A/N: I love the Hunger Games, and after rewatching the movies recently, I wanted to try my hand at writing my own story in that world. I've always found Clove to be a really interesting and cool character, but expectedly unexplored as she wasn't the main character.
So, here is the Hunger Games, but with Clove as the main character.
As of right now, I'm not quite sure if I want to end this story in a canon-compliant way or continue it with a new twist. It's gonna be a game-time call. We'll see what happens.
Also, I'm a huge Clato shipper, sorry.
Obligatory Footnote: I will be combining elements from the films and the books and filling in details with what I think fits best for the story I'm telling. The characters' appearances are the same as in the movie because I find that to be the most tangible version of Clove.
Disclaimer: I don't own Clove, the Hunger Games, or any of the other characters; I'm just borrowing them :)
Thanks to my wonderful beta reader, Grammarly Premium
The sky is still dark when I wake up. Groaning, I kick the covers off and rub the sleep out of my eyes. I only have about an hour and a half of peace to myself, and I don't plan to waste it.
Especially since today is the reaping.
My last day in District 2.
I quietly slip out of bed, reaching for the shirt and pair of shorts I laid out before falling asleep. I pull them on before stepping into my brother's old leather boots that sit on the floor next to my bed.
Careful not to step on the creaky floorboard by the doorway, I sneak out of the bedroom.
Empty liquor bottles cover our kitchen table and litter the ground underneath. In the dim light that filters through the window, I can make out my father slumped over the table, snoring. He must've come in drunk while I was asleep.
I creep past him, the rubber soles of my boots muffling my steps.
I slowly push open the front door and am met with a rush of warm summer air as I slip outside.
On any typical day, our section of District 2 would already be crawling with quarrymen and masons leaving for their morning shift. It's easy to tell who works the quarries; worn hands, steel-toed boots, and work pants covered in a perpetual layer of stone dust that gets on everything.
Had today not been the reaping, my father would already have left by now, off to supervise the first shift extracting granite a few miles from here. Most days, I'd lay in bed, pretending to be asleep, until I heard the crunching of his boots fade down the road.
I step out onto the empty road, bouncing on my toes as I test my boots. The soft leather has molded to my feet from use, making them perfect for running.
Digging my feet into the gravel, I set off at a relaxed, loping pace. I'm running far today, and there's no need to tire myself out too quickly.
I love running. It clears my head. It forces me to focus on my breathing, the ache in my legs, and the impact of my feet against the ground.
It's also an excuse to get out of the house.
My father despises the quarries. Apparently, he wanted to become a Peacekeeper until his leg was smashed by a large chunk of rock, ruining his chance. So now he works as a shift foreman, leaving early in the morning and returning in a stupor late at night.
Peacekeepers and stone, that's what District 2 is known for. Officially, we're only recognized for masonry and stonework, but the not-so-subtle recruitment tactics, areas restricted to authorized personnel, and constant hoverplane flights say otherwise. A vast fortified mountain sits at the district's center, turned into a virtually impenetrable stronghold by the Capitol.
Masonry is simply the unglamorous industry that hides the training grounds and stockpiles for Panem's finest in plain sight.
I increase my pace, boots grinding against the rough asphalt. My hands tingle, and sweat drips down my face as I roll up my sleeves.
District 2's intimate association with the Peacekeepers is a major factor in why we're usually so dominant in the games. The desire for glory and riches that inspires citizens to serve as Peacekeepers is the same that drives young men and women to volunteer for the games - the mentality of soldiers, of warriors.
The ethos of a victor.
The other reason for our exceptional performance is our tributes are trained years in advance, long before they ever set foot in the arena. We even have a dedicated academy for recruiting and training future tributes. And it's not just District 2; Districts 1 and 4 also provide their tributes with every advantage, cultivating them for their moment in the nation's spotlight.
Collectively, we're called 'Careers.'
My brother was also a Career.
I was twelve when Mark lost his Hunger Games. He was supposed to be a victor, to be my parents' ticket to an easy life.
I thought everything he did was incredible.
Growing up, I had wanted to be a career like him. Occasionally, when I had to escape the house, I'd sneak over to the tribute academy to watch him train. The instructors - victors from past games, skilled and knowledgeable in their own right - continue to speak highly about him, almost out of reverence for his talent.
But in the end, all of Mark's athleticness and skill couldn't save him from the male tribute from District 9 burying a knife in his back. I watched him die on television, screaming his name.
Not a day goes by that I don't miss him.
A steep hill crests before me as I near the halfway point of my morning run. I pump my arms and lift my knees, straining to reach the top for the sunrise.
When the incline finally flattens out, I slow my pace, going over to a small outcropping of rocks beside the road. I sit on the nearest one, resting my hands on my knees, gasping raggedly for breath in the thin mountain air.
From up here I can see the entirety of Cotaria, the main town of District 2. Set between two mountain ranges, Cotaria stretches to encompass the entire valley. Stone buildings of varying sizes and manufacturing facilities that spew black smoke are scattered about in clusters, standing prominent over the sea of houses.
