Chelsea was a Career tribute.
Born and bred Victor, she was, from a long line of Victors. Had learned to fight with sickles, with axes, hammers, plows, swords. Hand-to-hand, too. When she stood onstage with the light gleaming off of her coppery hair, everyone in the Capitol knew – she was deadly. Deadly and gorgeous.
She goes into the arena with the sponsors already fawning over her, showering her with silver parachutes, the other tributes already terrified of her, and she takes her Cornucopia sickle and reaps them all.
There's no contest. Even the Career tribs fall to her and her sickle, and she is pulled out of the arena still sticky from the blood of her conquests.
Her brother Mark dies in the Games the next year. The seventeen-year-old who had dismembered her brother looks up at the cameras with a bloody smile and blond hair streaked red, almost pink.
"She killed my sister," the boy with blond-almost-pink hair says. "Now I've killed her brother. We're even, you Career whore."
Lily Woo wins that year, and Rick Evans dies at her hand. Chelsea hisses at the black-haired woman who is all red silks and deadly daggers.
She had no right. Rick Evans should have become Victor, then Chelsea would have taken her time carving him up all pretty, bleeding out and staining his blond hair true bloodred.
Mark was hers. Hers to kill for. Hers to save.
Rick Evans should have died at Chelsea 's hand, for the sin of killing her brother. She hates and resents Lily Woo for stealing that right.