorful spots- and it's only been a few minutes. Nothing can tire out a knife thrower's arm, so that's the only part of her that isn't sore. She always thought she'd love this as much as the actual fighting part, but she really doesn't. The attention is nice, in a way- the parade's only redeeming quality, aside from Cato. She wants this all to be over. She wants to eat dinner, the spicier the better, sharpen some knives, and go to bed. She's had enough of being prodded and stared at like an animal today.

The screaming has died down into murmuring, applause, and the occasional squeal; the novelty of the parade has worn off. And then she hears the uproar, twice as loud as it was for District One. "What's happening back there?" she asks, hoping maybe someone fell off a chariot and got trampled, saving her some work. Cato turns slightly to look, and he flushes with rage, scowling. "District Twelve is on fire." "What?" "They're on fucking fire! Look at the screen!" She looks back at the screen and yes, the District Twelve tributes are in fact on fire, but unfortunately, they're not being burned to a crisp. They're wearing black unitards, minimal makeup, leather boots, and long capes. The capes are the problem- streaked red and yellow, leaving a trail of dazzling flames. The firelight touches Clove's armor, and suddenly it looks cheap to her. Cheap and useless, like the play armor that it is.

Oh, and they're holding hands, too. So sweet. Adorable, really. She's going to cut off their smiling faces.

This isn't how it's supposed to be. She and Cato are Careers from District Two. The sponsors should be fixated, the audience enraptured, and they are. Just not on them. On some sappy little pair from a poor district that no one gives a shit about. How is it possible that they are being overshadowed by some coalminers? So what if the girl volunteered for her sister? So did Clove, in a way. Is it because she's the first volunteer ever from her district, and Clove is one of many? Is that the problem?

Clove and Cato- no, not and, or. One of them is probably going to win. That much is obvious. Why aren't these people cheering for their future victor, instead of the cannon fodder?

She keeps her cool by entertaining herself with thoughts of the many gory ways she could kill the District Twelve tributes. The girl is clearly half-starved, making the angles of her face more defined, like a blueprint to follow. She pictures slicing her cheekbones, her nose, her brows and lips. The boy is more compact, so she'd have to work something else out, but she's never lacked creativity.

Cato is clenching his fists so hard his knuckles turn white. She brushes her hand against his. His skin is hot to the touch. She mouths at him 'Get it together.' He's still visibly furious, but he loosens his fingers and makes an effort to breathe normally. Her fingers rest against his wrist, counting heartbeats. They're rapid.

The twelve chariots fill the loop of the City Circle. In the buildings that surround the circle, the most prestigious citizens of the Capitol huddle at the windows, gawking down at them. President Snow's fancy mansion looms before them. From the balcony high above them, the president himself gives the official welcome. He's smaller and thinner than she expected, but she's the last person to think smallness equates to weakness. He has bone-white hair and a matching rose pinned to his crisp black suit. "Welcome," he says. His voice is a little raspier than it sounds on TV. "Tributes, we welcome you."

It's traditional to cut away to the faces of the tributes during the speech, but Clove can see on the screen that District Twelve is getting all the screentime, which infuriates her.

President Snow pauses before continuing on, hands gesticulating like he's conducting an orchestra. "We salute your courage, and your sacrifice." Clove barely restrains herself from laughing. There's no courage in being reaped naturally, like most of these people. And the only sacrifice Clove plans on making is standing right next to her. "We wish you happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" He winks, or maybe his eye is just twitching.

Shouldn't she feel awed, or at least intimidated? Why is she just vaguely irritated?

She looks back at the screen as the national anthem plays. Oh, sure, there's the necessary effort to do a quick cut around all the chariots as they go in that final agonizing loop around the circle. But it holds on Twelve. Clove can feel Cato's eyes on her, so she meets his gaze, and a silent understanding passes between them: the District Twelve tributes are dead meat.

They enter the Training Center.

Cato loops an arm around her and helps her off the chariot. She's too pissed at the coalminers to spare some annoyance for him, so she just gives him a cursory nod, releasing his wrist.

Their stylists, and their mentors gather around them; as do their prep teams. Dumb, Dumber, and Delphine stay a solid seven feet away from Clove, while Cato's hopelessly oblivious prep team peppers him with questions: didn't he look fantastic, didn't his costume fit so well, didn't everyone love them? They're lavish with their praise, sticky-sweet, trying to coax something other than fury from him. Brutus is encouraging. "Chin up, kids. You looked great."

"They're calling Katniss the Girl On Fire," Enobaria cuts in, her tone razor-sharp. "What's so memorable about you two? Clove glaring at the audience, Cato nearly blowing his fuse over the tributes from Twelve?" "They did well," Brutus tempers her.

"Given the circumstances," Enobaria concedes. "But Twelve did better." "So we need a plan," Brutus says calmly, which reminds her slightly of Petrus back home. "To remind everyone that, whatever aesthetic appeal the District Twelve tributes might hold, these two are a better investment." "A much better investment," Enobaria emphasizes.

"We're going to kill them," Cato snarls. He's practically frothing at the mouth, he's so furious. Obviously, he needs to do something with his anger. "Intimidate them. Stare her down," Clove suggests. "Let's see if Cat Piss will piss herself." She laughs at her own joke. It's immature and she knows it, but she needs a little pettiness in order to find her footing.

Cato fixes his frigid blue gaze on Katniss. Everyone is giving the tributes from Twelve dirty looks, but Cato's is uniquely deadly. How Clove wishes looks could in fact kill. The Girl On Fire would be a pile of ashes. Unsurprisingly, she and her little friends retreat upstairs to their floor with their unkempt old drunk of a mentor. (How did someone like that win the Quarter Quell?)

At least in training tomorrow it will be impossible to outshine her and Cato. District Twelve and all the others will see that they are nothing. Less than nothing. They are lambs to the slaughter; they are spots of dried blood on stone. Because Cato and Clove did not come here with a sob story or sparkly flames. They came her to win.

