The error of one moment becomes the sorrow of a whole life.
- Chinese proverb
Once, when Magnilda was maybe seven or so, she came from training with tears streaking down her heated cheeks.
Her mother had given her a gentle smile and asked what was wrong, but she had just sobbed and sobbed and sobbed until her mother turned away. This had only further upset Magnilda, and the entire commute home she had kicked the back of her chair. When they had gotten out of the car, she had rushed over to her mother's side and grabbed onto her arm, demanding attention, but all her mother did was pull away and ignore her, so she started crying again, this time much louder.
A few minutes later, her father returned from base and warily asked his wife why she had been ignoring their daughter. In response, her mother had simply said that if Magnilda wanted something, she needed to ask for it. Magnilda had huffed, angry, and stomped up to her mother, grumbling that she wanted to tell her something, but her mother had only hushed her and began reciting a storied moral.
Whenever one commits an action, makes a decision, or uses their voice, they are expelling energy. In return, they receive a reaction, and the goal, her mother had said, is to garner the most reward for the least energy exchange.
As Magnilda stood in the front row with the rest of the twelve-year-olds, she wondered what her mother would say now, as she cried desperately, with the knowledge that it would change nothing. Arianne was gazing at her uncomfortably, and inching away, clearly embarrassed at the spectacle she was making of herself.
The crowd was silent at first, and then several thousand eyes feasted upon her. District Two was too dignified to boo or jeer, but a thought came to mind at the sight of Magnilda's distress: Clove Holloway would not survive.
How had this happened?
In District Two, where the population was nearly one million and reaping eligible youth comprised around 20% of the overall population, there was a 1 in 200,000 chance one's name would be pulled from the bowl. Of course, this disregarded several factors, such as tessarae, cumulative slips, and plain ol' bad luck, but such calculations would have only lured her into a state of insanity faster anyways.
Clove stood on stage, a bored, wary sort of expression bestowed upon her face. Cato, in contrast, looked distracted, but succinctly upset.
The mayor began to read the Treaty of Treason, which Magnilda had always thought was so beautifully dictated. Though, now, in her disillusion, only sounded dry and meaningless. After the anthem played, two peacekeepers came up towards the tributes and escorted them off stage.
The crowd dispersed, muttering to themselves, and Magnilda ran past them. In the distance, she heard Callan call out to her, but she knew that nothing he would say could fix the irreparable damage that had been done.
As she pushed her way past the back entrance of the Justice Center, she tried to conceive exactly what she would say. She wasn't stupid, not by a long shot.
She knew that Dicey and Nero would use flowery, cautious language, and try not to take sides. Why bother, though? Only one would emerge victorious, and if you couldn't be honest even in someone's death, then you were committing a grave injustice.
It took ten agonizing minutes for all of the collective visitors to gather. On Clove's behalf was her father and aunt. Magnilda didn't recognize Cato's family, having never officially met them, but she noted a tall, regal, dirty-blonde woman with stunning green eyes, a tall man with cornsilk blonde hair, and a young blonde boy with blue eyes. Cato's mother didn't seem too enthused to be in the same space as Cato's father, shooting him a nasty expression, which he did his best to ignore. Dicey and Nero stood together in a corner, discussing matters in hushed whispers.
The dark-haired girl leaned against the wall, waiting impatiently as the peacekeeper beckoned the first set of visitors into the separate rooms. Their father went in first, and Cato's mother pushed past Cato's father to be their son's first visitor.
Her aunt came up behind her, and rubbed her right shoulder reassuringly, "It'll be fine."
Magnilda responded back irately, "I didn't say it wouldn't be!"
She flushed when several eyes turned to her, including Cato's father, who she vaguely recognized. Maybe solely from his strong resemblance to his son. Her aunt didn't move, only giving her a sympathetic expression. It wasn't entirely out of character; After all, she was a nurse who was used to taking care of others, but her aunt couldn't possibly understand what she was going through. When Nero's father had gone into the games, she'd expected him to win. Magnilda couldn't even say that for Clove.
