Chapter One - Knives and Prejudice
"Hey, Alodie!" Cato called to a scowling girl holding a spear, "Do you know where Clove is?"
"How should I know? Probably busy hiding in some shadowy corner and cutting herself. Again." she replied, punctuating her words with lunges at the dummy she was practicing with.
"Shut up!" he yelled, racing off to check the weapons cupboard, "My sister doesn't cut!"
He reached the door to the cupboard on the other side of the room, gently nudging it open and peering inside. Sure enough, Clove was curled up in a foetal position under the knife rack, crying her eyes out.
"Oh, Clove..." he muttered, sitting down next to her and carefully pulling a bruised and bloody arm away from her face, "You promised me that you would stand up to them today."
"I tried, Cato, I really tried," she sobbed, pushing herself into a sitting position, "But they just laughed at me! They said that if I ever talked back to them again, they'd rip my throat out!" she buried her face in her hands again, gratefully crawling into her brother's open arms.
For as long as she could remember, Clove hadn't gone a day without someone adding to her vast collection of injuries; her parents, the other students at the training centre, the trainers, drunken people on the street. District 2 wasn't a safe place for a girl like Clove - being short, dark haired, freckled, overly emotional and not particularly strong made her exactly the kind of person perfectly designed to be ostracised by the other Careers. Today, as it had been since the first day she had set foot in the centre, she had been attacked by the clique of the most popular and highly acclaimed stereotypical Career girls in her class. For some reason that she had yet to fathom, they seemed intent on making the little 15-year-old's life a living Hell.
"Come on." Cato sighed, helping his little sister to her feet, "Let's go find some bandages, before you get an infection."
They walked (at least, Cato walked - Clove sort of limped) up to the medical supplies storeroom on the 3rd floor, where Cato helped her to cover up the deep cuts that littered her limbs and torso. There wasn't much that could be done for the ones on her face, but she had managed to protect her head well enough that they were mainly just scratches.
"I'm going to look a mess at the reaping tomorrow." she muttered, brushing dried blood from her hair with her fingers, "What would the Capitol think of me if I arrived covered in scars?"
"They'd sponsor you," he smiled reassuringly, "Because battle scars are a sure-fire way of making an impression."
Suddenly, their conversation was interrupted by the clanging of a bell, signalling to the students of the centre that it was time to pack up and go home.
Clove and Cato arrived home to (as they did on most evenings) an empty house. Their mother spent most of her time working in the quarry - the pitifully small wages she received meant that, even when she worked for extra shifts practically every day, they barely had enough to live on. Their father, of course, was probably feebly attempting to impress the womenfolk of the bar he frequented at this time of day.
Today was different to usual, however, in that a scribbled note had been left for them on the rickety kitchen table.
Children,
Your mother has lost her job at the quarry. We no longer have the money to feed you both. One of you is going to have to volunteer for the Games tomorrow, or you're both out on the street. There's still half a rabbit in the pantry, so if one of you figures out how to make it edible, you can have that for dinner.
Clove turned to look at her brother. His expression gave away exactly what he was planning, making her face drain of what little colour it had. "No." she whispered, "Don't you dare, Cato! You can't!"
"I have to, Clove! What other option do we have?"
"I'll volunteer! Without you here, those girls would kill me anywa-"
"Clove!" he cried, pulling her into his arms, "Not in a million years am I letting my little sister compete in the Hunger Games. Especially not after six years ago, when-"
"Cato, don't! Don't say it!" Clove whimpered. She didn't need reminding of the 68th Hunger Games, in which their cousin Mnemosyne had been literally stabbed in the back by her allies. She thought, briefly, of all the Careers in her class desperate to enter the games, for the glory, the honour. She knew better than to anticipate murder with baited breath. It's all fun and games until somebody loses a cousin.
"Exactly. Six years ago, I promised myself that I would make sure I never had to watch that happen to you. I'm volunteering tomorrow, and nothing you say will change my mind. I just love you too much."
"But...but why, Cato?" she sobbed, backing away, "Why can't you just hate me like everyone else? You're strong; you look like you're supposed to be from District 2...you could have anybody in this godforsaken hellhole completely dependent on you! But you're stuck here with me: the little freak! The pathetic runt! I should have died at birth, like everyone expected me to! Then, at least, I wouldn't ruin the life of the only person I care about!"
"Clove, no! I-" Cato began, but it was too late; she was out the door in a second. Away to hide in one of the many caves in the abandoned quarry on the edge of the district, no doubt.
All Cato could do was cook the leftover rabbit and hope that his sister could, someday, forgive him for protecting her.