Chapter Text

The Training Center has a tower designed exclusively for the tributes and their teams, their home until the Games begin. Each district has a whole floor to themselves. You simply step on an elevator and press your district's number.

There were a few elevators in the Academy, and one in the Justice Building, so Clove is no stranger to them. This one, however, has crystal walls, translucent with a pink tint. Rose quartz. There's a lot of that in the mines near Shale, in the Northern part of District Two. She reaches out and lightly presses her hand to the cool glass. The ride is over sooner than she'd like.

"You have an hour before dinner," Heimera snaps as they step out onto their floor. As their capitol escort, she'll be overseeing them alongside their mentors. The table-flipping incident clearly irritated her rather than perturbed her, sadly- she must be familiar with the Two temper- but yes, there is a glacial quality to her voice that wasn't there before.

Clove's quarters are large, massive really. She spends a few minutes investigating them. There are automatic gadgets and buttons and switches everywhere. Everything is opulent and lustrous, bigger and shinier than it needs to be. There's a lot of silver and gold, which must remind Cato of Diorite the same way the elevator made her think of Shale. Her necklace is resting on one of two bedside tables.

She's used to a certain level of comfort in District Two, especially at the Academy, where, since anyone who isn't a tribute becomes a Peacekeeper, the Capitol provides two free meals a day, three if you perform well. Showers there are strictly limited to two-to-five minutes depending on your status, but there's always warm water, unless you've transgressed somehow. The floors are heated in winter, and there's always electricity. Cadets start out with just a thin comforter for their hard, rectangular cot, earning a pillow and a nicer blanket over time.

At home, there's a metal bathtub and murky room-temperature water in a bucket instead. She slept on the floor for most of her childhood, but when Rosemary died, it freed up the bed for her. The house is made of crumbling, mossy old stone, and there are always rats scurrying around on their street, beady eyes glinting from the shadows. As a little kid, Clove had to earn her meager meals by killing animals or passing tests her mother set. The Macellum Petrae- the large market in Two's central town, an hour and a half away by train- is where her family gets most of their food, or at least, they used to.

They've been able to afford dinner the past few years. The Academy sometimes provides the highest-ranking students' families with 'financial support' if necessary. Clove had that courtesy extended to hers to shut them the fuck up.

Father's pension as a Peacekeeper should have been enough to sustain them for years, but Festus Kentwell is not easy to like. He had some colorful words for his superiors before he left the force after losing his leg, so the Kentwells got screwed over yet again. Around that time, he turned to drinking at the Smoking Barrel Inn two streets away, which didn't help matters. Clove's mother is a combat medic, but not a high-ranking one. The providers, now that Clove thinks about it, have always been the Kentwell girls. Rosemary, then her.

She's overthinking a fancy room, and it's pissing her off. In the absence of knives, she reluctantly unlaces her boots rather than slicing cleanly through them. She desperately wants knives in her hands once more. The parts of her newly soft, unblemished hands where there used to be callouses sting and burn like fire. District Twelve. Fire.

She kicks off her high-heeled shoes, sending them spiraling into the wall, and pulls off her too-big helmet. She wrestles the golden armor off her body, and claws her way through the braid, tearing out a handful of ebony strands in the process.

She doesn't have the patience to scrub off the makeup, so she takes a shower. She stays firmly away from the control panel to avoid being scalded to death or have her hair dyed bright green or whatever the Capitol citizens enjoy. After five minutes, she instinctively stiffens, waiting for Instructor Gaius's loud voice, but there's only the rhythm of water slapping against skin and marble. Sneering at the Instructor's image in her mind, she takes longer than she really needs.

Once she's done, she steps onto the mat. Heaters instantly blow-dry her body and dark brown hair, which is rather straight, so there are only a few tangles left over from her complicated hairstyle. She can ask Cato to brush them out for her. They do that at the Academy all the time after training sessions.

Cato sits down on one of the metal benches, red from exertion and dripping with sweat but laughing at something she'd said. She perches with her back to him, kneeling between his legs as he combs his fingers through her matted dark hair. "I'm winning 2-1," she purrs, turning her head to smirk up at him. "Just you wait, Knife Girl," he counters boastfully. "You're going down in the next round." "I sincerely doubt that." His hand ghosts lightly along the side of her head, tucking a strand behind her ear. "Wanna make a deal?" "Always." "Loser has to do the winner's patrols for the next week." "You drive a hard bargain, Golden Boy. But I accept." "District's honor?" "District's honor."

He did in fact win that one, but he came on the patrols with her anyway. Dumbass. Why wouldn't he take advantage of the break he'd earned? She would have.

She programs the closet for an outfit she likes, settling on a green long-sleeve shirt that reminds her of the Academy uniform and black pants. She spends the rest of her free time practicing her throws with imaginary knives.

She'd settle for just cleaning one right now, even. It's relaxing and an important part of the craft. Cato once asked her why she bothered to clean them at all, and after realizing he didn't clean his sword, she spent an entire hour explaining how oils from the hand can degrade metal and cause it to rust. He never made that mistake again.

Her thoughts are drifting to Cato again. After she is crowned victor, there will be no Cato to brush her hair. No Cato to argue with over cleaning swords and what to wear to the Reaping. No Cato to laugh at her dark, mean-spirited jokes that nobody else finds funny. No Cato to her Clove. What will the world be like, then? Colorless, surely, lacking in warmth. Alone and unwanted as she was before she met him.

She needs to stop having these thoughts- banal, sentimental, sappy, utterly useless.

Of course she can't ask him to brush her hair. What was she thinking? Those little intimacies are over, left back in the mountains. She does it herself, with a pretty mother-of-pearl brush that smooths her hair into a satiny dark curtain.

Heimera knocks sharply on her door. "Dinner is ready, Clover," she says flatly. The door opens at once and Clove looks frigidly up at her, scowling. She has an excellent hostile face. Heimera looks at her blankly. "There's no 'r'," Clove snaps. "Just Clove." "Ah. A spice. A slogan"- "No."

