Author: ramenpandaa
Fandom: The Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins
Story Title: "Broken"
Character/Relationships: Most of the characters involved in the first novel. Cato/Clove.
Rating: T
Warnings: Spoilers for the first book. Violence, minor bad language, death. Classic Hunger Games stuff.
Wordcount: 2,393 (whole story)
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. All characters, settings, and proprietary language are owned by the author of the work from which this is derived.
INCIPIT (Clove)
Clove still remembers the day she learned Cato's name.
It was her eighth birthday.
A Saturday.
She was dressed in her favorite outfit- a soft green halter top dotted with sky-blue flower, midnight-blue jean capris, comfy black sneakers scuffed from four years' worth of wear and tear.
Her family wasn't rich by any means.
Her mother, Esmeralda, was a morphling addict, unable to cope with reality after her sister and best friend were both slaughtered mercilessly in the second quarter quell.
Her father, Oberon, was worn down by years of hard work supporting his wife's drug habit and the mouths he had to feed.
Clove had five siblings.
Had.
Eleanor. Disappeared 52 N.E. Eight.
Ondrew. Disappeared 54 N.E. Seven.
Percey. Disappeared 57 N.E. Nine.
Irina. Disappeared 59 N.E. Eight.
Vincent. Disappeared 62 N.E. Nine.
Her father would leave with a child and return with vials of clear, swirling liquid.
So when Clove's seventh birthday comes around, 63 N.E, she's scared.
Her mother lies in bed, unspeaking, eyes glazed, a yellow pallor to her skin.
Her father goes out for the day.
He's dressed oddly, in a shiny silk top hat and his best breeches and a white button-up shirt and a midnight-blue tie Clove never knew he had.
Clove watches him patter down the dirt road out of their tiny house until he's out of sight.
She goes to her mother's bedside and sits down on a rickety wooden stool.
Clasping her mother's wrinkled, veined hands within her own, she begins to speak, weaving tapestries of romance, fantasy, intrigue, bold princes and beautiful princesses, evil witches and terrifying monsters, true love, jealousy, sacrifice, everything and anything she can imagine.
The sun is setting, spreading its fire across the mountains as her father comes home.
His hat is a bit crooked, his shirt creased, his pants and shoes dusty brown and black. He's carrying his customary cardboard box in his arms, which he deposits by Esmeralda's beside.
Oberon smiles sadly at Clove before walking straight to his room, closing the splintered, rough wooden door slowly, gently.
Clove rises, stretching out the kinks in her legs and arms, yawning. As she leaves the bed, she swears she can see a single glistening tear on her mother's cheek.
Her eighth birthday isn't quite the same.
Esmeralda still lies on her cot, unresponsive, immobile, eyes unfocused, drifting in a hazy somewhere between dreaming and reality.
But this time, when her father goes out in his top hat and nice breeches and button down shirt and midnight-blue tie, Clove comes along.
Her father told her that they were going somewhere important and that she should dress nicely, that she would want to make a good impression.
So this time Clove does not look out the window as her father walks the path out of the Shell.
She does not spend time with her secret stash of books she found in the basement or tell stories to her mother.
Instead, she walks with her father down the battered path, past the shacks and houses and mansions, past the shops of the square, past the smoking, greasy factories of the industrial district.
And suddenly everything becomes clear.
Clove screams and tries to run, her heart pounding.
Then everything melts into darkness.
When Clove wakes up, she's in a small rectangular room with no windows and single door, faintly etched, with no handle.
A small black band is wrapped around her left bicep, and she follows its wire to a single, large machine with a small green line moving up and down across the screen.
The door opens slowly and a man steps in.
He has glittering black eyes, a thin, malicious smile, thick bushy eyebrows that give him the semblance of constant plotting, thinking, conspiring.
Before Clove can speak, he swiftly tears off her armband, grabs her by the arms, and drags her out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
They make their way through countless corridors, twisting and turning until Clove's head begins to hurt.
Suddenly the man stops at seemingly random door in a long hallway that stretches indefinitely to the left and right. It bears a single word on a brass nameplate: Incipit.
Clove knows the word from her hours of poring over stolen, hidden, books late into the night. It begins.
The man pulls the door open, pushes Clove in, and slams the door right behind her.
Clove looks around cautiously. Four velvet couches are arranged in a square shape, facing inwards. Three people are seated already, and Clove slides, almost awkwardly, into the fourth one.
She looks around.
To her left is a boy about her age, short and scrawny, with tousled ebony hair and bottomless black eyes. Apathetic, weak, and reckless.
Directly facing her is a girl, tall and rather muscular, with long blonde hair tied in a braid down the side and fierce green eyes. Insecure, frightened, desperate.
To her right is another boy, a veritable giant, spiky dirty blond hair and-
His clear blue eyes with tiny flecks of green and gold set Clove reeling in shock.
She knows those eyes.
Clove trudges slowly through the square, her feet dragging on the smooth gray stones. She pulls her torn rag of a jacket closer around her body as the rain falls in sheets, drenching her hair, her clothes, her shoes, masking the tears slowly falling from her eyes.
She can't go home. She was supposed to find something useful to bring home. Food, or money, or something. Papa had taught her some tricks, but she didn't want to use them. They didn't feel right.
Papa would beat her for sure if she went home empty-handed.
He would call her weak, useless, pathetic. A poor excuse for a human being.
But wasn't she a better human being than him if she refused to steal, cheat, lie, plunder?
Clove pulls her useless jacket even closer, shivering as the cold raindrops fall steadily against her, streaks of ice across her skin. The light patter as the drops strike the pavement is soft and rhythmical, calming almost. Clove begins to stumble across the square, fatigued, helpless.
The opening of a large metal door catches her eye as a soft light emanates from it, juxtaposing the almost tangible gray that smothers the surrounding landscape. Her hopes fall quickly when she realizes what building it is.
It's the training gym.
A small boy walks out, a training bag slung over his shoulder. He shuts the door carefully, pops open an umbrella, and begins navigating his way through the maze of ever-deepening puddles dotting the plaza.
Clove slumps down heavily against a tree.
She may as well not go home. What is waiting for here there? An estranged, unresponsive mother as good as dead. A violent, hot-tempered, father stretched to the breaking point. A sociopathic, destructive older brother.
Clove closes her eyes and lets the tears flow, leaning back against the tree, losing herself in memories.
Suddenly she feels something dabbing against her cheek. She jolts back to consciousness, eyes wide in fright.
A pair of clear blue eyes, flecked with gold and green, full of concern, meets hers. The boy she just saw leaving the training gym grins and wipes away her tears with a clean white towel.
"You'll be alright," he whispers softly. He drops a paper sack into Clove's lap before taking off his own jacket and handing it to her.
She stares back at him, surprised into muteness. He smiles sadly at her before standing up, turning, and walking away, deep into the gloom.
Clove quickly pulls his jacket around her. It is some stretchy, warm fabric, smelling of wet grass and spring, comforting. She peers into the sack, which is full of food.
Clove looks in the direction the boy went. She sees nothing but shifting gray and dark branches reaching out like clawing hands. And secretly, she lifts three fingers to her lips and into the air.
A/N: Blehhh, not much better than the first one. How is it?
Yes, I kind of paralleled Clove/Cato's story with Katniss/Peeta's. And Madge's.
The training gym is a public one where people think they can go to practice to get picked. The real training center is on the outskirts and only authorized, selected candidates are allowed in.
The story will alternate Clove and Cato's POV.
Review please! :D