Cato wakes up in a cold sweat, grabbing his knife from under his pillow. Even though he doesn't need it at the moment, the feel of its handle comforts him, so he traces the rivets with his fingers until he can picture the pattern: his name with a four leaf clover around it. Eventually, his heartbeat slows along with his breathing, just as the light of dawn rises on his face.
Today is the Reaping.
With a grunt, Cato shuffles out of bed and runs himself a bath. He makes sure to take his time as he scrubs his hair and body clean, knowing that he has to impress all of Panem today. After drying off, he puts on the stiff suit his father has laid out on his bed for him, trying not to feel uncomfortable. He can't afford to look anything but confident and deadly. In the mirror he sees the hardened warrior six years of training have shaped. Today is the day it all pays off.
"There's my victor," his father announces as he walks into Cato's room. He pats his son on the shoulder, intentionally gripping the flesh a bit too hard. Cato forces a smile through the pain, knowing that any sign of weakness will not be tolerated.
"Today I'm merely a tribute," Cato remarks, realizing instantly that he has said the wrong thing. His father's grip grows tighter.
"With an attitude like that, that's all you'll ever be." His father's voice is gruff and low, like someone plucking a guitar string with gravel. Cato nods, meeting his father's eyes in the mirror. Two pairs stare, one a clouded, murky hazel, the other a clear, innocent blue, expressing the same sentiment: no mercy, no failure, only victory.
"We're going to the market before the ceremony," his father tells him. Then he leaves the room, and Cato understands that he must be downstairs and ready to go in five minutes.
When they get to the market, his father holds him by the elbow, whispering in his ear, "Stand straight and don't embarrass me." Cato once again nods, obeying his commander.
"Jonas!" a woman calls from her stand, and Cato's father goes over to her with a smile. Cato watches as his father warmly greets the woman. She is probably thanking him for his efforts in the Districts as almost everyone does. His father is the Head Commander for District Two, has been for three years ever since he finished his tour as a Peacekeeper for the Districts. Besides being a Victor, it is the highest honor one can achieve. Cato himself used to dream of following in his father's footsteps, before he was put into the Tribute Training Program. Now he loathes the title.
"Cato," a voice shouts, and it's the only sound in the world that can get him to stop worrying about his father. Cato turns to the source but it seems there's no one there. He grins knowing that this is a game, and he walks towards the voice. Suddenly, he's pulled into an alcove created between two carts and the building behind it.
"Good boy," Clove says, still gripping his shirt tightly where she grabbed him. Their bodies become squished together in the small space, a fact neither of them minds. She looks up at him through her eyelashes and flashes a smile, her smile.
Clove isn't pretty when she smiles. Her lips raise devilishly and her dark eyes gleam. A small dimple appears on her right cheek just below a lone freckle. White, perfectly polished teeth clamp together in a tight line. Sometimes, it seems a bit too rehearsed, other times it's as wild as can be. No, there is nothing pretty or cute about her smile. It's the kind of smile that inspires fear. And she's more than pretty when it takes over her face.
She is beautiful.
"You made it too easy," Cato claims, his hands finding their way to her waist. "Took all the fun out of it." Clove just laughs, a sly grin on her face.
"Then I guess we'll have to find another way to have fun," she suggests, her lips grazing his. He leans into her, both of them still smiling widely. Cato kisses her with everything in him, attempting to leave a part of himself with her. They are rough with each other, neither of them holding on to some soft, romantic belief that the other is fragile or breakable. He loves her because she is fierce and strong and invincible, and she loves him for all the same things. Cato's hands travel down the length of her, feeling the curve of her hips beneath his thumbs. Her lips trace his jaw and his neck, her hands balled in his shirt. For a while, there is nothing but her and them and this small alcove between the buildings that has momentarily become their own little world.
After a few minutes of this, they break apart, knowing that Cato's father will be looking for him soon. Cato goes to leave but Clove grabs his arm roughly.
"There is fear in your eyes," she tells him. He opens his mouth to protest but she cuts him off. "Just don't let them see." Her tone is hard as stone. He thrusts his arm out of her grip.
"I fear nothing," he declares. Clove's eyes melt for a moment, they way they do only with him.
"I almost believe you," she says, her hand caressing his cheek. He closes his eyes and leans into her touch for just a second, and then she's gone, her scent lingering in her wake. Cato straightens his suit and goes to find his father.
"Cato!" his father exclaims. "I've been looking for you everywhere." There is a solemn look on his face that Cato doesn't usually associate with his father.
"What is it?" he asks.
