"Clove," I yell. "Oh, what sort of trouble has that blasted girl gotten into?" I mutter under my breath.
Now, you may be thinking I've gone soft. Letting myself go off and yell after a girl. Like I cared about her. As if I wanted her to come back.
Allow me to point out to you the fact that I'm trapped in an arena. An arena where I have to kill to come out. Not only kill; kill humans. People. In all reality, I have to kill children. It is what I've been trained for most of my life, after all.
But that is beside the point. In fact, you probably already guessed that. And you're probably still wondering why I'm calling after a girl.
Well, you see, it's not quite that easy. As in, I can't tell you. I could explain it, I suppose. Yes, you know what, we'll do that.
A long time ago, as in seventy-five years ago, there were thirteen happy, healthy districts, ruled by the shining capitol. In this wonderful world, no one wanted for anything. People were fed, cared for and given shelter. Everyone, especially the hard-working men and women in the districts were happy, and no one was sick, hungry or homeless.
Bullshit.
The people of the districts were in pretty poor shape. They worked to the bone, every single day, and supplied the Capitol with everything they needed. They never complained, and never acted bitter about it.
Until the uprising. The districts rose against the capitol, in a shining moment of absolute independence.
They were promptly squashed like bugs.
Now, there are twelve districts, and every year they each have to send in two tributes, a male and a female, so that the Capitol can hold the yearly Hunger Games, a fight to the death between children. Twenty-four go in, one comes out. In my district, two, it's considered a great honor to be chosen, or to volunteer. An even greater one to be the sole survivor: a rule that hasn't been broken in the whole seventy-five years of the games.
Except this year. Two tributes, provided they are from the same district, may win.
Which, in effect, is why I'm here. Now. Running after a girl in an arena.
Hoping I can bring both of us back alive.
When she doesn't respond to my first yell, I yell again, this time louder and more desperate; "Clove!"
"Cato!" I hear. "Cat-" Her voice is cut off, and immediately I know she's in trouble. I will my legs to move faster towards her voice, and towards the golden Cornucopia, giving off a faint light. I can only move so fast, though, and by the time I reach her it's too late. Eleven and twelve are gone; taking their backpacks, and mine, too. And Clove... Clove is on the ground right next to the cornucopia. Blood is pooling around her, more joining it on the ground, spilling from the open wound in her head. It's bloody, and messy, and exactly the kind of thing I've been trained to stomach. For some reason, my head can barely take it right now, though, and dizziness washes over me at the sight of her hair, matted and sticky, so different from the perfectly brushed long strands of earlier that month.
"Clove," I say again, this time a whisper. "What happened?" I ask of the last few breaths of life in her. It's obvious she won't make it, but I can't help but try and save her.
In truth, it's just the sappy thing I shouldn't be doing right now. Stuck in a perpetual fight to the death, right? Instead of getting out of here, however, my head is stuck on making sure she gets out of here, too.
Preferably not in a body bag.
"Twelve... I had her. Then Eleven came... he said I killed her. The little girl. I didn't. You know so. Marvel wasn't even in our alliance any more. But he took me anyway. He hit me with a rock. Cato... there's so much blood," she chokes out. With every twitch of a muscle, blood rolls away from her arteries faster and faster, and I try and keep her still by reassuring her.
"I know. I know. It'll be all right," I say quickly, hoping to save her yet.
"No. It won't be; I know I'm dying, Cato," she whispers with a small smile. "Come here." She motions for me to lean closer to her face. I comply-for her.
With what must have been extreme pain, she lifts her head and kisses me gently. "I wanted to do that. Just once." She lets out a convulsing sound. "Cato. Win. You know you can. Now-" And she's gone. Little Clove: age sixteen. My district partner.
My parents tell me I never cried. I haven't ever cried that I remember, anyways. But for her, for Clove, I allow myself one choked sob before I regain my composure. "Of course. Always," I whisper, and plant one last kiss on her forehead before taking some of her knives and some food that was on her before running off to kill Eleven. Thresh. Put a name to the face that killed her. Oh, yes, sometimes revenge is not for the best, but this time it will be bittersweet.
"For you, Clove."
I smile.