(Hunger Games Fanfiction – Clove’s Perspective)
Part 1: Forged in Stone, Honed for Glory
Chapter 1: The Weight of Expectation
The dust of the quarry settled deep in your lungs long before you ever learned to walk properly. In District 2, you breathed it, ate it, slept in it. It coated the rough stone buildings, clung to the perpetually grey sky, and settled on the faces of the grimly determined people who carved mountains into submission for the Capitol. But deeper than the stone dust, thicker than the smog from the Peacekeeper ordnance factories, was the weight of expectation.
My name is Clove Kentwell. And in District 2, names like mine weren’t just given; they were investments. Potential etched onto a birth certificate. From the moment I could hold a rock steady, my path was clear. Not the quarries, not the factories. The Academy. The place where potential was hammered into lethal certainty.
The Training Academy wasn’t a school; it was a forge. We weren’t students; we were raw materials – iron ore to be smelted, impurities burned away, shaped, sharpened, and tempered until we were weapons worthy of the Hunger Games. Worthy of bringing glory back to District 2.
I excelled. Not out of passion, not initially. Out of necessity. Out of the burning need to escape the suffocating mediocrity that awaited those who failed. Weakness wasn’t just discouraged; it was culled. Fall behind in sparring? You were cleaning latrines. Flinch during knife drills? You were quarry fodder tomorrow. The pressure was immense, constant, a physical thing you carried alongside the weighted training vests.
Knives felt natural. An extension of my own focused fury. The cold weight in my palm, the satisfying thwack as the blade embedded itself precisely where I willed it – bullseye, throat, eye socket. Each hit was a small victory, a step further away from the dust, a step closer to the roar of the Capitol crowd. I practiced until my hands bled, until the calluses were thick as leather, until I could map the trajectory in my sleep, accounting for wind, distance, movement. Precision was my shield, lethality my promise.
And then there was Cato.
Cato Hadley. He was the other side of the District 2 coin. Where I was precise and controlled fury, he was raw power, a barely contained avalanche. Blond hair, eyes like chips of ice, and a physique built like the mountain stone we carved. He favored swords, heavy weapons that matched his brute force approach. We’d circled each other since we were children, rivals pushed together by ambition and circumstance.
We trained together, sparred together, bled together. There was a grudging respect, a shared understanding forged in the relentless crucible of the Academy. We knew the goal: one of us, maybe both if the stars aligned and the rules bent, would stand victorious in the Arena. We were District 2’s best hope, the culmination of years of intense, brutal preparation.
Sometimes, in the rare moments of quiet after a grueling session, collapsed on the mats, sweat stinging our eyes, a different kind of tension would flicker between us. A glance held too long, a brush of hands that felt less accidental than it should. But it was always swallowed by the bigger ambition. Victory first. Everything else was a distant second, a luxury we couldn’t afford. The Games demanded singular focus. Attachments were liabilities.
The year I turned sixteen was different. The air crackled with it. Everyone knew. It was our year. Cato’s and mine. The whispers in the training hall, the assessing glances from the trainers, the extra rations slipped onto our trays – it all pointed to the inevitable.
The day of the Reaping dawned grey and oppressive, same as always. But today, the usual grit in the air felt charged. I dressed meticulously in the drab grey uniform assigned for the ceremony. No point in finery. Our tribute would come not from the lottery balls, but from the ranks of the volunteers. That was the District 2 way.
Standing in the designated square, surrounded by other sixteen-year-olds, I kept my face a mask of stony indifference. Inside, my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. This wasn’t fear, not exactly. It was anticipation, sharp and metallic, like the taste of blood before a fight. Years of training, lifetimes of expectation, converging on this single moment.
Our escort, Brutus, a former victor built like a brick wall with a voice like grinding stones, lumbered onto the stage. He recited the same tired lines about the Dark Days, the generosity of the Capitol, the honor of the Games. Honor. We choked on the word daily, force-fed it until it became part of our DNA.
The glass bowls spun. The girls’ names first. Brutus’s thick fingers fumbled, retrieving a slip. He cleared his throat. “Elara Thane.”