The dining room is huge, with an ornate chandelier and a central mahogany table. Brutus, Enobaria, Cato, and the stylists are already there. She sits down by Cato, who still seems furious. His knuckles are bloodied, as if he's been punching walls, breaking things with his bare hands. He does that a lot when he's angry, she's seen it before: he turns into a theatrical weapon of mass destruction, fuming and roaring. Right now, though, he's just quiet, jaw tensed, eyes dark, his face a steel cage.

"No table-flipping, please," Brutus says drily.

"Noted," Clove answers. She grabs Cato's wrist and pulls his white-knuckled fist close to try and wipe off the blood with a napkin. Heimera stands up, stabbing a glossy silver nail into the tablecloth. "Those are silk!" Clove responds diplomatically, resisting the urge to stab her. "There's this thing called 'I don't give a fuck,'" she says, her tone cutting.

"Are we going to strategize or not?" Enobaria demands. Faustina blinks her cool yellow eyes languidly. "Any suggestions?" "Yes. You two"- Enobaria gestures with her fork, sharp end pointed at them- "show off in training tomorrow, as much as you can. Clove, knives; Cato, sword and spear. Scare the weak- the underfed, the incompetent, all of them. Especially Twelve. Remind them who you are." "And talk to the other Careers- District One, maybe the girl from Four," Brutus adds. "If there's anyone extra you want in the pack, run them by us first."

Clove looks at Cato. "I wouldn't mind having the boy from Eleven on our side." Cato seems to jerk from a trance at the sound of her voice. "I guess he could be useful." "And more importantly, we could kill him in his sleep. Save ourselves some time and effort."

Enobaria nods approvingly. "Ruthless. I like it."

"I'll try talking to him," Cato says. "And the girl from Four. Well-built, probably handy with a trident." "The boy doesn't seem useful to me, but size isn't everything. I'll keep an eye on him," Clove adds.

"Sounds good," Brutus rules.

"We can think about the interviews and such later," Faustina says, sharing a look with Cato's fussy birdlike stylist. Clove hopes they're not planning on something matchy-matchy. That would be cute, if they were eleven years old. Which they're not.

"All you have to do in training tomorrow is be yourselves," Enobaria says. "Your vicious, unrelenting, well-trained selves."

"Don't worry about Twelve. You're more than ready for this, both of you," Brutus enthuses. "The Games aren't won from a chariot or a stage"-

"'They're won with a weapon in hand,' we know," Clove huffs. Everyone in District Two knows that little maxim. She's spoken down to like a child often enough, and she doesn't appreciate it now. Brutus shrugs. "Have it your way, kid."

The conversation moves on. She gets bored quickly when it gets theoretical, with Enobaria and Brutus discussing their own respective Games and what the 74th's Arena might hold. Will it be swampy? A deserted wasteland? Freezing cold? Forested? Hopefully mountainous; that will give them a massive advantage. Well, more of an advantage, she thinks with a 

Dinner is grilled steak, steamed kale, boiled barley, boiled eggs, and blood sausage. Servers in stark white tunics wait patiently to see if any platters or drinks need to be filled.

She takes an experimental sip from her bejeweled glass and delightedly realizes what it is. Goat milk! Familiar and smooth, with a robust taste, it's the favored drink of District Two. She elbows Cato, so he tests it, too. "Tastes like home." "Now we just need some lamb jerky and protein bars," she jokes. Someone taps her on the shoulder; she turns rapidly to see an Avox looking down at her with a placid, questioning expression. He has the ashen coloring of District Three. She wonders what crime he committed to deserve this fate: being made into a tongueless slave, silent and subjugated. He seems to be asking if she genuinely wants the things she mentioned.

"No, we're fine," she says. Her voice comes out sharper than intended. He bows his head and walks away. Uncanny. Everything about Avoxes is uncanny to her. District Two does not tolerate traitors, but even she feels slightly sorry for these... well, are they even people anymore? She'd offer to kill them quickly if it wouldn't get her in trouble.

They aren't allowed alcohol, of course; they need their edge for tomorrow. And Careers never have 'dessert'- she hasn't tasted something sweet in years. Except the occasional unripe pomegranate, her favorite food, and... her gaze drifts to Cato's mouth. His stupid, stupid, soft, warm mouth.

(There is no room for weakness here.)

– ⚔ –

Clove is seven years old.

She is in a house that reeks of alcohol and rot, cheap beer and waterlogged bodies. She sees something move in the corner of her eye, but when she turns, nothing is there.

She clutches her knife to her chest and runs to Rosemary's room. Rosemary always knows what to do.

A body lies slumped on the bed, dark waves of hair fanned out across a pillow, limply hanging arms lean and freckled. Clove nudges it with the handle of her knife. "Rosemary?" There's no response, so she prods her again a little harder. "Rosemary, wake up!"

Her head turns, slack-jawed and hollow-eyed. "There you are." "I can't find Mother and Father"-

"You're not good enough, you know," Rosemary says. Her tone is indifferent.

"Yes, I am," Clove insists.

"You can't win."

"I can. I will. You'll see!"

An unholy gurgle rises up from Rosemary's throat, and then her flesh is melting off like wet meat, like candlewax, something else clawing its way out.

Rats. Lots and lots of rats, spilling out from the gaping crimson cavities in her sister's not-a-body. Rats with human eyes too large for their bodies. Clove points her knife at them, but in it, she sees a reflection of her mother's eyes. Icy, brittle jet-black eyes. She hears the impatient click of her tongue.

The rats lunge.

She wakes up. She waits for her rapid heart rate to decrease, fingers to her wrist, counting, counting, counting. She prefers Cato's, but her own will do.

She could choke on her own resentment.

Nobody will ever make her feel small again.

Chapter Text

Dawn stabs through the windows. The sunlight leaking through the stained glass creates a patchwork of light and colors on the floor. She throws a blanket at it and forces herself out of bed, pinching her forearm hard enough to bruise. The pain shocks the residual fatigue from her limbs.

She goes to the shower. Sure, she had one yesterday, but the instructors aren't here to complain about 'wasting time and water.' Still, she makes it quick, maybe four minutes. She perches on the bathroom sink as she brushes her hair, wild from writhing in her sleep.

