It could only technically be called morning when the doorbell rang vigorously, the cheery tunes jarring Clove from her sleep. She mumbled something unintelligible and rolled on her side. Cato was already awake, tearing away the covers as he climbed out of bed, and she snarled sleepily at him. "Go get dressed, Clove, and I'll get the door. It's probably Lucretia with the prep teams," he told her in a voice far too chipper for this time of day.

Clove grumbled but eventually complied, hauling herself up and stumbling over to the dresser. She had just enough time to pull on a clean shirt and loose black pants when her prep team descended upon her like a plague. They chattered away as they strong-armed her into the shower and began the long and painful process of hair removal.

"Can you believe that in the other Districts, their tributes never shave? Thank goodness you at least have some sense of hygiene," one of them chirped, her skin patterned gold and her eyelashes crimson.

"Oh, Sylvia told me that the other day! It's just horrid, isn't it? Just imagine those poor children with all their ugly District hair!" another replied, eyes lined in a rich blood-red that winged out beyond his cheekbones.

"That sounds so terrible!" Clove exclaimed breathily, eyes wide like she was frightened. "We're very fortunate here in Two to be so close with the Capitol. I simply can't imagine living in a District with no luxuries at all! And, of course, we do have some of the best stylists and prep teams in Panem. It's only natural, of course; the better-behaved Districts get the better teams."

The prep team halted in their babble, looking at her almost quizzically, before seizing upon the newly-talkative Clove. "Oh, yes, some of the other prep teams truly are atrocious! You should hear the kinds of things they've done- they're too sordid to speak of," the first said meaningfully.

"Oh, you must tell me!" Clove gushed. "I can't possibly go without knowing, especially since we're already such good friends!"

The prep team tittered and preened around her. "Well, if you must know, Venia from Twelve always has an affair with the stylist for Twelve. Her last one lasted ten years- isn't that gauche? She has no sense of the proper time limits for these things," the man sniffed.

"I've heard she's trying to get with the latest stylist. You saw his work, didn't you, Clove? Those gorgeous fiery outfits in the parade?" a woman swathed in multicolored bubbles sighed even as she ripped off another piece of tape from Clove's skin. "Such a shame his talent was wasted in Twelve. That girl was not nearly appreciative enough of his help. Did you ever see her without makeup? I was amazed that the boy ever fell in love with her, but I suppose Twelve doesn't really have a surplus of pretty girls." They all laughed at that.

When there was a rare gap in the conversation, Clove changed the subject. "And what do you think about the Quell this year? I'm so excited to find out what the twist is this time!"

"You must be so disappointed to not be able to participate in it! Oh, but you might get to mentor this year!" the gold-printed woman said, oblivious to the sneer that flashed briefly across Clove's face.

"I've heard that the twist involves the selection of the tributes this time," the man added with an air of imparting a great secret. Clove nodded eagerly, inwardly scowling. Oh, really? As if the past two Quells didn't also change the way tributes were chosen, she thought sardonically.

"Is that all, Aelius?" the bubble woman asked, sounding rather dejected. "You usually have the best information about the Games."

Aelius chuckled as he twined locks of Clove's hair around a hot iron. "Ah, Caelina, have I ever disappointed you? No, my dear, that is not all of the story. My sources have told me that despite the unfortunate passing of Head Gamemaker Crane-"

"Wait, did something happen to Seneca?" Clove interrupted. Realizing her mistake when the prep team turned to stare at her, she blushed. "We're so awfully out of the loop here in Two," she confessed apologetically. "I've heard practically nothing in all the time since we got back."

The gold-skinned woman perked up. "Oh, you poor thing! Of course you didn't hear! Well, wouldn't you know, right after the best parties were about to start- I'd just been invited to one at Claudius Templesmith's mansion, can you imagine?- oh, so anyway, Head Gamemaker Crane had just come back from his hair appointment and two hours later, he was dead."

Caelina sniffled while she dabbed powder on Clove's face. "He was my favorite Gamemaker, too!" she sighed. "Do you remember how clever he was when he flooded that arena? And his mutts, oh, I had nightmares for weeks about those wolves that he made for the last Games!"

"We all mourned his passing," the other woman broke in. "He stabbed himself to death, the poor man. Straight through the heart. He left a note saying that he felt inadequate to the task of the Quell."