Cato's mother emerged first, and the peacekeeper ordered the next visitor in. His mother left the building and Cato's father entered next, leaving the young boy on his own. He grinned up at Magnilda, blushing excitedly. "My name's Oliver!"
"I'm Nelly," she replied, dully.
"Cato's going to win! He's super super super strong!"
She stood, aloof. "Has he taught you how to fight yet?"
"He said two-" Oliver counted on his fingers, "One, two years."
Her father emerged from the room a moment later, a solemn pride on his face. Nero stepped forward to replace him and only a minute after, Cato's father came out, and Oliver ran forward, giggling cheerfully.
Cato's enthusiasm had dimmed considerably since getting ready with Dicey and Felix, though he couldn't hide a relieved sigh when his brother came into the room. "Cato! Cato!" His younger brother ran into his arms, grinning. The teen brushed him off brusquely, and kept him at an arm's length.
"Come to wish me luck, lolly?"
The small boy shook his head, biting his lip coyly, and stifling a giggle, "Nuh-uh, because you don't need it."
He chuckled, "I suppose I don't." He intertwined his fingers. Oliver tried to think of what else to say, but Cato pulled him closer, and told him a strange tone, "You're growing fast."
"I'm this many!" Oliver said in return, holding up four fingers. It was unfortunate that Cato had always had an affinity for cute things.
"You've got the makings of a champion."
The small boy jumped up, his eyes widening, "I do?"
Cato smirked, "Doubting yourself is your first mistake."
He frowned, "What's that mean?"
"It means that to be a winner, you have to act like a winner."
Oliver nodded, trying to feign understanding but failing, "Okay. One day, I'll be strong just like you."
Cato snorted, and his semi-cordial demeanor waned, "It'll take a lot of work. You'll have to tell Sundara to stop babying you. Training is sacrifice, blood, sweat, tears, and your worst nightmares come to play. It's broken arms, cracked ribs, and gaping wounds that never fully heal. It's psychosis, sickness, and unwavering resolve. The monsters your mother reads to you about, they can't compare to the monsters inside your very own head." He yanked Oliver's roughly by his wrist, making sure the boy was paying attention, and clenched tightly.
The small boy fussed, trying to break his grip, but Cato only strengthened his grasp, "Do you think you can handle that?" Oliver trembled, whimpering at the uncomfortable hold, "Well, do you?" Cato demanded. Tears welled up in Oliver's eyes, and he blinked, and they fell to the ground.
The blonde teen shook his head, disappointed, and released his brother's hand, softly muttering, "It's your worst nightmare for twelve years, but when you win... When you win, it's everything you've ever wanted and more. Do you think you can handle that?"
Oliver swallowed, terrified by the wild expression in Cato's eyes. Wiping away his tears, he retreated towards the door, and opened it slightly, "One day, when I'm big and strong, I'll do anything to get the monsters out of your head. I promise!"
Cato stalked forward and pushed his brother to the floor, and glaring.
The small blonde boy ran out of the room, sniffling, and Cato's father sighed. He looked sternly at Oliver, "I told you to not to aggravate him." Oliver latched onto him, crying into the hem of his shirt.
"Daddy, I want to help Cato. He said there are monsters inside of his head," he murmured sadly.
Mr. Elroy's gruffly responded, "Cato doesn't need help. He just needs to win." He picked up Oliver, and held him protectively to his chest.
His demeanor reminded Magnilda entirely too much of Mars, and that only increased her reservations. The peacekeeper asked if there were any more visitors, Dicey stepped forward, and took her place.
"Come to bid the corpse farewell?" Clove asked him bitterly.
Dicey gave her a pathetic smile. "Don't sell yourself short. You're Clove Holloway."
She came forward and he pulled her into his arms. She melted into the embrace, a too familiar hold. His eyes watered as it all sank in. Even if Clove did survive, Cato wouldn't. There'd be no true winner. Cato and Clove were cut from the same cloth, a fitted piece. Sure, they rarely saw eye to eye, but there was not one without the other. In his ruminations, they stood together, giving him grief and making sharp remarks at his expense. For the first time in his life, he wished they lived somewhere else. A world away from the games.
