World On Fire

PLEASE NOTE: Please be warned that this story contains mentions, implications of, and graphic descriptions of violence and domestic violence/abuse, as well as explicit language and graphic descriptions of blood and injuries.

I do not own "The Hunger Games" or any of its characters.

Chapter 1: "Just Win."

Ever since I was about four years old, it was implanted in my head that I was going to win. My father gave me my first knife at that age and told me that when I sliced the head off my doll with it, he knew I was victor material. Instead of attending one of the district's public schools, I was immediately enrolled into one of the tribute-training academies. I had always been encouraged by parents to win the Hunger Games one day. And I will. Because I want to win more than I want to breathe.

I don't know why. I've always felt like that. I don't remember a year in my early childhood when I didn't look forward to the games – not a year when I didn't watch the reaping and long for the day I'd be old enough to be entered into the lottery or volunteer. And not a year when I wasn't absolutely glued to the screen whenever there was a good battle going on, so I could pick up strategies. My father would lift me up on his bulky, tanned shoulders and push through the crowd in District 2's central square for the best view of the enormous screen.

It wasn't until I was around ten years old that I was allowed to ditch public school and enroll in tribute-training, due to Capitol law, though I have been learning to fight from my father as long as I could remember. Hah. Training. I don't know, I just had always found it slightly amusing - with the many laws the Capitol strictly enforces, clearly no one gave a shit about the "don't-train-tributes-beforehand" rule. Academies like the one I attended could completely get around laws by advertising themselves as "self-defense" or "weaponry arts" schools, when everyone knows what they really are. The academy became my second home, or really my only home if I think about it.

Throughout my years I've thought a lot about the Hunger Games – what it means, what I'll have to do, what I stand to lose. But I've never doubted that it's what I want. Children killing other children... it's sounds terrible, yes, but terrible things happen all the time. Terrible things have to happen to for great things to happen. I have seen poverty, suffering, and death already, even in District 2, and it makes me want to escape. To win. And if I do, I know I will rise up and survive in this world on fire.

I pull back my black hair and style it into my trademark bumpy ponytail. I step into the view of the mirror in my room and look up. I see me. I examine my freckled face and short, scrawny body. I look like a lamb. An innocent, defenseless lamb, or at least the human counterpart. The other kids at the academy won't know what hit them. I smirk at the thought and admire the uniform of the academy I'm wearing. The red, black, and gray detailing on the shoulders, neck, and back, as well as the little '2' in red on my back were designed to resemble what actual tributes wear at the training center. The thought causes me to daydream a little bit before I sharply pull myself back into reality.

Pull yourself together, Clove. Victors don't day dream. This is your first day at the academy. You will not mess anything up.

"My little victor!" My over-enthusiastic mother nearly trips over in her heels as she rushes into my room and begins fussing over the wrinkles in my shirt. She frowns a pink-lip-sticked smile at my hair begins undoing my ponytail. Her baggy, yellowish face wrinkles in concentration. I gently push her away and flop onto my bed, just as my father steps into the room. He smiles approvingly at my get-up and sits down next to me. Without so much as a hello, he launches into tips for beginning my training. Exactly how I should enter – look intimidating, I shouldn't smile. Don't worry about making friends, that's not what I'm here for. I should immediately start working on my triple-knife-throws and start to get comfortable with some other kinds of weapons as well. The list goes on.

I smile and nod, and smile and nod, but I'm not really listening. All I'm thinking about is how much morphling my mother took today and if the academy will have a good selection of knives for me to train with.

My hand ran over the silky smooth metal of the knives. It feels like home. I grasped the handles of a few and threw one at a target. It flew through the air and cleanly hit the exact center. It just felt like instinct to me.

"Very impressive for a beginning student," said my trainer, a wiry man called Amis. "Clove, do you think you could add a spin to that?"

I replied by tossing my next knife with a flourish. It went the distance while revolving rapidly, then sharply hit the center of the target. I scoffed internally. Still targets were child's play. Well – a weak child.

"Alright," Amis began with a grin. "Let's see if you can hit a farther target. Aim for the 30 yard target – two knives, both with spins. That should be a challenge. Go!"

I grabbed two sharp-looking, medium-length knives and locked in on my target. My elbows and wrists automatically locked into ready position. I took a deep breath. Muscles contract. Hands let go. The first spiraled and hit the center full-on. The second followed and hit the first in the center of its handle.

I relaxed and looked back up at Amis with a grin. He wasn't looking at me. His gaze was to my left, and his mouth slightly was slightly agape. I followed his gaze.

Across the the other side of the room, a boy kicked and punched his padded-up trainer with palpable ferocity. He whirled around whilst taking a knife out his belt and beheaded a dummy, stabbed it, then wheeled around and flipped over his trainer. Immediately after, he lifted up an intimidating-looking weight and threw it a good couple of yards.

Freaking show-off. Clearly arrogant. A scowl quickly crossed my face. He's going to be a formidable opponent. I had always thought I would be the best at this academy, because of my knife-throwing skills, but I quickly started to doubt that. The first day, and I already felt like I needed to step up my game.

I sized him up. Very tall, at least a foot taller than me, and blonde. Strong and stocky build with muscular arms. Good strength and agility.

