A/N: Credits to Estoma for beta-ing
A breeze coaxes the scarf from my shoulder and I nudge it back in place, continuing to plod along the neon-lined pavement back to the training center. It's the middle of summer, and the Capitol has a knack for ratcheting up the Climate-control settings on their streets, making it cold and windy when it should be hot - and warm when it's winter. Why can't they leave the fucking seasons alone? They can't leave anything natural alone, these queer Capitolites. I keep my gaze fixed on the marble-tiled pavements, trying to avoid looking at their twisted, surgically altered beings. But most of all I'm avoiding their glances, the curious pointing of fingers and, god-forbid – requests for photographs.
"Are you Clove? The Victor Clove from District 2?" a voice asks.
Oh god here we go. I don't even look up to see the source, choosing to nod quietly and continue on my way. Unfortunately, his footsteps start following me.
"Clove! It's so amazing to see a Victor! What're you doing in the Capitol?"
I stop and glare at the man, dressed in a pale cream suit with a purplehat and green pants. My stare intensifies as the color combination makes me want to hurl. But there's a girl holding onto his hand, who can't be more than ten. I look at her brown curls and my heart softens – but only enough to spare him the least of my attention.
"I got injured, have to undergo physiotherapy," I mutter, before carrying on.
Right, physiotherapy.
"It looks like you're making a good recovery! You won't be needing it for much longer!" he replies with with a Capitol inflexion.
I never did. No idea why they're keeping me here; it's probably a thinly veiled excuse to separate me from Cato. They also make me work out eight hours a day because there's nothing else left for me to do. Also, I think I can't feel my legs again.
"The doctors just want to make sure I'm doing fine," I answer, keeping my gaze fixed on the pavement.
"Where's Cato?" he asks, pointing at a Capitol Victory Tour poster with his face on it.
I stop and stare at him with widened eyes. My lips curl to form a spiteful reply, but the presence of the girl forces me to reconsider. I arch my eyebrows and ball up my fists, trying to control my temper in public.
"Good question!" I hiss, my voice dripping with sarcasm, "I was hoping you could tell me!"
My nerves are frazzled, whether from the hours of pointless exercising or the encounter on the street, I don't know. But I do know my reflexes have been dulled, since I don't notice the person in my apartment until his shadow emerges from the study. My hands snap to the hem of my skirt where I've hidden a knife, but the sight of him standing in front of me causes me gasp in awe-struck amazement.
I'm paralyzed with a mix of panic and confusion at his presence. My heels snap together to attention and I render the best salute my trembling hands can muster – the reflex brought about from years of saluting senior officials at the Academy. He acknowledges me and I relax myself.
"P-President Snow," I stammer, still confused at the sight of his regal proximity to myself.
"Clove," he says, voice dripping with deliberation, "how lovely to see you."
I grasp the pleats of my skirt and curtsey, "The pleasure is mine, President Snow."
"Please, let's not stand on ceremony. I trust your legs are doing fine?" His voice sounds softer and much more direct than what I'm used to hearing – loud, booming and directed at the world.
My brain races to think of a fitting reply, "I sincerely thank the Capitol for their undying eff-"
"Save it," he cuts me off, "if I wanted to hear from a parrot I would have stayed at my mansion."
The stern reply takes me by surprise. My lips part and I breathe again; that's when the stench hits me. Blood. Together with something else sickeningly sweet and cloying. It wafts around in my nostrils before slipping into my lungs and threatening to force the last bits of my dinner into a reappearance. I don't remember him smelling this awful during my crowning. But it happened so quickly; he barely placed the Victor's crown on my head; choosing instead to drop it there and make a quick exit. I saw a replay of Cato's crowning; slow and stately – with a firm handshake and a pat on the back. Doesn't take a genius to know who his favorite Victor is.
"What are you doing here?" I whisper, regretting the rude question the moment I've said it.
"Please – have a seat. You must be tired from all your therapy," he says, ignoring my question and pulling a chair by the dining table.
