The Heat Of The Sun

by imaginotaur

Cato is the Victor of the 74th Annual Hunger Games. Clove has strange dreams about the sun scourging and reaping the Earth. They're forced together by tradition and learn things about themselves, each other, and the country they live in that drastically alter their loyalties and where they lie.

1. Prologue

Disclaimer; I don't own The Hunger Games or any of the characters.

Prologue;

Clove had never been a sensitive person.

She didn't care when her Grandmother died. The old woman never uttered a word toward her. She didn't care when her tree house was burnt to the ground, she didn't need it anyway. She didn't care when her Father broke his arm; it would heal. She didn't care about much, and not many people cared for her.

Clove was a tiny little wisp of a girl, a very pretty girl with pretty black hair and pretty brown eyes and pretty freckles, but she was cold. She had always been cold, and she planned on being that way for the rest of her life. The only person who could warm her icy chocolate eyes was Herb, and he was gone. Maybe her brother's death was the reason she distanced herself from everyone, so she could be alone in her sorrow. Maybe she'd found that she liked isolation. Maybe she found it easy.

She wasn't surprised when Brennan Farrow's name was called at the reaping. Neither was she surprised when Cato Vechi had stepped up as volunteer. He wanted the fame and the glory, the honor. She didn't think it was likely he'd get what he wanted; she thought he was going to die. But she didn't care, she didn't have reason to.

It had been easy for her to walk home. It had been extremely easy to watch the interviews, just as easy as it was for her to see that Cato had gotten a ten for his training session. He'd be popular; he was handsome and big and intimidating and strong. He was also extremely intelligent, she knew that, but he didn't seem to want to advertise it. He looked menacing to her. Maybe he had a chance.

It was easy for her to watch them all standing in the cornucopia, all twenty four tributes, stiff and scared, before the time was up and they'd have to run. Cato looked cool and collected; he had a plan. But Ronny, the girl from two that she'd grown up with and gone to school with, looked frightened and lost. The gong had sounded and they were off, but she found her eyes flick back to Cato, who had been running for a spear and a back pack; who had then turned around, stuck someone in the stomach, and ran.

It was easy for her to watch as the days passed by in the arena. It was hard for her to watch Ronny die, but none of the other deaths affected her, because Cato wasn't dead; he was alive and well, strangely enough, and stayed that way. It was strange for her to watch Cato climb to the top, it seemed surreal. He was going to win, it was clear.

So when Clove's eyes were trained on the screen, trained on the fight between Cato and a large, dark boy, trained on the jabs and blocks, she hadn't been surprised.

She wasn't surprised when Cato's spear plunged through the boy's chest, and she wasn't surprised when he was crowned Victor. She wasn't surprised, wasn't affected; she didn't care.