"Crane was a great man and a greater Gamemaker." There was a moment of reverent silence, then Aetius spoke again. "But back to the news! So like I was saying, after Crane died, my sources managed to uncover the contents of the envelope that holds the twist for this year's Quarter Quell." He paused, smiling smugly.

The red-lashed woman stared wide-eyed at him as she dabbed paint on Clove's lips. "Oh, how exciting! You always do have the best knowledge about these things, Aetius. But what is the twist?"

This can't be good, Clove thought, her heart starting to race. Victors gained full immunity from being Reaped, she knew that much. But what if that were to change? What would she do if Snow tried to retaliate for her scheme?

Aetius made a show of glancing about the room. "I have heard, Fausta," he murmured furtively, "that the Quell will reap only sibling pairs."

The women gasped, and Clove's relieved sigh was disguised by them. While it was certainly unlikely she and Cato would have had to enter the Games, seeing as there was a multitude of other Victors in Two that would surely be eager to volunteer, she didn't like the sly threat the idea posed.

"That certainly will make for an interesting Games," Clove replied in a steady voice. "Do you know what they put in its place?"

"No other rumors, sorry to say," Aetius sighed. "I suppose we'll all know soon enough, when they officially announce it. And- oh, look how lovely you are now! Let's go fetch Bac!" Clove obediently peeked at her red-lipped self in the handheld mirror before the prep team scurried off.

Bac entered the bathroom a few moments later. The purple swirls were gone from his face, replaced with striations of the same crimson the rest of the prep team sported, and his hair had gone from a bright yellow to more of a metallic gold. The sneering-smile was unmistakable either way as he greeted her. "Hello, Clove. It's good to see you again."

"And you, Bac," Clove responded coolly. "Have you brought more of those dresses I love?"

He raised a bag in answer, and she beamed even as he took out the outfit and slid it over her head. She looked at herself in the mirror when he had finished adjusting her makeup. It was lightweight but still cozy to compensate for the chill in the air, a soft dark green dress and boots over a pair of skin-colored tights. Clove puckered her red lips at her reflection and narrowed her eyes. "I look like a holiday come to life," she grumbled.

"It's all the rage in the Capitol," Bac assured her. "Everyone loves to dress up for the winter parties. Be grateful I didn't make you into a present." Clove rolled her eyes, and he laughed. "Go ahead and get all your irritability out now, before the cameras show up. You do know you have to be all sweet and charming when they interview you, right?"

Before she could snap back another retort, the door crashed open to reveal a rather harried Lucretia. The rumors about her new hairstyle were correct, apparently, and she hadn't limited her newfound taste for gold to her wig. The escort radiated metallic light as she crushed Clove in a hug that was cut abruptly short. "Hello, Clove, no time to waste. Come along, it's time for your interview!" she trilled in grating tones. Clove winced at her accent but allowed the woman to keep her impressively strong grip on her wrist as she pulled Clove out the door and down the hall.

Lucretia hovered in the background as Clove began to read lines from cards, pointless cheery babble about her great love for flowers and her admiration of nature and goodness, aren't these peonies just gorgeous? Contrary to her prediction, the camera crew had only brought live flowers to replace her wilting ones, and she glowered at a particularly full rose when the camera wasn't aimed at her. Roses reminded her of Snow.

Finally she was dismissed so that the crew could film more shots of the flowers, so she wandered into the kitchen. Cato was apparently finished with his as well, and Clove joined him. "My mother and brother are being interviewed in the living room, so I'd stay out of there," he warned her. His brother was already married and lived with his wife, and his mother had chosen to stay in her admittedly-luxurious house rather than move in with Cato and Clove. Clove couldn't say she blamed the woman for her decision to distance herself from them as much as she did. They'd had one dinner together after the Games, and the conversation had been so painfully awkward that there had been a mutual agreement to never repeat the process. Clove had the impression that Cato spent most of his childhood at the Training Center for more than one reason.

Now Lucretia clapped her hands with more zeal than happiness. "All right, everyone! Time to go on outside to film a few shots before we get on the train!"

Clove turned to look at Cato. "I thought the Victory Tour wasn't supposed to start for another couple of days?" she wondered.