I take my time to walk over to the chair as the stench multiplies with every inch closer. He places a hand on my shoulder and I suppress my urge to flinch away from the sheer chill his hand emits.
"I hope you'll forgive me for intruding into your house like this, but I need to make myself very clear to you tonight – and I hope you wouldn't mind me being direct at all. Wouldn't you?" His voice drips with malice, and with every parting movement of his lips he blows more and more of the sickening stench towards me.
I shake my head, eyes fixed on my knees the whole time. He seats himself across from me and continues.
"What do you think about your new status as a Victor?" he asks.
I think of the most politically correct answer I can muster, "I feel like I didn't deserve to win."
"You didn't," he replies without a hitch. The answer is so unexpected that I have to look into his eyes to see if he meant it. The disdainful stare on his face is so gut-wrenching I avert my gaze back to my knees.
"They should have brought the Mutts back when you ran into the woods," he snarls, leaning over and breathing more of his sickening breath onto my face, "tell me, Clove. What possessed you to even think about killing yourself?" The anger is evident in his voice now, and I would never have thought an important man like President Snow could ever get angry at a bug like me. I should have anticipated this when he said he was going to be direct. But regardless, it doesn't change the way my heart is pounding so hard I swear he's able to hear it.
"I…I…didn't want to die at Cato's hands. He's…an extremely powerful Tribute," I stammer, with the faint hope he will believe me and end our discussion.
"Is that so?" he replies, dabbing his lips with a handkerchief. The stench fades away for a moment, before slamming itself back into my lungs with full force. "Or is there something else going on?"
My heart stops so abruptly I feel faint from lack of circulation. He knows.
"There's nothing going on, Sir," I reply, trying to keep the very evident fear coursing through my veins from leeching out into my voice.
He snickers at my answer, causing me to panic even more knowing he sees through my every lie.
"I'm sorry if I've caus-"
"You disgust me," he cuts me off with a frown.
"Wha-?"
"You're ugly," he snarls, tapping a cold finger to my chin and tipping it up, "nobody wants you." I look away again, trying to avoid his gaze. His eyes are fixed on mine though, and I can feel them burning away at my soul.
"I should have had you killed in the Hovercraft, it's a pity those damn doctors only care about saving lives," President Snow stands up and moves closer to me. I look down and bite my lip in anticipation of what he's going to do next; probably put a gun to my head and force me to beg him for mercy.
"Such a shame Cato couldn't bring himself to finish you off. That would've been perfect," he stands behind my chair and leans down next to my ear, his stench almost visible in the air, "he's just perfect isn't he?"
My lips tremble at the thought of Snow reaching into my mind and pulling out the words I've often ascribed to Cato as I daydreamed about him. Beautiful, flawless, perfect.
"Y..Yes," I stammer as he seats himself next to me.
"It amazes me how someone so beautiful could love an ugly bitch like you," his words cause me to shuffle around in my chair in discomfort. They'd normally piss me off coming from someone else, but Snow is so goddamned downright repulsive it doesn't even matter. I begin thinking of the last girl who called me ugly many years ago, and how she'll never be growing back her fingers.
"You trained at the Academy didn't you?" he asks. Instantly, my lips curl to form a 'no', since being a Career is still technically illegal. But he probably knows everything about my life already, so I nod in reply.
"What do your parents do?" he rests his hand on my knee and sends goosebumps along my skin. His hand is cold. Has he surgically altered his skin to be this cold? It feels like one of those ice packs the Academy Medics use to treat bruising.
"Th…they're metalworkers," I stammer, my apprehension turning into disgust at his touch. President Snow begins running his hand up my thigh and I grasp the sides of the chair in discomfort. The sensation is vile, to say the least and I tense all my muscles in an attempt to keep my composure.
"A strong heritage for a strong girl," he says, shifting the hem of my skirt up.
Oh no.
He finds the knife and pulls it from its sheath, and I yank the skirt back over my thigh.
