Disclaimer: Suzanne Collins owns Hunger Games and I (unfortunately) make no profit from this *shrugs*
Summary: There is no Capitol, but The Hunger Games still exist. Each district allows up to one champion a year to compete in a series of broadcasted tasks. The Victor wins riches and fame, but some Districts have extra incentives. (OR: the one where Cato wins, and Clove is his prize)
A Monster's Prize & A Victor's Mask
Chapter 1:
how to capture a prize
Maceria Steinn had been wholly content to lounge away the warm afternoon on her patio, with sangrias and margaritas chasing each other down her throat. So, how did she end up off her chaise, and instead in her air-conditioned parlor with tanning oil plating her skin to her silk house robe? Why is she half standing and half freezing in front of unwanted visitors?
The answer is making annoying muffled protests on her venetian floor.
In front of Maceria, her son's malicious minions have chained down an infamous battered young woman. Maceria notes blood oozing from various wounds on the little heathen who is being forced to her knees, and so gestures to the nearest servant to do something about it before stray cruor ruins her imported tiles. The attendant scurries away to acquire a towel, and she is reminded of the stuttering servant boy from earlier who had hesitantly interrupted her blissfully relaxed, pleasantly buzzed state with a "M-my lady, y-you've guests."
She should have ignored the blundering boy.
Speaking of blundering boys, Marvel, her son's sandy-haired best friend, shakes the metal chains leashing down the girl. The bound brat snarls behind the cloth wrapped around her mouth. The girl then turns her unattractive scowl towards Maceria, who is curious about this girl who she's heard so much about over the years and yet never deigned to see.
'Your eyes are the colour of dirt,' Maceria thinks derisively. 'How very fitting, given where you come from'.
Upon further inspection, there is a glassy glaze tinging the girl's angry eyes. Suddenly, Maceria understands how such a usually incompetent band of boys were able to subdue their prey. They would have returned worse than a little banged up had they not resorted to drugging the girl.
In truth, Maceria is irritated that she was interrupted for this farce. She wants nothing more than to return to her vodka and veranda. So she pastes on a practiced smile, and invites (commands) the de facto leader of the group to speak. "Marvel," she begins in a tone too saccharine, "I believe you boys were aware that she should be delivered to my son's newly won home, not mine."
Marvel, the only one of her son's nauseatingly sycophantic followers that she can sometimes tolerate (mostly just because he's so nice to look at), has the good sense to appear chastised as he responds. "We couldn't get into his new house yet… since… well… since he hasn't technically won yet." As if to avoid offense, he rushes to add on, "even though we all know he will win, obviously, but still... so we don't know where to keep her for him. After he took down that District 9 dude, the only one who was any actual competition, we knew she was going to run if we didn't, well, stop her... and, well, he told us to… he told us to make sure she didn't run."
Maceria nods patiently at Marvel' babbling, keeping her expression placid. It is a good thing the boy has his looks and body, since he is clearly lacking in the head. He's quite lucky the little hellion didn't damage his pretty face (by his limp, it looks like only his leg was a casualty of her defiance). Speaking of, Maceria turns her appraising eyes back to the girl.
'Passably pretty', she concludes from what little she can appreciate behind the dried sweat, strands of blood, and layer of grime. The girl has a misleadingly delicate face with fine cheek bones and big eyes, but she looks shorter than expected. Moreover, the girl is wrapped up thoroughly in chains and rope (just like she imagines offerings to gods once were). So much so, that Maceria can't make out the girl's form. 'You must be fit and strong, given what I've heard of your… reputation from the Training Centre.'
Maceria wonders if that is the appeal of the girl to her brutally beautiful son: the challenge of taming the knife-throwing hellion with an angelic face, crude tongue, and skilled hands. In time with her thoughts, the girl twists in a manner that is almost successful at loosening the group's hold on the restraints, but one of her son's lackeys (the one with horrifically orange hair, a newly bruised neck, and recent black eye) tightens the chain that he holds and jeers something at his prisoner.
'I wonder if I should switch over to red instead of white for my next sangria.' The higher ethanol concentration beckons her, and momentarily distracts her, so she doesn't hear exactly what the nameless lackey sneers to their petulant prisoner. It was likely quite lurid, given both the fool's leer at the girl's body and Marvel's horrified expression. The latter is clearly shocked of the other boy's crassness in front of the woman who is not only Cato's mother but the Mayor's daughter. Marvel chastises the graceless lackey accordingly ("You idiot, you can't say things like that in front of the Mayor's daughter. Are you entirely classless? Don't you–").
Maceria has had enough. She grows more and more exasperated at the idiocy of the fools her son surrounds himself with, and cuts off Marvel's reprimand. "You may deposit her in one of the guest rooms in my West Wing for now." She concedes. "Lead them to it," she instructs to the same servant boy who had dared disturb her afternoon. He nods repeatedly, eager to please her, and begins to guide the group away. She figures Marvel's attempt at grace (and pleasingly tight shirt) earns them the warning that she tosses over her shoulder on her way back to her haven. "Boys, do be careful about leaving any visible marks, Cato will be… quite wroth if his prize is damaged."
She continues walking towards her afternoon plans. She doesn't need to be facing the boys to know that cold claws up their spines at the thought of her son's wrath. She hears the girl, Clove, being forcibly dragged towards the stairs leading to the second floor of the West Wing. Maceria wonders how long it will take for Cato to destroy the wretch. She wonders what her son has planned for his little obsession, and her stomach inadvertently rolls when she recalls just how… creative Cato has been with the girl in the past.
'Red.' She decides, wondering why she even bothered with white in the first place.
{ Maceria: rubble, debris, ruins }
End of Chapter 1
Review pretty please :) What do you think of Maceria? Why do you think I chose that name for Cato's mother? What do think of the writing, grammar, plot pace, dialogue, etc?
Preview of Chapter 2: how to breed monsters
Cato isn't really her son anymore anyways. He's the son her mother never gave her father.
...
"There are plenty of ways to break little girls, Cato. Explore your options."
...
(she bred a monster, she isn't surprised)
...
Tywin laments over the creature in front of him... and wonders how much of his grandson's cruelty was born from his own relentless training of the boy, versus how much was due to his daughter's indifference... It is cruelty that is unmatched; he remembers every detail of the gory report given by ... of what horrors the boy was capable of at just 15 years old (of what he did to the girl he now wants to own).
AN: So this story has been sitting half finished on my computer for a long time, and I've decided to try to attempt to get this out. For fans of my other fics, I apologize for chasing plot bunnies instead of finishing my other stories that have been uncompleted for far too long (*authors hides behind her hands*). But, hopefully, some of you are Clato fans and will not be too upset? *sweat drops*