"Ketsia," his father responds. "She's dead." In those two words, Cato's world falls apart. He shakes his head, unable to mask his distress.
Ketsia is, or was, the female tribute in line for this year's Reaping. She was to be Cato's partner in the Games. They've trained together for years, but both of them always knew they would kill each other when the time came, so that's not the cause of his worry: Clove is. She's tied for next in line, a gap she was sure to surpass in the following year. That was their plan: Cato wins this year, she wins next year, and they get to live happily as Victors for the rest of their days. Ketsia was never supposed to die before the Games.
"I know it is concerning news," his father says, misreading Cato's worry. "They are still unsure of the cause, though I doubt it matters now." His father continues talking, something about Ketsia killing herself or another Games hopeful paying someone to do the job. But Cato isn't listening; all he can think is Clove. Blood drums in his ears, his brain working overtime to figure it all out.
For years, Clove has been purposefully tied with Raven, a girl their same age with amazing sword and combat skills. She's big, tall and buff, but not nearly as strategic or cunning as Clove. Still, Clove has carefully kept from outperforming her in order to maintain her spot in next year's games. Especially because it is to be a Quarter Quell, and the honor of victory would be enormous. But with Ketsia dead, the spot will go to the next in line, and Cato is unsure of what will happen.
Clove cannot back out: to do so would be to forfeit her volunteer spot, which would mean that she would never get her chance at the Games. But more than that, it would bring shame upon her family. Unspeakable shame. She would be marked a coward, shunned by her family and the whole community. Cato can't remember the last time someone refused to volunteer after training. He's heard only whispers and rumors, like ghost stories shared around a campfire. That's how rare it is, how unfathomable.
"Either way, you'll come out victorious, my boy," his father finishes, and Cato flashes a hard smile, trying to show his father his iron will. But part of him knows it was a lie, knows that his will is not iron but ice. Surrounded by this cold world, it will not soften or bend. Yet it will melt for Clove. Clove, who is fire in every sense of the word: bright, hot, and merciless. Fire is a double edged sword: it has the power to give life and to take it.
A horn sounds from the District Hall, but there are still hours until the Reaping is set to begin. Cato looks around and sees that everyone else is just as confused as he is, even his father. The horn blows again and Cato knows that all District residents must drop their activities and gather in the square. Cato has a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something big is happening.
And Cato's certain that it's not good.
Clove hears strange whispers as she walks towards District Hall, and she reflexively reaches for her knife. As soon as her hand is on the hilt, she feels better, more at peace. Anyone else might mock her for it or get defensive, but Cato would understand. Cato always understands.
The crowd gathered in the square is large already when Clove arrives, but fifteen minutes later, when the Head Peacekeeper of the the District steps up to the microphone, the crowd is suffocating. Clove, who is short by District 2 standards, pushes her way through the mass of people until she can see the stage. She's never heard of them calling a District Gathering on Reaping Day. This must be important.
"As some of you might already know, a young woman was found dead in her home this morning," the Peacekeeper states. "She has been identified as Ketsia Limrock." Murmurs ripple through the crowd, gasps of delight and horror heard in equal measure. "Though it was originally presumed to be a suicide, new evidence has presented itself." He pauses, shifting his papers. "We now know that her life was taken by a fellow Tribute hopeful who wished to gain a spot in this or next year's Games. Ketsia was murdered by Raven Scarbord." The doors behind him open and two other Peacekeepers drag the beaten, bloody murderer between them. She has blood dripping from her mouth and nose, it's drops creating a puddle on the steps below her. Raven is intense, sure, but Clove never thought she was this stupid. Doing it is one thing, but getting caught is what truly makes her an idiot.
"The Hunger Games are a sacred and honorable tradition," he continues. "To become a Victor in this way dishonors the Games, the Capital, and this District. Therefore, Raven Scarbord will be sentenced to death, and she will forfeit her spot among the Tributes." The crowd howled and roared, some cheering for her demise, some spitting at her in disgust. Dishonor is no laughing matter in this District, and many people thought of it as a higher calling than their own selves. Despite this, Clove can think only of herself in this moment, can think only of Cato and the Reaping and the Games.
"The execution will take place tomorrow after the Reaping had been properly celebrated and the Tributes sent off. Let this be a lesson to anyone naive enough to believe a plan like this will work. I promise you it will not. And you will pay." The Peacekeeper folds up his paper and signals to the others. "Good luck to our District in the 74th Hunger Games." He pauses, smiling a grim sort of smile, his eyes empty like always. "May the odds be ever in your favor."