A/N - So, hello there! This is my first Hunger Games fic and it came about from Cato just getting stuck in my head. I blame Alexander's adorableness and his portrayal. Any rates/reviews would be much appreciated! I know the name isn't very original but I couldn't think of anything better at the time. Well, on to the fic. Note that there will be mostly friendshipping and maybe a tinybit of Glimmer/Cato in here. Creative licenses have taken for some things, however for now this will mostly follow canon.
Well, on to the story!
"Hey," I say as I toss my shoulder bag on the floor. My mother gives me a stern look, but her blue eyes quickly soften. She's weak.
"If you could take that to your room, it would be much obliged." She tells me, gesturing to my bag. "Your reaping clothes are on your bed." I grunt in affirmation, pick up my gym bag and make my way upstairs before she says anything else pathetic.
My room isn't too decorated; there's a small, worn wooden desk and chair in the corner, a punching bag hanging by my bed and a few notes stuck to the walls. Every District 2 victor to date has their own poster with notes on their arenas, kill counts and fighting styles. I made them when I was eight and have been updating them ever since, although I've only had to add one since then; a guy called Caius won his Games when I was ten. Leaning my gym bag against my desk, I decide to go to the bathroom to clean up for today. I've got to look good for the cameras, after all.
I try and recount the previous seven years while I'm in the shower. District 1 has had three victors since then, in the 71st and 72nd Hunger Games, the siblings Cashmere and Gloss De Montfort won back to back and got catapulted into stardom, and before them Ermine Trim manipulated her pack into doing all the dirty work and getting themselves killed in the 67th Games. District 4 has had one, Annie Cresta, victor of the 70th Games. Everyone thought that she had lost her mind in the arena, but the Capitol later revealed that she had long-standing mental issues since she was a kid. Johanna Mason from District 7 surprised pretty much everyone by winning the 68th Games at age fifteen through deceit and the others were pretty unremarkable, I recall, but again won by non-elite districts. The point is, District 2 needs a victor. District 2 needs me. Our honor depends on it.
It's not like I will be unprepared for the arena. For the past eight years I've been taking part in a brutal training regimen focused on building speed, strength, endurance and the necessary fighting skills to win the annual televised fight to the death. Having turned eighteen a month ago, this year is my last chance to assure fame and glory for the warriors of District 2.
Drying myself off with a towel, I know that no one will be surprised when I volunteer as tribute to take the place of whoever gets picked instead. In fact, people will be expecting it. I've been the top of my class at the Gladiator's Institute for the past four years. I am signed up for tesserae, so my name is already in there eighteen times - once for each member of my family. Even so, the odds aren't exactly in my favor. Pretty much everyone I know is signed up for tesserae. Not that it matters, I remind myself.
Back in my bedroom, my eyes quickly spot my clothes. A white shirt, and matching pants. Polished shoes. Shrugging into the snug fitting top, I suppose I'll make a good impression.
Once I'm dressed and ready, I go back downstairs, where my mother's sat on the sofa reading today's Panem Express.
"See you soon," I tell her, knowing that each tribute gets an hour to spend with their friends and family to say their goodbyes. I don't wait to hear her response before walking out the front door.
The walk to the District's town square isn't a very long one, I just keep in the shadow of the Nut, a large mountainous base for the Peacekeepers, the force of justice and protection of Panem. Of course, officially the military and weapons development is not District 2's prime industry, instead we're referred to as being responsible for masonry and the trades. Even so, many of the Peacekeepers in Panem are recruited from District 2, my father among them, as a symbol of our unwavering loyalty and dedication to the Capitol, being among the first to defect during the rebellion seventy five years ago. I hate taking orders, and I was never going to spend the rest of my life in a cave, so naturally being a victor in the Hunger Games was the perfect career prospect for me.
Joining the growing queues for our registration for the reaping, when the tributes of this year's Hunger Games are revealed, I find myself shaking in anticipation. When it's my turn to be registered, I don't feel the small cut on my skin, I'm unaware of the smear of blood on the form.
Standing in the square, I notice the mentors for this year are already sat on stage. Lyme, who won the 47th Games, and Brutus, who won the 52nd. Despite both being in their 40s, they have both clearly been taking care of themselves. I recall Brutus' technique with a sword fondly, having altered a few of his moves and weaving them into my own sword fighting.
I cross my arms and wait as the town square fills quickly, everyone having a look of wild eagerness about them. Nobody worries, unlike in the outer districts, where there's always sniveling kids and wailing mothers. You'd think they would have learned by now that training is the safest way to assure your safety from the Capitol. Idiots, the lot of them, I think to myself, a smirk creeping up the side of my mouth as District 2's escort takes the stage.
Tasia Blitz smiles as she struts towards the podium at the center of the elevated stage, managing not to trip on her ridiculously high heels this year, unfortunately, her green curls bouncing with every step. Tasia was an extremely lucky escort, only six years into her career and already in one of the more prosperous districts. She started out in District 7 the year Johanna Mason became a victor, and was instantly promoted.