Cato rolled his eyes. "Always so aware, Clove. The Tour itself doesn't start for a little while, but we have to travel all the way down to Twelve for their miserable little party. They're in the middle of nowhere, too, which means we have to leave early if we want to have some time to get ready."

"They always have the saddest feasts, don't they?" Clove took Cato's hand in hers and began to tug him toward the anxiously-gesturing Lucretia. "The saddest feasts, and the weakest tributes." He laughed even as she plastered on her sweetest smile, and the filming began.


Twelve was just as pathetic as they'd cattily predicted. The square was a gritty gray, everything coated in layers of coal dust that made Clove want to choke. Dressed in sapphire blue with gold-lined eyes, she was the only bit of color in the square filled with shuffling, hard-eyed miners. She glanced up at Cato for reassurance and was relieved when he grinned down at her, squeezing her hand. They could do this.

The mayor, a portly man with a kind face, introduced them, and Clove busied herself with looking at the families of the dead tributes stationed on the platforms below. To the left must've been Peeta's family, a rigid woman scowling at her husband and two sons. And to the right was Katniss's. There was a woman, still clinging to vestiges of beauty, but her face was blank, eyes unseeing. She was completely detached from her surroundings. Clutching the woman's hand was a tiny blonde girl, so insubstantial she almost seemed to waver, and Clove realized with a chill that she was Katniss's little sister, the one she'd volunteered for. But this girl wasn't the same wide-eyed child she had been half a year ago. The girl watched Clove unblinkingly, yet there was no malice in her eyes.

Clove was torn away when Cato began to give his memorized part of the speech, and she followed along and concluded it. Then it was time to say their personal comments. Cato spoke honestly about Peeta's courage and integrity, Katniss's strength and skill, and Clove expressed her respect that neither had ever been unscrupulous. Oh, Katniss could easily have killed her when she laid dying in Cato's arms, and Peeta could have slit either one of their throats as they slept. But they were bound by the kind of morals that Careers just didn't bother with.

They accepted their plaques from the mayor and waved at the sullen crowds. Clove caught the eye of the girl again and recoiled at the unfamiliar emotion she projected in her half-smile, resigned eyes. I don't need your forgiveness, girl, she thought savagely, almost bitterly. You should hate me. I want you to hate me. But the girl merely dropped her gaze to rub soothingly at her mother's back, and Clove felt hollow. I don't deserve this.

"People from Twelve are strange, aren't they?" Cato murmured in her ear once they were back inside the Justice Building and preparing for the first dinner. She shot him a half-annoyed, half-amused glance, but they were interrupted by a blonde girl in a pretty white dress.

"How lovely to meet you both," the girl said sweetly, dimpling at them. "I'm Madge Undersee, Mayor Undersee's daughter."

Cato shook her hand first, and Clove did the same. Madge's handshake was weak, frail, and shaking her hand was rather like curling her fingers around a bird and hoping it wouldn't break. "Cato Ludwig, a pleasure," he answered. "This is my… This is Clove Fuhrman."

"I've heard so much about you," Madge replied. "Please, come and keep me company. These dinners are dreadfully boring, and I'd love to hear more about your District."

They found themselves ensconced at the end of the table, away from Lucretia and Enobaria and Brutus, who were busy chatting with the mayor and several white-clad Peacekeepers. Madge was quiet but a good listener, and Clove found herself slipping to the edge of revealing information she'd rather not several times. Oh, she was an excellent politician's daughter, pretty and demure and perfect at slipping information out of unsuspecting guests. Clove eyed her appraisingly and was about to go on the offensive when someone staggered up to them.

It was Haymitch Abernathy, sole living Victor of Twelve and clearly drunk half out of his mind. He slung himself into a chair a servant had hastily drawn up and nearly missed, letting one heavy arm drape across Clove's shoulders. Clove stiffened and silently slipped out of his grasp. "Mr. Abernathy. An honor," she addressed him somewhat coolly.

"You're a pretty thing, aren't you?" he slurred. Clove caught Enobaria's eye from across the table, registered her mentor's minute shake of her head. Play along. "You look familiar. Oh, that's right. You went and killed my favorite tribute."