"Killing is easy, but I'm not as refined in the art as you."
His brown eyes glimmered with an unreadable expression.
To make an admission like that was unheard of, especially from her. "It was the only way for me to stay in the program. Most don't have to do what I've done. Most have the time to earn their points the hard way, the right way. I haven't had that sort of time in years."
"What's your number, then?" she asked.
He rested his hand on a chair, not exactly excited to share something so intimate to him. "125 overall, with 48 this year."
"Impressive," she muttered, rubbing her fingers anxiously. They'd confiscated her knives, he was sure, "I'm up to 36."
"This year?" he asked surprised.
She gave him a bemused smile, "Overall, Red."
Dicey pushed a buoyant strand out of her face, and distractedly played with her hair, "Be brave, Clo."
Clove pulled away and with a fierce determination, but uncharacteristic gentleness, told him, "I'm not afraid, Dicey."
"If anyone can overcome insurmountable odds, it's you."
The brunette smirked, "Exactly. Don't count me out." His laugh mixed with a sob. She gave him a displeased expression, and thrust her fist against his abdomen, "I'm not dead yet, asshole."
He pulled her back into his arms, laughing more than crying. "You've always been a fantastic contester," he teased. He heard a knock a moment later and suppressed the urge to give the nosy peacekeepers a piece of his mind, "Give them hell."
She stood up, fixing her posture, and adjusting her green dress. Firmly, she told him, "I'm glad I've had you, Dicey. I'll never have a best friend better."
Dicey smiled sadly, and whispered, earnestly, patting her hair into his neck. "Thank you for giving me a chance, Clove."
Magnilda locked the door behind her as she entered the room.
Upon seeing her, Cato gave her a wary, exhaustive sort of look, and rasped. "If you're here to ask me to sacrifice myself, don't bother."
"Don't patronize me, Cato." Magnilda responded, an unkind coolness slipping into her words.
"What do you want, Magnilda?" he asked, folding his arms.
She stepped forward, glowering at him, "My name is Nelly."
"You're too old for nicknames," he said, dismissively, before adding, "and much too old for hair ribbons as well." He yanked the teal bow out of her hair. She winced, looking back to him with a scowl as she fixed her hair into place.
Her glare intensified as he smirked at her.
"Yes," she drawled, her tone laced with fury, "It looks better on you anyways."
He blinked, before chuckling, blackly, "You're no Clove."
"I've never tried to be Clove, and if that's why you became my friend in the first place, then you've wasted your time."
"Of course not," Cato said, holding his head at her unusually high pitch.
"No wonder Clove doesn't want to be your friend."
He laughed, a sick smile on his face as he mocked, "No, your sister wanted us to be much more than friends."
"Yeah, so did I," Magnilda said, disappointment underlining her words.
That seemed to stump him. "Anything I say won't change why you're here, and that's because you want something. So spit it out."
Magnilda tried to contain herself, to hold onto what little dignity she had left, "Fine, that's fair. I do want something."
He arched his eyebrows, waiting for her response. "Oh, yeah? And what might that be?"
She whispered her request, quietly begging for this indulgence, and a light of recognition flashed in his eyes. He masked his pain, before lowly gritting out, "I can't make any promises." Magnilda nodded her understanding, but he added with an emptiness in his chest, "but I'll try."
Author's Note (2012) -I gave District Two a population of about 1 million, with about 200k being of reaping age. One article I read theorized that Panem could sustain a population of 4 million.
I conceived the population size of Two based on a few things. The first being that District Two produces the most commodities: weapons, peacekeepers, and stone mining. The second being that in my story, I have District Two covering the land area of Arizona and Utah, and have designed Two East (Phoenix, Arizona) especially as a large, urban center. The last being that I think the the Capitol's population has to be relatively small in comparison to some of the districts, like Ten and Eleven, which I think are larger because they produce agriculture and meat for the entire country.
District Twelve is also small in terms of both land space and population, with the seam being ten minutes walking distance from the center of town, and holding an estimated population of 8000.
Written: July 21st, 2012
Edited: April 2nd, 2017