"Welcome, everybody," she begins, her voice curdling my stomach like oversweet honey. "and happy Hunger Games! Hasn't this year just gone by so fast?"
Silence. While District 2 respects the Capitol's power and authority, we are just as fascinated by their strange culture as everyone else in Panem.
"I know, I know, it's wonderful to be back in sunny District 2!" she grins like a Cheshire cat. It's cloudy.
Clearing her throat, she continues. "So, the time has come once more to select one brave young man and woman for the honor of representing District 2 in the 74th annual Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favor!"
I suppress the urge to cover my face with a palm, she's missed the video out. Every year on reaping day, the Districts are reminded why the legacy of the Hunger Games continues, and showcases the eternal might of Panem. How we survived when the rest of the world died around us.
Tasia clears her throat and pouts, one hand on her hidden earpiece. "But first, it's time for my favorite history lesson!" she corrects herself. There are a couple of stifled laughs behind me, but I stay still as a statue.
The old video plays behind her, in color and high quality, unlike in the outlying districts, I recall from previous reaping recaps. It explains how nuclear war obliterated the human populace, rendering most of the world uninhabitable. It shows floods, earthquakes, all sorts of natural disasters. And then, Panem rises. Resolute in the face of adversity, humanity survives. The collective districts are created and separated to avoid another such war, and all is well.
Until the Dark Days, of course. Thirteen districts rise against the Capitol in rebellion, twelve survive. The Hunger Games serves as an ongoing chance for repentance for the district's sins, showing the Capitol's mercy and generosity. Victors return heroes, having earned supplies and glory for their district. It is a time of sacrifice and celebration. The video fades out.
"Isn't it just so fascinating?" Tasia's voice snaps me back to reality. "You know, it's always such a droll affair having the same routine," she says melodramatically. "I say we change things up a bit." her overdone eyes wink conspiratorially. I feel a knot form in my stomach, wondering what exactly she has up her tailored sleeve.
"Gentlemen first!" she practically squeals, as though she is saying something ground-breakingly revolutionary. I roll my eyes in exasperation, but nevertheless I can feel my pulse quickening. The moment I have been waiting for my entire life is within reach, and it's like I'm twelve years old all over again.
Strutting to a large glass dome full to the brim with small paper slips, she rummages wildly, several slips spilling out over the top. After a random selection, her long green nails, painted like a peacock's tail, pincer a small slip in her hands. My palms sweat, I feel pumped past the point of nausea.
It's now or never, I think as she unfolds the slip, raising her eyebrows in amusement. "Nero Ga-"
"I volunteer as tribute!" my voice booms as I interrupt the escort. Those standing around me stand back, clearing a path to the stage, respect and admiration etched on their faces. I recognize a couple of kids from my class at the Institute, but that's inconsequential.
"Of course, a reaping would be incomplete without a volunteer, wouldn't it?" Tasia smiles again, her almost hidden eyes glint from behind a wall of aqua make up. I argue with myself over if she's intelligent enough to be being sarcastic or was just genuine. It's hard to tell.
"So, what's your name?" Tasia Blitz asks me, bringing me back to reality.
"Cato. Cato Hale."
"Oh, Cato, how marvelous this must be for you," she says. "I'm sure you have been waiting for this day for a long, long time!"
"Yes," I reply flatly. Otherwise I wouldn't have volunteered, I leave unsaid. There are a few smirks from the crowd at me. I know I have to make sure not to insult the Capitol's intelligence if I want sponsors in the arena, which I know I'll need to keep me alive. Tasia seems to sense my lack of conversational skills, and clears her throat.
"Well, on to the ladies!" Tasia Blitz says, her voice perking up in anticipation. I see her repeat the method she used when reaping the boys, her lips pursing before she reads the slip.
"Clove Farren," she calls out.
I vaguely recognize the name, but I'm unsure of where the familiarity stems from. I know it's nobody in my year, at least. Scanning the crowd, I lock eyes with her as she emerges from a sea of faces. She looks a couple of years younger than me and she's definitely much shorter. Her dark brown hair is tied back in a ponytail and she's wearing a horribly cheery sunflower yellow dress. Her brown eyes are hard, determined, and she saunders on stage with more certainty than I would have thought her capable of. Probably more arrogance than even I had managed.
I barely register Tasia asking if there are any volunteers and there's a momentary ripple of movement, then nothing. That's unusual. Usually in our district, a trained career tribute would volunteer at age eighteen to take the place of a much younger tribute.
"Well, there we have it," Tasia's voice betrays her own surprise. "District 2, your tributes for the 74th annual Hunger Games: Cato Hale and Clove Farren. And may the odds be ever in their favor!"
We move to shake hands as the crowd breaks into applause. Clove's grip is firm and unyielding. She's definitely got something to be confident about, and I'm determined to find out what.