"Did they teach you how to make knives like this?" he asks, placing the knife on the table within my grasp. My eyes shift to the gleaming blade and the thought of killing him suddenly flashes through my mind. I mean, besides the repulsive odor, he's practically defenseless. There aren't even any ceremonial Peacekeepers he's usually seen in public with. But it'd be hell afterwards. Cato would probably die too – painfully.
"A little," I whisper, tearing my gaze from the knife to avoid raising his suspicions.
"You'd know then, how much this piece of metal reflects your life," he says, leaning back in his chair.
I raise my eyebrows at him.
"The iron is birthed in the mountains. Only the best ore gets chosen to be refined in the furnaces; and the smith strikes it with a hammer to form its desired shape. Then it's tempered in a scorching oven until there's nothing left but the finest steel, ready to do its work, or be discarded," he says slowly, ensuring I catch every word.
"Clove, you've been training since you were a little girl," he continues, "the Games were your test. Now is the time for you to fulfil your purpose - or be discarded like a useless rag."
"W...why me?" I stutter.
"Because I've always been able to depend on District 2 for a little muscle. And frankly, I can't find another use for a wretched girl like you," he replies, reaching into his suit and pulling out an envelope.
I stare at the plain, beige envelope sitting under my nose, and contemplate everything it could possibly represent. I reach out a trembling hand and my fingers hesitate on the paper as though touching it would seal a lifetime of servitude to the devil. However, curiosity gets the better of me and I open it, flipping through pages of people's names and pictures. Some of them I recognize, most of them I don't.
"I don't understand," I say, shutting the folder, "what do these people have to do with me?"
He picks up my knife and lays it onto the folder. The horrifying realization of what he wants me to do slams into my head like a meteor; I feel all the blood drain from my body and I lean over the table, grasping it to prevent myself from fainting.
"That's impossible!" I gasp in protest, "There's at least a dozen people in there!"
"And how many people did you kill during the Games? Five? Six? You killed them all so swiftly and quietly it made for awful television. Fortunately, this isn't a show anymore, and I'm giving you until the Quarter Quell." He rises from his chair and moves towards the exit, "You were born for this, Clove. It's no point denying yourself what fate has ascribed to you,"
His stench begins to lift as he moves further and further away from me. But there's something worse now, the irrevocable feeling of dread settling itself in the pit of my stomach. I can feel my insides churning with the revulsion at his plans. Worst of all, it's obvious he doesn't need me – he has battalions of peacekeepers ready to do his will. This is all just part of his plan to control me, to make me pay for being the unworthy Victor.
"What if I don't?" I whisper, just as he reaches the door.
"Nothing much, the folder will go to someone else with an extra name in it," he says nonchalantly, opening the door and looking at me one last time, "and it won't be yours."
I hide the envelope and sit at the table for hours in the vain hope President Snow's visit was a nightmare and I'll wake up in Cato's arms. I sit for so long my arms turn stiff and my legs feel numb again. It's nearly midnight when Enobaria comes back, and the sharp clang of her purse on the glass table snaps me out of my daze. Tears brim in my eyes at the realization that my reality has turned into a nightmare way worse than the Games.
"Clove," she says, looking into my eyes as though I had fainted, "have you eaten?"
I look at her with trembling lips, unsure of what to reply her with, sinceher name could very well be in the folder. Enobaria sniffs at the air, and immediately I see all the blood draining from her face.
"Oh no, not you," she says, hugging me to herself, "you're just a girl."
My hands reach around her body, hoping to feel the strength her arms always bring; but this time there's nothing. I press my face into her chest, and my hair starts turning damp from the wetness of her tears. I try to hold on, to remain strong in her presence. But with her strength gone, so too has my usual stubborn emotional resilience. Soon, a tear escapes my eyes and I feel my face turning warm from the shame of crying in front of someone I admire so much. But, it's nothing compared to her – bawling and weeping as though her parents have died.
After an eternity of Enobaria sobbing into my hair, I realise she's really crying for herself.