Clove eyed him icily. "And you killed several of the tributes from Two during your Games." Her voice was faultlessly polite as she tried to avoid inhaling his stench.

Haymitch laughed, expelling a cloud of air that made her eyes water and itch, yet somehow he was coherent enough to keep on trying. She should've known there was more to his drunken-mess persona than she'd thought. "You're a feisty one, aren't you? Cold little Career girl with a talent for ruining lives. And her overbulked, deranged lover. What a match you two make. Now, tell me, is there a lot of inbreeding in Two, or do your genetic defects just happen naturally?"

"Haymitch!" a woman with shocking pink hair exclaimed, flushing in shame. "You need to apologize to our guests! I am so, so sorry for his rudeness, Clove and Cato, I have no idea what's gotten into-"

"Shut up, Effie. No one cares." And with far more balance than an intoxicated person should've possessed, he stood and strode out of the room.

Madge smiled nervously at them, at silently seething Cato and rigid, hard-eyed Clove. "Don't mind him," she said apologetically. "He's just upset about losing Katniss and Peeta. She especially was the most likely one to win the Games in over twenty years. That doesn't excuse him, of course, but…"

"Never mind him," Clove cut her off. "What were you saying about strawberries again?" Madge leaped at the lifeline, and by the time they were preparing to board the train again, Clove had secured her telephone number and promised to keep in touch. Gathering allies, even in Twelve, couldn't hurt.

The other Districts were far less dramatic than the first dinner. Eleven made her shiver with their cruel Peacekeepers, so unlike the familiar ones of her own District, but their people were more polite than Twelve. Clove chatted with a Victor named Seeder and tried to avoid Haymitch's friend Chaff. Ten and Nine were bland, with nothing noteworthy in the least. After their almost boring speech in Eight, Clove was relieved to find that Johanna of Seven was of a like mind and an even sharper tongue. Cato looked almost overwhelmed beneath their competing jabs.

Six again was unexciting, as was Five. In Four, Clove found herself reluctantly partnered with Annie Cresta for dinner. The older girl was certainly… off, prone to fits of odd laughter or staring off into space, but she seemed to genuinely like Clove. Cato, who was busy silently posturing against Finnick Odair across the table, laughed later that night when Clove was busy scrubbing the silver makeup from her eyes back on the train. "Only you would befriend the crazies," he said, and she shoved him.

"Why don't you shut up and go make out with Finnick?" she retorted, smirking when he grimaced.

Clove found herself unwillingly impressed in Three. Beetee Latier was smart, and not in the highbrow, snobby way she'd expected. He discussed his latest project with her and she listened raptly, unable to comprehend the mechanics but drawn by the way he explained it. Cato teased her mercilessly about it later, but she threw back in his face that he'd had to converse with the only woman possibly more crazy than Annie.

Two was skipped for the final celebration, and Clove was swathed in a pale, shimmery blue for their speech in the District known for their luxury goods. She appraised slinky, sensuous Cashmere, who seemed to have Glimmer's looks with more brains, and they hit it off immediately. "I think we'll be very good friends," Cashmere told her matter-of-factly before she strode off to speak with Enobaria and Brutus.

And then she was in the Capitol, slathered with shades of plum and lilac and violet and gripping to Cato's arm like that might protect her from the unceasing tides of people that tugged at her sleeves, clung to her words like they were sacred. And they returned to their room and she stared at her reflection in the mirror, her face clean but her skin feeling so dirty. "I hate this," she told him, and he sighed and moved to stand behind her.

"We'll change it all," he vowed. "We'll burn their luxurious existences and replace them with liberty."

"Not equality," she observed, gazing at the exorbitant silks of her gown and wondering how much someone desperate for a status symbol would pay for it. Too much, she thought.

He kissed the side of her face. "Equality is for fools. We have to look out for our own. But that doesn't mean we neglect the rest of the world when we take over."

"I think I'd rather like corruption, when it's working in our favor," she mused.

He began to methodically pull out the pins from her hair, sending locks of it tumbling onto her shoulders. "Then you will be the queen and I the king, and together, we'll rule the world."


A/N: Punctuality issues are mine. Keep an eye out for my wonderful beta A-GIRL-NAMED-BILLY 's works- she's planning a Clato and puppies drabble series. My heart just might explode from the cuteness.