An outfit is at the front of her closet: a high-collared, short-sleeved navy-blue shirt so dark it's nearly black, with crimson-and-cream stripes along the shoulders, accompanied by black pants. The training uniform. She'd like to stab whoever made the fabric so scratchy. As she dresses, she happily pictures how the other tributes will flinch away from her when her knives hit the bullseye again and again and again. She craves the fear in their eyes, the anxious hands fluttering over their own skin and limbs protectively, thinking, 'She's going to do that to me.'

She puts her hair up in a long ponytail with a subtle braid on either side wrapping around the base of her skull like a victor's crown. She stands in front of the bathroom mirror.

Finally, she looks like herself instead of some Capitol doll.

She leaves her room before Heimera can come knocking, hoping to avoid another encounter with the bitchy little albino escort. Enobaria and Brutus are on the couch. Enobaria is filing her teeth, while Brutus is watching a rerun of Palladium Barker's Games on the television- the 46th, she's pretty sure.

"There you are," Enobaria says. "Where's your boyfriend?"

"He's not my boyfriend," she says harshly, drawing a raspy laugh from her mentor.

"Where's your oh-so-distant district partner, then?"

Not that, either.

"Still asleep, knowing him." He never sleeps in at the Academy, but whenever they're on a break, his strict schedule vanishes. "I'll go get him."

His room is right next door to hers, marked 'CATO HADLEY - D2 MALE.' There's a palm scanner; fortunately, her prints work. (If they didn't, some unsuspecting technician would be disemboweled.) She walks in, snatches a pillow off his bed, and throws it at him. "Get your ass out of bed, Hadley."

He groans, batting at the pillow with all the vigor of a sick kitten. She sits down on the edge of the bed and retrieves it, tossing it between her hands. "Your reflexes are terrible. What would you do without me?"

"Sleep in."

"Hilarious."

He sits up, stretching. He's shirtless. His broad chest, toned abs, and pale yet sun-kissed skin that looks as if it's been dusted with gold, and not just from the glitter they were doused in yesterday, are on display in all their glory. Catching her eye, he grins and flexes slightly, making muscle ripple up and down his arms.

"Okay, now you're just showing off." "Like what you see, Knife Girl?" "I'm going to go wash my eyes out with soap." "Rude." "You started it." She tosses the pillow at him again. This time, he catches it, his hand reaching up like an owl's talon and dropping it playfully into her lap.

"Tell the mentors I'll be there in a minute," he says.

"Less than ten."

"You got it."

As she turns to go, the faint, brassy gleam of something from a half-closed drawer catches her eye. "What's that?"

"My district token."

"You never told me what it is."

Something almost wistful fleetingly crosses his face, a silvery minnow in a pond; then it's gone. "Old Severus's medal."

"Seriously?"

"District's honor."

And then they're both laughing their heads off, her gripping his arm for support, him leaning his chin against the dip of her shoulder. She'd stolen that battered bronze medal two years ago from a training instructor they both hated and carved "Number One Loser" on the back with her best hunting knife before giving it to Cato as a birthday present.

"Why?" she asks.

"I had this whole plan. I'd hold it out onstage when they crowned me the victor, and I'd say, 'Guess I'm the number one winner now, huh, Clove?' And then everyone would know who I won the Games for. And you'd be watching from District Two." He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. "When you volunteered, I wanted to change it out for something else, but there wasn't time."

Something stupid and tender nearly comes out of her mouth before she bites it back and says tartly, "I would have eviscerated you if you'd name-dropped me in front of the entire country."

"Doubt it."

"Hurry up, Golden Boy," she says, and walks out.

– ⚔ –

They eat breakfast together, all four of them. They have all morning to go over the plan, so she seizes the opportunity to ask Enobaria about her Games.

"How did it feel to tear that boy's throat out?" she asks eagerly. Enobaria skewers a thin slice of beef on her fork as she answers. "It felt powerful. Although, blood doesn't taste nearly as good as one might imagine." "Clove would know," Cato says helpfully. "She bites in training."

She kicks him under the table. "It was one time, jackass. And I didn't draw blood."

"You definitely did."

Brutus clears his throat emphatically. "Enobaria's not the only celebrity here, you two," he says with mock offense.

Cato's eyes gleam. They're more gray than blue today, gunmetal rather than seawater. It pisses her off that she noticed at all. "What was your greatest kill?"

"By your standards? Crushing the District One girl's head between my hands." He gestures. "It split right open like rotten fruit."

"You're impressive, obviously," Clove smirks, twirling a steak knife between her fingers. "But a little finesse beats out brute force every time."

"Except when we're sparring," Cato comments. He bites into an apple. She studies his face, every angle and shape, as he chews, juice running in rivulets down his chin. She doesn't understand why she can't imagine cutting into him. She's always threatening to do so, and yet-

"Liar. We're tied for wins," she says.

The mere mention of wins and losses awakens the District Two in them, like blood to sharks. The time for banter is over; they're down to business in a heartbeat.

There will be three days in which all the tributes practice together. On the last afternoon, they'll each get to perform in private before the Gamemakers. Clove is so excited, she can hardly contain it. This is what she's worked for her whole life. Every scar, every bruise, every drop of blood: this is the culmination.

"So," Enobaria drawls, "Shall we coach you together or separately?"

"No point in doing it separately," Cato says. "We know each other's techniques like our own."

"No secret skills? Nothing to hide at all?"

"Between us, no," Clove shrugs.

"Then we'll coach you together," Brutus rules. "Not that much coaching is really needed. Still, for thoroughness's sake, go over your skillsets for us."

Cato, after a glance at Clove, speaks first, with a casually presumptuous smile, arms spread wide. "I'm versatile with weaponry. I can handle a bar mace, a machete, anything, but mostly I like to use a sword for close combat and a spear for long range. I'm strong as fuck and I've got good stamina. I'm ready to go."

"Any survival skills?" Enobaria questions.

"Not dying," he suggests.

"That doesn't count. Clove, your turn."