In the center of the valley sits our Justice Building, a large archaic structure made of gleaming white marble, its roof held up by a series of elegant pillars. Across the main square, a pair of train tracks wind through the town, leading to the tunnel into the Peacekeeper's mountain stronghold a few miles outside the edge of town.
For five years, Mark and I used to run to this very spot every morning. I remember he'd always be out in front, yelling for me to catch up to him, using the nickname he'd called me since I was born; 'Clover.'
I can run much faster now. Still not as fast as he was, but close.
Mark was thrilled when I told him I wanted to be a career like him, and from then on did his absolute best to teach me everything he knew. He taught me how to throw my first knife and build my first fire, and he even shared the workouts his instructors gave him.
I begged my parents to let me compete for a slot at the academy. Instead, I was told that someone would have to be around to clean and cook in the new house when Mark won his game. Mark would spend hours arguing with my father, trying to convince him that it was what I wanted, that I had a natural talent for knife throwing.
A few weeks before my 10th birthday, Mark suddenly took me on an impromptu trip into the mountains so I could get some 'hands-on' experience and learn some practical survival skills.
Those were the best four days of my life.
My parents were furious with Mark once we returned, saying he wasted time he could've spent training. He ignored them, proudly explained everything he had taught me, and handed me a bread knife to throw right there in the kitchen.
The very next day, my father begrudgingly agreed to let me contend for a spot at the academy, if only as an 'insurance policy.' With Mark's coaching and my slowly maturing skills, my acceptance a week later was a foregone conclusion. But it still wasn't enough.
I sit on my rock, staring out at the distant mountain range as the sky slowly turns a dull orange. The rising sun, still occluded by the mountain range, casts a purplish-orange glow across the scattered clouds. Golden light spills over the mountaintops in the distance, making their snowcaps glisten.
A District 2 sunrise never fails to take my breath away, especially from me and Mark's spot.
In a way, it feels as if he's never left.
Brilliant light covers the valley, making the marble of the Justice Building sparkle in the distance.
With a sigh, I stand up from my rock.
I set off down the mountain at a slow jog, quickening my pace as I reach the bottom. With luck, I'll make it back before my parents wake. Not that it would make a difference anyway.
"Shut the door," my father snaps as I walk in, legs aching and dripping sweat.
He's awake, how lovely.
"You ready for today?" he asks me, slurring his words as he struggles to stand.
"Ready for what?" I reply, immediately defensive.
"To volunteer. To win."
This catches me off guard. After raising not one but two Careers, he knows better than to suggest this.
Ideally, the academy instructors select the best eighteen-year-old student from each gender to volunteer. Waiting until the students are eighteen to volunteer allows the academy to maximize their training time. It also improves the chances of a win for District 2.
But the process of volunteering for the games isn't well defined, and while District 2 typically sends two eighteen-year-olds, it is not unusual to occasionally see younger tributes.
"You already know I'm too young," I say irritably. "I have three more years to train."
My father slams his hand down on the table, knocking over a few empty bottles.
"I'm tired of this!" he yells, gesturing around him. "No, you're volunteering, and that's final."
"She's still too small," my mother protests half-heartedly.
She stands beside the stovetop, stirring the stew she's making for lunch. "The longer she trains, the better her chances are-"
My father scoffs. "A few more years won't make much of a difference."
He looks at me, sizing me up. "She's ready now, aren't you?"
My mother walks into the room, drying her hands on a towel.
"As long as she gets us out of here," she says relentingly.
There's no point in arguing.
I turn and walk to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. My parents continue to talk, not even bothering to lower their voices.
"I don't care how much praise those idiots at the academy shower her with," I hear my father grunt. "Best in her class, unbelievable. She isn't half what Mark was."
"No, she isn't," my mother agrees. "No amount of running or knife throwing is going to change that. But she's our only chance left."
Wiping away tears, I turn towards the empty tub and open the faucet, filling it with cold water.
After scrubbing the stone dust and sweat off my body, I wrap myself in a towel and head to my bedroom.
A soft pink sundress, an old one of my mother's, lays on my bed. No doubt she chose it for me herself.
Like I don't know how to dress myself.
Reluctantly I pull on the sundress and slip back into my boots. I gather my hair into a ponytail.
My mother frowns at my hair as I walk back into the room, but she says nothing. A few minutes of tense silence pass between us before my mother and father go to change.
An hour later, we walk to the town square, my father wobbling as he walks beside my mother. I trail a few paces behind, out of sight and hopefully out of mind, at least for now.
As we near the center square, my father whispers something to her. My mother looks at him apprehensively, but he waves her on. She continues walking as he waits impatiently for me to catch up, teetering slightly.
My father pulls me close to him as soon as I come within arm's reach.
"Listen here, girl," he says, lowering his voice. "Your mother thinks you aren't ready, and god knows I agree with her."
He continues, and I can smell the alcohol lingering on his breath as he grabs me by the neck of my dress.
"But, if you don't volunteer today, don't bother coming home. Do you understand me?"
"I do," I say, trying to keep my voice even. I do understand him.
I'd already made up my mind weeks ago. Watching the morning sun peak over the mountaintops, all alone, I had made a choice.
I was going to volunteer for the Hunger Games. And win.