I was so focused that it was a few moments before I realized he had noticed my scowl and was looking back at me. My scowl deepened. I grabbed another knife and threw it at a rapidly moving target, and it hit the center. I turned my back to him and went over with Amis to the archery station, never giving the blonde boy another thought.

The academy's daily lunch break came around soon. I reluctantly picked out a ration of meat from the school's limited supplies. Even here in district 2, we didn't have much to go around. This was one of the more fortunate districts, where many victors hailed from. Most people here got by okay, but only just got by. Our district doesn't have as much to brag about as we do.

I placed my tray at table in the corner of the room, careful not sit at a table with anyone else sitting there. Not a problem, really, because no one ever sat next to anyone at this school. My father's advice rung again in my mind. Don't make friends. That's not what you're here for.

No problem. I didn't care about that stuff anyway. I picked at my plate, studying my fork as it punctured little holes into the meat. Just how all the other tributes' dead bodies will look like by the end of my games. I smiled.

I've never really ever had a 'friend' before, now that I thought about it. I wasn't even totally sure what one was. Back in public school, I was the girl who never talked to anyone. During breaks and my downtime there, all I did was sharpen sticks I found on rocks to a point, and throw them at birds in the courtyard. I had heard many girls squealing in disgust and many boys speculating on how all those birds just dropped dead. I recalled asking my father about 'friends', a year back, as a curious nine-year-old.

"Someone you can completely trust and be yourself around. Someone you can be silly and have fun with. Someone you care and love and will try to protect at all costs. But someone you can never have, Clove."

I wouldn't want that anyway. It would never happen.

I jumped at the sound of the tray against the metal table, even though it was relatively quiet. I looked in surprise and saw the muscular blonde boy sitting at my table on the chair farthest away for me. No one sits next to each other here. And there were plenty of empty tables. What was he doing?

He didn't even glance at me as he chopped his ration of steak into small pieces and began eating. He must have been pissed off at a small-framed, petite girl trying to upstage him in training, and decided to try to intimidate me. I sat tensed on the edge of my seat, waiting for him to look up and glare, or saying something threatening. I was ready, with an impressive knowledge of swears and insults on the tip of my tongue if necessary. But he didn't do anything but sit and eat his meal in silence.

Several minutes passed, I grew frustrated and made to go to another table when my stomach growled. I realized how hungry was, so I just sat down and began eating. I was almost finished when I casually looked up. He was looking at me. I searched his gaze, but saw no anger or hatred. He looked almost curious. I looked down at his plate to see it long empty, and looked around to see that we were the only two left in the lunch area. I got up and marched out.

"Students," Amis announced authoritatively, pacing back in forth in front of the gathering of students. "Or should I say, future tributes. Your first day of the semester has just concluded, the mark of the beginning of your journey. The journey to victory, fame, and riches. And bringing honor to your district. This is what is most important of all. Your victory will improve the lives of the whole district, as well as bring pride to the finest district of Panem. This is something you must keep in mind at all times."

I didn't understand much of what he said. To me, Amis' speech sounded mostly like fancy-sounding rambling. But I made out one thing for sure – that by taking this path, by becoming a tribute, I had the weight of the whole district on my shoulders.

"-so, I am often asked for tips by students. But above all instructions on how to wield knives and swords, the best, most concise piece of advice I can give you is this: Just win."

"I don't want to do this. I don't want to go back to school." I bit my lip nervously as I looked up at my parents, sitting on the chairs opposite me in the bedroom.

"Clove?" The question the monosyllable posed was obvious.

"Too much. Too hard. I can't do it. Dad, I like throwing knives. I want all the other tributes to die. But there are people at the academy better than me. I won't win."

My father came over to my side and placed his hands carefully on my shoulders.

"Listen to me," he said slowly and sternly. "You will go back to that school everyday and train as much as you can. You won't give up. Ever. When the time comes, you will volunteer for the games and win. If you don't, you are a huge disappointment. We don't want that, do we?"

"No."

"Good. Now, is this settled, once and for all?"

At this, I hesitated. "..No." Barely more than a whisper. It felt odd – the first time I had ever defied my father.

"Clove!" My father practically radiated with anger. "You do not contradict me! You will win the Hunger Games and make something out of this family!" He grabbed a bowl near my bedside and threw it against the wall, shattering it into a million pieces. I gaped and stayed frozen.

"Answer me, fucking damn it!"

I couldn't even move, apart from shaking in fear. He pushed me against the wall, his brawny elbow pushing against my throat. I started to gasp for air. He responded by pushing his elbow in further. I could not fight him. I didn't have it in me. I only had barely enough air to gasp one word.

"Mama."

I looked straight at her from across the room, hoping she'd do something, anything. Her eyes met mine momentarily, then looked away, her face indecipherable.

"Answer me."

I hastily nodded once, and his elbow dropped. I crawled onto my bed and sat there, panting. My mother left and my father followed her. My eyes were watery and I reached up to brush away a forming tear. My father stopped in the doorway and turned around.

"Don't do that. Crying is for weaklings in outline districts, who get killed first day." And with that he was gone.

I reached to the table by my bedside, opened the drawer and pulled out a knife. I briefly examined it, seeing how the dim light reflected off it. I threw it against the wall with enough force that the wall vibrated.

"Just win, Clove," I murmured to myself.