"I'm the best at what I do," she states. "I never miss. I hit targets dead center from over forty feet away, with any knife. I can adjust my grip, angle, and release timing without hesitation. I'm not as strong as Cato, but I'm fast. What's a good punch if you can't dodge one?"

Brutus frowns. "What if you're pinned down?"

"I won't be."

"Again, survival skills?" Enobaria cuts in.

"I can hunt," Clove says. Nothing larger than a rat, that is, but she doesn't say so. "And I'm good with plants, and basic first aid." Being the daughter of a combat medic has its perks, even if said combat medic is a stone-cold bitch.

"Good. Very good," Brutus praises.

"Stick with our plan from yesterday," Enobaria decides. "Show off your specialties. Intimidate the other tributes. Get the Career pack together. Those are your goals. But make sure you hone your survival skills, too."

Clove tosses an apple into the air and throws it. The steak knife she's been playing with follows, spearing through the fruit and pinning it to the wall. She smirks. Cato speaks for them both when he says, "We've got this."

"One more thing," Brutus says. "I know you two are... familiar with one another, but you need to keep that to yourselves. You don't want your relationship to be used against you."

Enobaria bares her teeth in a smile that catches the light. "What he's trying to say is, affection doesn't fit District Two's image."

Clove flips her off. Cato shrugs. "Gotcha, Fangs."

– ⚔ –

They prepare until ten with stretches and vigorous practice, then meet at the elevator with Heimera.

The training rooms are below ground level of the building. With the Capitol elevator, the ride is less than a minute. Heimera pins the number 2, printed neatly on a cloth square, to Clove's back, then Cato's. The doors open into an enormous gymnasium filled with various weapons and obstacle courses, like a playground for killers. It looks fun. She can't wait to get her hands on some knives.

They're the second pair of tributes to arrive; District One is already there. The blonde girl is just as nubile in real life. Her hair is in perfectly curled double braids that frame her equally perfect face. She's endowed with high cheekbones, plush lips, radiant green eyes. Even in the training uniform, her abundant curves demand attention. Her district partner gives the impression of being charming, throwing a crooked, conspiratory little smile Clove's way. Diplomatically, she does not flip him off. Instead, she gives a half-smile back. As if she isn't mapping out his arteries in her head, deciding where she'll slash when the time comes.

"It's wonderful to meet you," the blonde greets them as they cross the room to stand by their fellow Careers. Her voice is smooth and dulcet, like melted honey; words roll from her tongue in pretty, pleasing shapes. "I'm Glimmer." 'Glimmer!' Clove stifles a snort at the name. "Cato," Cato introduces himself, his smile easy and charismatic, as he holds out his hand for the boy from One to shake. "I'm Marvel," he says. ('Marvel.' Another marvelously dumb name. Is everyone in District One on morphling or something?) Their hands clasp. Clove can hear the joints of Marvel's fingers pop, see both boys' knuckles turning white.

She elbows Cato in the ribs: stop breaking our ally's hand. "Clove," she says, her tone flat. This gives Marvel an excuse to extricate his hand from Cato's grip, laughing, although the edge to it is razor-sharp. His knuckles graze Clove's; she tears her hand away, letting her arms rest at her side, which provokes only a winsome little shrug.

The tributes from Three and Four are here now. The girl from Three is gangly and shy-looking, the boy skinny and pale. The girl from Four looks healthy and strong, with ebony hair and sun-browned skin; the boy is small, his eyes half-covered by his curls. Four is a Career district, yes, but a lesser one. Not as strong or as loyal as Two.

"What do you think?" she asks the others.

"The girl looks strong, and I bet she can swim," Marvel says. "But the boy's pretty small." "

"Let's see what he can do," Clove says.

"If you say so," Cato agrees, which seems to settle the matter, as neither Marvel nor Glimmer protest. Maybe his violent handshake did serve a purpose: establishing him as the leader of the Career pack. Fine by her; she expected that anyway.

The District Five tributes arrive- a black-haired boy and the sly-looking redhead.

Districts Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, and Ten aren't particularly noteworthy. The girl from Eleven is small and fragile, hugely overshadowed by her hulking district partner.

"Clove and I were thinking of inviting him to the pack," Cato tells the others. "How's that sound?"

"So smart," Glimmer says sweetly. Forget honey; her voice is like syrup. She bats her lashes at Cato, which makes Clove want to scratch out her corneas, although she isn't sure why. "Sounds good," Marvel agrees.

Twelve arrives. The boy looks healthy enough, while the girl is as skinny as she seemed on the television screen yesterday. Maybe a little more so, without makeup to make her cheeks look fuller. Both look terrified, which makes all the Careers laugh.

"Her face!"

"Is she gonna cry?"

"They're so dead."

The tributes have drifted into a tense circle, with the Careers off to the side. Predator and prey clearly defined. Everyone stands next to their district partner. The blondie and Katniss keep giving each other furtive looks as they join the circle. Good. They should be scared.

The head trainer, a tall woman named Atala, steps forward. She's lean, sinewy with muscle, her glossy black hair tied into a neat bun. Her voice is brisk and monotone: "In two weeks, twenty-three of you will dead. One of you will be alive. Who that is depends on how well you pay attention over the next four days. Particularly to what I'm about to say."

Actually, it depends on how good you are at killing. But whatever.

"First, no fighting with the other tributes. You'll have plenty of time for that in the Arena."

Clove smirks.

"There are four compulsory exercises. The rest will be individual training. My advice is, don't ignore the survival skills. Everybody wants to grab a sword, but most of you will die from natural causes."

She looks to Cato. He runs his tongue over his lower lip, a restless habit of his. They're not going to die of natural causes, of course. She's not going to die at all, or if she does, it'll be at his hand, in battle.

"Ten percent from infection, twenty percent from dehydration. Exposure can kill as easily as a knife." Atala's dark eyes pin her in place for a heartbeat, then skim over to someone else. Clove angles a sly smile at Cato, amused by the idea of them dying of dehydration of all things. They're too good for that.

