As if there aren't already enough CxC fics floating around, eh? But, apart from AxF they're my favorite 'ship, so I had to write this story for myself. (:
Clove POV
I stroke my long, dark chestnut locks and sit down at my desk. A cracked mirror reflects me, and I examine my face critically. My eyes are almond-shaped and striking, gray with swirls of green and brown. My skin is naturally pale, and a scattering of freckles are sprinkled across my nose and cheeks. I'm of medium height, and my training has given me muscles; not disgusting bulges, but sleek ripples visible in my arms and legs. I have distinct, pointed facial features, and curved eye-brows rise high above my eyes, always giving me a look of arrogance, no matter my mood. I'm some-what pretty, not by District 1 or Capitol standards, but by my own. I'm unique.
I give myself more time at the mirror, straightening my hair out. Today is the Reaping. I'm not volunteering. I'm 16, and plan to volunteer the day of my 6th and final reaping. I'm amazing with knifes, but I must absolutely perfect my skills before I go into the arena.
District 2… we don't train because we want to. We train because we have to. If it weren't for the Games, none of us would be cruel. We'd be happy, care-free teenagers with nothing more on our mind than crushes and friends. But, instead, we train, to please the Capitol and to prove to them that we will not bow beneath their Games. District 2 is by-far the most skilled District. District 1 trails us closely; 4 trails us distantly. We're killers, and the other districts hate us. But do we really have a choice? It's killed or be killed. Survival of the fittest. We had a chance to take action, and we did. It's hard not to feel sorry for the other Districts. We kill their children almost every year; apart from a few stray Games where a weakling has lucked out. The Capitol favors us because of our lack of rebellion so many years ago; and in return we receive life for our children. Other Districts are incredibly poor, incredibly under-fed, and lack the hope and ambition it takes to defeat the Hunger Games. Their tributes never stand a fighting chance. Being a killer is morally wrong. I understand. But heaven's probably a hell of a lot better than this world, and, anyway, if it's me or some random kid, you know who I'm picking.
The concept of training in this district is simple. Down-on-their-luck kids come here, rather than a District home. We're trained and made into something useful. Most of us are dropped off here, abandoned by our parents; others are found on the streets and taken in by workers. We're trained intensely, extremely, until we've absolutely mastered a skill or two. My talent is knives. Most of us do well in combat weapons, but a small few master archery. We're trained, day and night, by former victors and professional trainers. They want the honor and the glory of the District to continue, and even if that means doing nothing but training children, it's worth it. All of us must volunteer. Some do so at 15, others at 18. Those who do not, even if not willingly, are scorned and work as trainers here for the rest of their lives. See why the Games are suddenly so appealing? Our lives are horrible. We do not interact with the outside world. We do not have 'friends'. There are about 100 of us residing in the Training Centre, and I personally only know two or three. We are not allowed to interact. Friendship and flings take away from our training focus and ability, according to our trainers. Isolation is healthy.
Apart from completely barring our life, our physical standards are pushed to the limit. Some of us have been lured outside and then chased by a speeding, moving car to test our speed. We're randomly attacked by victors, just to test our reflexes and weapon skills. We're starved and given a limited water supply, and still have to train, for days at a time. We're given cramped, uncomfortable sleeping areas, and in the winter, we sleep with fans blowing on our face and our windows wide open. We're puppets to the District, and the Capitol. It's hard to swallow, but they do not care about any of us. Children like me have died while training and not one victor blinked an eye. Most of them laughed and moved on. Our whole lives, we have been trained to kill. Born to die. We are not allowed lives. We are robots. We do not determine our boundaries, we do not determine our say in things. We are controlled, our lives are given only to impress the filthy muck known as the Capitol. The Games may be a death sentence to others, but they are a chance at freedom for me. As soon as I win, I will come back here, and spit at the feet of every disgusting Trainer that fills this building.
I wish my life had turned out differently. I wish I were growing up in the small, but still happy, middle-class, family area of District 2. The chances of a child being picked from there are rare, and most have volunteers to save them, anyway. I was left here when I was 3 years old. Everyone knows that that's the cut-off. If you send a child under the age of 3 to the Training Centre, or over the age of 7, they will immediately be executed. If they look weak or unable, the same fate awaits them. Workers here don't know much about my mother.. the woman who left me here. They found me, banging on the back door of the Centre, biting my lip angrily and waving a letter in the air, demanding my mother. Even then, the victors had immediately admired my headstrong personality, and I was kept and trained. A worker pocketed the letter the victors normally would've burned and gave it to me as soon as I was old enough to understand it. I pull it out of a secret spot underneath my dresser and read it for nearly the thousandth time.