Well, Miss Statistics is right about one thing: knives can kill easily.

Chapter Text

When Atala releases them, Clove and all the Careers go straight for the deadliest-looking weapons in the gym and handle them with ease. They're showing off to intimidate the others- a sound and traditional strategy used by the Pack each year.

Since they're not allowed to spar with the other tributes- because blah blah only Capitol-sanctioned violence is okay blah blah- she and Cato can't have the pleasure of practicing tearing one another to shreds. Pleasure being a subjective term.

She shows off with only half her focus, idly hitting bullseye after bullseye while observing her competition. The red-haired girl from Five- Foxy, Cato nicknamed her- is at the station for plants, playing some kind of memory game. A few underfed kids are shakily having their first lessons with a knife or an axe, trembling hands wrapping around hilts in all the wrong ways; it makes her want to kill something, seeing her craft mangled. The boys from Three and Nine make a fire, then flinch back like startled cats when it ignites. What did they expect it to do, turn into glitter?

Glitter. Glimmer. Glimmer is at the archery station. As Clove watches from the corner of her eye, the girl confidently pulls the bowstring back in a smooth arc, then releases. The shot goes wide, barely hitting the target's elbow, making Clove snicker. Glimmer is skilled with a mace, even better with a machete, yet she spends all her time on archery. Intimidating no one, impressing no one. Why? Is she trying to obtain a new skill just before the Games? Airhead- but no, that's probably the angle she's going for. A real Johanna Mason tactic. Joke's on her; Clove isn't one to let her guard down so easily.

Marvel, at least, hits what he aims for with his javelins and spears. The strength in his throws is impressive- but he's nothing compared to Cato, eclipsed by his brutal swings that lop off the heads and arms of the dummies with ease. Clove catches the Girl On Fire and the blondie that trails after her all around the Training Center- like a lost puppy, Clove thinks contemptuously- staring at Cato with poorly disguised fear when he sends a spear through a dummy's heart from fifteen yards away.

She flips a knife between her palms, head cocked. "Nice shot, Golden Boy," she teases. He glances over at her, slick with sweat and beaming. "It really fucking was," he agrees, tossing the spear back into the pile with a clatter. "C'mon, show off a little," he encourages, ambling over. She pokes his side. "Be patient," she chides teasingly.

She's waiting for the right moment. 'Always with the theatrics,' Cato will sometimes complain back at the Academy, but theatrics are so fun.

After half an hour or so, spent with bated breath and bored fingers, she's at the front of a line of tributes, standing in front of the target station. The massive boy from District Eleven is behind her, followed by Bitch On Fire. Clove stands straight-backed, arms tight at her sides, knives held tight in either closed fist. Her long dark ponytail is pushed half to the side, so that everyone can see the '2' printed on her back and remember exactly who she is. Not the youngest, smallest Career; not Cato's district partner; not the crazy knife girl, oh no.

The Career from District Two. Clove Kentwell. Clove like the verb, not the spice. The Clove who gouges out eyes and carves out tiny animal hearts. The Clove that is going to win, win, win, and wrap it around her parents' throats like a noose.

Tunnel vision. Focus.

When a target lights up red- red as guts, garnet, Father's bloodshot eyes- she throws without hesitation. Bullseye. Another. And she even adds a spin to the next throw, for novelty's sake. Best not to bore the Gamemakers lurking in the elevated stands above the gymnasium; twenty or so men and women in deep wine purple robes, clicking their polished nails and picking at a vast banquet, looking at her and hopefully thinking, 'That girl is a murderer.'

Because that's what everyone wants to be. A murderer. A Victor.

She brushes past Bitch On Fire as she walks away from the station with the cruelest of smiles. A serrated blade in the form of lips, that makes her enemy swallow hard.

She goes to watch the girl from District Four- Amphitrite, she heard her district partner call her.

Amphitrite is tall and well-built, her skin tanned to a deep bronze. Her hair is long and black with a dark blue sheen, falling in loose waves nearly to her waist. Her eyes are pale, the brown of autumn leaves. Their strange fragility is countered by her skill in combat. Clove watches her gut dummy after dummy with her trident; blows that would be lethal on human beings. Metal tears through plastic stomachs and throats.

Cato whistles and bends down to Clove, his hand settling between her shoulder blades, where a bird's wing of sweat has formed beneath fabric. "She seems pretty tough," he says.

"I like her. I bet she'll be brutal in battle."

"Not as brutal as us, though." District pride heats his voice.

She laughs, twirling a knife between her fingers. Silver spins before her eyes, blurs in the back of her mind where her thoughts run red. "Obviously."

His fingers, now stroking the nape of her neck, catch her attention. His voice swims through the sticky, cloying crimson of her thoughts. "What about the guy?" "Medicore. Do you want him?" she asks.

"Yeah. He's pretty good with a dagger, and we want the Pack to be big; can't be too picky unless you feel like allying with Foxy and Sniffles over there." He jerks his elbow towards the tributes from Five, who quickly look away. Clove sneers at them, all teeth, then turns back to Cato with an exaggerated eyeroll that makes him chuckle. "Fine. I'll go get him. You get the girl," she says, garnering a nod. His hand is slow to leave her neck. "Deal."

-

The boy from Four is at the station for camouflage, painting pretty blue and white whorls ebbing into one another, presumably like the sea that she's never seen, onto his arm up to the elbow. What a waste of time.

She slides into the chair opposite him. He half-smiles at her- bold, cocky even. It's not endearing, and she smirks sharply enough to tell him so. "Funny, I didn't take you for a painter," he says. His voice is thin, a poor prepubescent imitation of bravado.

"Well, you don't know me very well." She rests the flat of the blade in her hand against his arm, drawing it up and down, tracing the slight curves of muscle and bone. A skinny arm, but any arm would do. She's not a painter, no, but she's an artist in her own way: an artist of throwing knives. It's beautiful to her. She's an artist of carving skin, of beautifying gore; of the snap of a wrist and the flash of dark eyes.

He stiffens; she can feel the rigidness of his arm beneath her knife. And she hasn't even drawn blood yet! "What's your name?" "Gillian. And you're Clove, right?" "Mmhm." Point in his favor, he didn't add on an 'r' like so many do.

"You're a Career, right?" she asks. "Yep." A tinge of defensiveness colors his voice. "Why did you volunteer at twelve?" "Why'd you volunteer at fifteen?" Bastard. She digs her knife in a little harder.

"Because I'm the best Two had to offer," she says pointedly. She doesn't give him room to respond. "So, do you want to be part of the Pack?" "Figured I already was." "Aww, that's cute," she says sweetly. "You weren't. Sit with us at lunch." She tosses the knife into his lap and walks back to Cato.

"How'd it go?" Cato asks her.

"He's in. Amphitrite?"

"In. What's with the face?"

"Gillian is a little bitch."

"We'll kill him slow, then. When we're ready."

-

At lunch, the twenty-four of them eat in a dining room off the gymnasium. Food is arranged on carts around the room, and you serve yourself.

All six of them, the Careers, gather around a single table, voices raised, movements boisterous. They're making a point: 'We're not afraid of one another, and we're certainly not afraid of any of you.' Most of the other tributes sit alone, sullen and pale. Broken-winged birds. Lost sheep. Lambs to the slaughter. Bitch On Fire and the blondie sit together, passing comments back and forth in dry, stilted tones. Their chummy act, with the chitchat and the sweaty-palmed hand holding, isn't fooling anyone.

"Did you see the girl from Five trying to pick up an axe?" Glimmer giggles. She raises her voice to a higher pitch, theatrically sticking out her lower lip. "'Oh, no, it's too heavy!'" They all laugh.

"And the boy from Ten with the crippled foot- it'll be funny to see him on the Gauntlet," Marvel sniggers.

"Wanna bet on how long it'll take him to fall off?" Gillian suggests.

"Longer than us, that's for sure," Cato puts in. "He's a walking casualty."

"More like limping," Clove quips acerbically, provoking another laugh from the group save Amphitrite, who has kept to herself the whole time, only speaking when prompted.

Clove glances at Amphitrite. The girl is picking at a fish-shaped loaf tinted green. "What, homesick?" Clove teases. There's an edge to her voice, but only a slight one. Testing the waters.

"Maybe a little. See how green it is? That's because of the seaweed from back home." She takes a bite, then deflects the conversation away from herself. "What do you eat in Two?"

"Protein bars," she and Cato answer at once. Protein, protein, meat, goat milk, protein. It's not a complicated diet. The comparison makes her steak, drenched in some expensive sauce, taste even better.

Glimmer runs her hand along Cato's forearm. "Well, that explains the muscle," she simpers. Cato shrugs her off like an annoying bug.

"If that's where the muscles are from, then why's Clove, like, three feet tall?" Marvel jokes. Clove flips him off. "Careful, Sparkly," she says in a sugared tone like Glimmer's, with a similar lack of sweetness beneath. "I wouldn't piss me off in a room full of weapons."

"Duly noted," the boy says with insincere gallantry, raising his hands above his head, lips twisted in a smirk.

"What about Eleven?" Amphitrite says quietly.

"Clove and I have done enough recruiting today," Cato says. "Glimmer, you have a go."

Glimmer stands, hips swaying, licking her lips to give them a pleasing pink sheen. Seduction is a good weapon to have in your arsenal, Clove thinks. Just not one she needs.

They watch intently as Glimmer sashays to the giant boy's table, where he sits with a straight back and alert eyes, like a sentry. She speaks to him for a moment, all flirtation and lightness, fingers fluttering along the powerful line of his shoulder. One question answered: Glimmer's true weapon is not the mace, the machete, or the bow and arrow. It's the honey trap.

And then they see him shake his head. No words. A single movement, chilling all the same. If he feels safe defying the Careers and turning down a rare chance to join their alliance, he's either an idiot- and she doesn't think he is- or he's actually dangerous.

Glimmer tries again, white teeth blinding, emerald eyes keen, mesmerizing in their full orbits.

Head shake.

Glimmer throws her hands in the air and storms back to them, sitting down beside Marvel. "He said no!" she says, irritated.

"Really? We definitely couldn't have figured that out from the head shaking," Clove snarks. Glimmer gives her a cutting look, jewel-bright eyes now cut from metal. "I'm guessing you don't make friends easily back home?" "Bite me, Glim-Glam."

"Whoa! Ladies, ladies," Marvel hastens to say. "Save the aggression for the Games."

Glimmer flashes her a cagey smile. "We're all a little on edge, I suppose. Nerves."

"I don't have any reason to be nervous," Clove says, eyes rounded and coquettish.

Cato is fuming, his knuckles white. She pinches his arm, and he whips his head around to her. "He said no," he grumbles.

"Boo fucking hoo. We make a new strategy."

"It's the- it's the idea of it, Clove!" He punches his fist through the table, making a few of the patrolling Peacekeepers glance up. A trainer loudly 'tsks' and is silenced with a frigid look from Clove. "First Twelve shows us up at the parade. Now Eleven says no to us. It's not right!"

She's about to tell him throwing a temper tantrum won't fix anything when she remembers where they are. In a gymnasium, surrounded by the other Careers, who are watching them intently. Marvel is amused, Gillian wide-eyed. She's not about to undermine him and her both by getting pissy.

"What?" she snaps. It's not directed at anyone in particular, but every one of them flinches as though it was, which is funny to her.

She swings her legs up so she's partly draped over Cato's lap; screw Mom-Obaria's instructions. "We don't need him," she says. "He's dead anyway."

Twenty of three of them are dead anyway. Maybe she's one of them. It's a fifty fifty chance. Her life is on a knife's edge. It's in the flip of a dime and the blink of an eye. Everyone around her is soon to be a corpse. Stiffened limbs, blue fingers. Rigor mortis setting in. Blood drying beneath their bodies and her fingernails.

Cato bounces his knee beneath her, a habit of his that brings her back.

Her life is on a knife's edge, yes. And who's better with knives than her?