Dear Clove,
I love you very much, and I sincerely hope they give this letter to you. I know there's not much of a chance, what with animals being the only victors, but I can still pray.
I brought you to this wretched place so that you would not end up like me. I want you to be strong, and I want you to be powerful. It's hard thinking of you in the Games, but I know you can win them, if you're the right mix of your father and I. I suppose it's time I tell you about your birth … it may be shameful, but, Clove, you're gorgeous, on the inside and out, so don't fret. Your father won his Games, and I fell under his charm shortly after he returned home. I shortly became pregnant. At the time, my parents had arranged a marriage for me so I rushed into it. My husband's family was of government status and refusing could've gotten us all killed. I pretended you were his, but I told your real father the truth. After you were born, your father truly did adore you, and as you grew a bit older, he told me how much you reminded him of us. He wanted to be with me, but I was already married to a prestigious man. It couldn't happen. Still, we frequently met, you, him, and I. My husband suspected something, because as you grew you weren't displaying any signs of his dry, bitter, and callous behavior. Nor did you inherit any of his… unfortunate looks. He hired someone to track us and promptly shot your father. He didn't kill me, nor you, simply because he had had a few years thinking you were his child. First opportunity I got, I took you here. You'll be safe, and if your sorry 'step-dad' ever tries to come after you, you can whip his butt.
I wish I could express how much I love you through a few sentences. I wish I could've raised you. I'm sorry my poor decisions led to the destruction of your childhood, and I hope you can forgive me.
Love, Mother.
Even after all these years, it's evident where the ink is blotched because of her tears. A few scribbled hearts follow her name. Even after getting to know this letter like the back of my hand, certain points still make me cry, and others make me laugh. I would've loved to have known my Mother. I certainly inherited her personality. Simply from the letter, she shows strength, stubbornness, unwillingness to be controlled and, still, a touch of softness lines her hard exterior. Exactly like me. I would've liked to have known my father, too. It seems my knack for knife-throwing was a gift from him.. knowing that he was a victor makes me even more confident in my skills. It'd be so easy to figure out who he was… I could easily gather up all the information my Mother gave me, and ask any of my trainers about him. Add a sneer and distaste to your tone and you can lure anything out of them. But I prefer the sheathe of mystery added to my background. It's better to wonder and imagine than to know, at least in my case.
Before I leave my small room, I straighten out my bed. The covers are gray and dull, the mattress ridden with broken springs. The Capitol stamp is displayed lazily on the end of my blankets, and I fold it over, shaking my head in disgust. As I'm about to leave, a shudder passes through me. Why does today feel so ominous? To cheer myself up, I yank my knife out of my boot. I slowly carve my name onto my dresser, neatly tracing the letters of my name in script. Maybe, when I become a victor, the next girl that lives in this room will pull strength from my name. Maybe the dresser will be put in a museum, or something. I smile to myself, fold the letter and gently place it in my upper pocket. Normally, I'd keep it hidden in my room, but I have a feeling I'll need the luck today. I'm wearing durable black leggings and a padded sweat-shirt, and armor shields the most vulnerable points on my body. I swiftly tie my hair into a knotted braid, stuff my knife back into my boot and head down the stairs. Our room and board is located above the Training Centre, in a cluttered attic. Our rooms are literally miniscule, and only consist of a bed and a small dresser. Our rooms are locked on the inside and out to prevent us from seeing each other; and each of us have a set time in which we are to come down and train. I slowly climb down the ladder that connects our rooms to the center, and as I finally reach the floor a knife whizzes past my face. I slide to the right just in time, and yank my knife out of my boot and whip it at the trainer who nearly killed me. He ducks out of the way clumsily and the knife lodges itself in the wall behind him. If only..