Chapter Text

Day two of training. A lucky number, one that warrants leisurely intimidation.

She and the other Careers stand in front of a rack of weapons and watch the blondie from Twelve attempt the ropes course. Each of them has already completed it, her having the easiest go of it with her slight size. As she watches, the poor thing thrashes frantically, a helpless fly caught in a spider's web. He succeeds only in twisting the net over and hitting the ground hard, landing on his side.

He gives a pained groan, clutching his ankle.

Clove smiles, shaking her head with mock pity as the boy squirms on the floor. Marvel and Glimmer are outright laughing, Cato wearing an amused smile. Gillian fingers his dagger. The spectacle is nearly as funny as the District Three girl falling from the Gauntlet and splitting her lip; twice as satisfying, because he's a favorite target of theirs. Hardly human at all. Something to hunt, skewer, cut and bleed; a whimpering prey animal, that's the real him, stripped of flames and dark leather. Unworthy of sponsors or cheers.

His district partner kneels beside him, murmuring something. Their pretense of amiability is sickening, Clove thinks as Cat Piss walks away, charcoal-black braid swinging. That braid might be convenient in the Games, it gives Clove something to pull at. Maybe she can even strangle her with it, that would be dramatic.

The blondie sits up stiffly, looking at them with watercolor blue eyes. Cornflower blue. 'Cornflowers.' She's never seen any herself, they grow mostly in District Ten, but she's heard they're pretty. A bright, sweet blue. She prefers stormy blue, metal blue, sea blue, slate blue. The many shifting blues of Cato's eyes and the veins that ripple through his wrists. Veins she doesn't mean to cut, ever; they're too pretty. She likes to map them with her gaze and her light, adventurous fingers whenever she wraps them around his wrist, as she is now. His pulse thrums evenly against her fingers.

Marvel and Glimmer smile, hostile, a pair of pleasant snakes, and Clove bites her lip in mirth when the boy stumbles over his own feet on his way to a trainer. They launch into a spar, and he's- well, better than a coalminer has any right to be, she'll concede that much.

So he has muscles, big fucking whoop; having a blonde himbo for a district partner doesn't make Cat Piss special. She lets her gaze climb along those shaking shoulders and arms, mapping out where she'll cut when they're in the Arena. Hopefully he can tell exactly when she's thinking about.

Cato dips his chin in acknowledgement and turns to them. "He's pretty good." "Not as good as us," Clove snaps, echoing his words from earlier. She's made enough concessions allowing Gillian into the Pack; she'll be damned if she has to breathe the same air as trash from Twelve. Glimmer is eyeing said trash in a manner that's saturated with suggestion. "What's his name again?" she asks, her tone sultry, as if proposing something indecent. "Peeta," Amphitrite answers quietly. Clove takes note of that: the District Four girl is observant, more observant than the other Careers anyway.

"Who wants to kill him?" Cato asks.

"Me," Clove says eagerly. She wants to find the lines of print in that stocky frame, built for slicing.

"Sharing is caring, Clove," Marvel complains.

Her voice lowers into a serrated purr. "Oh, and I'm so caring."

The Academy has taught them everything about weaponry, anatomy, and all the different ways to kill, but only limited survival skills- starting fires, finding shelter, purifying water... so she and Cato spend the rest of the second day walking from station to station, putting on a show of indifference, as if they're brushing up on old knowledge.

At the edible plants station, she thinks of nightlock- dark indigo berries found in Eleven and Twelve, deadly poisonous. Hopefully they're not in the Arena, they'll remind her too much of her mother, who has always wanted to see their effects on the human body.

She enjoys the station for skinning animals most. The trainer stretches out a dove-gray rabbit's listless corpse and makes the first few incisions himself, then allows Clove to do the rest. This is good, relaxing work. It's oh so familiar to slice a rodent apart: easing the fur off, slitting the skin, sliding her knife beneath to expose the soft, creamy pale texture of fat. Pushing a little deeper to expose the dense, fibrous muscle. When she works her knife back and forth- it's a lovely long hunting knife; in any other circumstances she'd steal it- bands of connective tissue become visible. She cuts them apart and they snap, yielding easily.

Back to her roots. This is where it started: killing rats. Squishing spiders. Drowning kittens and puppies, goats and pigs that the Academy provides for practice.

She reaches in with her bare hands to pull out the entrails- it's not as if they'll have gloves in the Arena, and blood has never bothered her.

"The heart and liver can be edible," the trainer says, so she's oh so tender with the tiny things. The heart is an inch long, dark reddish-purple, slick and shiny in her palm. She and Cato will never have to resort to eating something like this, with all the supplies they'll have during the Games, but maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Looks edible enough.

Suddenly amused, by what she's not sure, she jokes, "I guess I've stolen its heart." Cato snorts a laugh. "That comes easy to you," he says. His tone is almost introspective.

She looks at him: do I disgust you? Do I unnerve you?

He looks back at her: no.

And this fills her with a quizzical warmth that she makes no effort to stifle.

-

On the morning of the third and final day of training, Brutus and Enobaria do not mince words.

"We expect high scores, from both of you," Brutus reminds them. 'High score,' to them, does not mean an eight, which would be passable to District Four. It does not mean a nine, coveted by the tributes of District One. It means a perfect ten.

Dripping with pathetic and unexpected fondness, Enobaria brings up Cashmere Ritchson, a victor from One not so long ago, winning just after her brother, Gloss. "She's a knife thrower like you, Clove. In her private session with the Gamemakers, she knocked an apple off an Avox's head from thirty feet. I recommend you have similar... what's the word Flickerman uses... 'flair.' Nobody likes a boring tribute."

"And they like a boring victor even less," Clove snarks back. Enobaria chuckles, low and throaty. "What a clever bitch you are. Just like me when I was your age." A compliment Clove would have killed for as a kid, but now she knows how sappy her mentor can be.

"Cato, show off your strength and you'll be good to go," Brutus tells him. Cato grins. "Easy."

"Alright, then," Brutus says. "Go show 'em what District Two is made of."