The victors slap my back and cheer in encouragement. I only smile arrogantly as I hear them whisper. "She's a winner for sure." I raise my chin and walk over to the knife station. Yes, I will be a winner. The 76th Hunger Games cannot come fast enough…
Slowly, others like myself come down the ladder and begin to train. We only have two hours of training before the reaping, and this is the only time of the year we're allowed to be together. I examine my peers. There are no eighteen year old girls this year, so no girl will be volunteering, or maybe a seventeen year old will. I particularly size them up. None of them possess my amount of skill. They're flawed in technique, and it's easy to see they're taking the District 1 female tribute approach. They're relying on beauty, not skill or strength, to take them home. The men are different. They're skilled. I could easily kill most of them, since the only thing between their ears is air, but it'd take a fight.. I continue flinging knives into targets, flawlessly and easily receiving a bulls-eye each time. I'm completely lost in my world, pushing myself to throw stronger and straighter. I slowly move farther back each time, and yet there are still not ruts in my shots. My years of training have paid off.
It takes me a second to notice that everyone is watching me. Some in envy, others in respect. I forcefully pull my lips into a cruel smirk and begin staring contests with those examining me. All eyes' leave mine; except for those belonging to a man I've never met. I might've been fooled into thinking he was a trainer, if it weren't for his outfit and the spear he's gripping in his hand. Dummies, struck down by his hand, lay in piles on the floor in front of him. His ice blue eyes are cold, but amused. His blonde hair is spiked, and muscles bulge out of his sleeves. He's attractive, in a rugged, dangerous way. But I refuse to be intimidated. He smirks at me and I smile, mischievously but threateningly, back. He's challenging me. My eyes don't leave his as I back up. I'm extremely far from my target now. If I miss, I will not only be humiliated, I will be beaten. I'm still staring at him, my eyes not even on my target, as I thrust a knife from my hand with all the might I can muster up. From the corner of my eye, I can see it's landed spot-on the middle, and I resist the urge to do a dance of victory. I instead stare at the man. I wonder, is he 18 yet? And is he volunteering? He lets out a small chuckle of disbelief and nods acceptingly at me. I've gained his admiration. I indulge in a chance to annoy him, even though we've only just met, and for the remaining twenty minutes of training, I only watch him as he absolutely destroys dummies. He acknowledges my presence, and it only makes him spear dummies more viciously.
A bell rings, and it's time for us to all go to the Reapings. The man puts his spear down and smiles at me. "Impressed?" I roll my eyes. "Very," I hold out my hand. "I'm Clove." He grins at me. "Cato. So, the most-skilled trainees this Centre has ever had finally meet," We shake hands. He's putting up a smooth act, but I can tell he's surprised that I'm not intimidated by him. Most people don't approach him for casual conversation.. We walk to the Reapings together, and both of us laugh at the horrified expressions of normal citizens as we walk by. They rarely see us, and our cold expressions are enough to make anyone wet their pants. "Cato, I'm bored. How about we kill some more people?" I make my voice threatening and low. "Amazing idea, Clove. You know I love seeing the light leave their eyes," He shouts loudly. We start to explode in laughter as people formerly walking near us run off, terror on their faces. I'm surprised… I've made a friend. It feels nice, warm, and new. We remain in comfortable silence for the rest of the walk, and before we part I stop. "Cato, how old are you?" I ask quietly, seriously. "I'm 18." He says. "I'm volunteering this year." He looks at me, trying to appear unbothered but looking slightly disappointed. I'm his first friend, too. "We should meet up some-time, after I'm crowned victor. I'll be back in a week," He smiles at me. I wave to him, trying to disguise my feelings of unhappiness. "Kill a few tributes for me, will ya!" I joke, smiling at him. He nods and winks, walking to the section of 18 year olds. I let myself into the rope made for 16 year olds and wait. I wonder who'll be picked for the girl tribute. No one is volunteering this year; our trainers allowed that because of Cato, I guess. He's an absolute victor.
Our escort is already on stage, and our many victors are lined up behind her. Our escort is perky, and smug; she did land the most successful District, after all. She drones on about the Capitol; how grateful we should be. She picks the male tribute first, as usual. A wimpy kid is called – he must be from that small area of middle class – and Cato quickly volunteers. Maybe I should visit him in the Justice Building … he won't have anyone else. He's … cool. We're compatible. It's nice to think that someone may think the same of me. A shudder runs through me as our escort plunges her hand in the female glass bowl.
Stop, Clove. Stop. You have two more years of training to go before you enter the arena; Cato's winning this year.
My hands start to sweat as our escort reads the name.
It won't be you. It won't be you..
It's me.