A gasp from somewhere in the crowd. A thin, mousy girl with eyes wide with terror. Quarry stock. Definitely not Academy.
Before Elara could fully process her doom, my voice cut through the silence, clear and sharp.
“I volunteer as tribute!”
The words hung in the air, heavy with finality. A path chosen, not assigned. A collective sigh of relief rippled through the designated section for sixteen-year-old girls. Elara Thane stumbled back, tears streaming down her face, melting into the anonymity of the crowd.
I walked towards the stage, head held high, shoulders back. Every eye was on me. Trainers, Peacekeepers, fellow Academy students, the dust-covered masses. I could feel their expectations settle onto my shoulders, heavier than any training vest. This was it. The culmination.
Brutus gave a grim, approving nod. He knew the script.
Then, the boys’ bowl. Another name, another nobody destined for a short, brutal end.
And then Cato’s voice, deeper, rougher than mine, but just as resolute. “I volunteer as tribute!”
He strode onto the stage, a mirror image of my own controlled confidence, though his radiated a more overt menace. We stood side-by-side, District 2’s chosen weapons. Cato caught my eye, a flicker of… something. Understanding? Challenge? Alliance? Probably all three. We gave the briefest, almost imperceptible nod. The partnership was sealed. Not by choice, but by District decree and shared ambition.
As we shook hands for the cameras, the obligatory gesture of district unity, his grip was firm, almost crushing. A reminder of the power he wielded, and perhaps, a warning. We were partners, yes. But in the end, only one could truly win. Unless the Capitol decided otherwise.
The train journey to the Capitol was a jarring transition. From the grey austerity of District 2 to the opulent, almost sickeningly colourful train carriage felt like stepping onto another planet. Plush velvet seats, endless food we’d only dreamed of, attendants catering to every whim. It was designed to soften us, perhaps. To make us appreciate what we were fighting for – the Capitol’s continued indulgence.
Cato and I barely spoke. We ate, observed our mentor – Enobaria Golding, famous for ripping another tribute’s throat out with her teeth in her Games, now sporting sharpened gold fang implants – and sized up the grainy footage of the other districts’ reapings playing on a loop.
Most were pathetic. Crying children, terrified teenagers dragged onto the stage. District 1, Glimmer and Marvel, looked polished but soft, Capitol darlings more concerned with their angles than actual combat. The girl from 11, Rue, was tiny, practically invisible. The boy from 11, Thresh, was huge, radiating a quiet intensity that registered as a potential threat, filed away for later.
And then there was District 12. Katniss Everdeen, the girl who volunteered for her sister. A flicker of surprise – volunteering was our thing. She looked underfed, feral, but her eyes held a spark of defiance. And the boy, Peeta Mellark. Baker’s son. Looked soft, harmless. Easy prey.
Enobaria drilled strategy into us between bites of rich cake. “Stick together. Form the Career pack early. Control the Cornucopia. Eliminate threats quickly. Don’t get sentimental. Don’t get cocky.” Her gold teeth flashed when she smiled, which wasn’t often. “Make District 2 proud. Failure isn’t an option.”
We knew. Failure meant returning home in shame, a pariah. Or worse, not returning at all. Victory was the only acceptable outcome. Glory or death. In District 2, there was rarely anything in between.
As the train sped towards the blinding lights of the Capitol, I gripped the phantom weight of a knife in my hand. The forge had done its work. Now, it was time to see how sharp the blade truly was.
Chapter 2: The Gilded Cage
The Capitol assaulted the senses. A riot of garish colours, bizarre fashions, and the cloying scent of synthetic perfumes mixed with exhaust fumes. The citizens were painted and surgically altered monstrosities, their eyes wide with manic excitement, screaming our names as we were paraded from the train station like prize livestock. They adored us, the Careers. We were their favourites, the ones bred and trained for this spectacle. Their cheers felt hollow, parasitic. They wanted a show, a bloodbath, and we were the star performers.
Our prep team descended upon us like brightly coloured insects. Venia, Flavius, Octavia – they plucked, waxed, scrubbed, and styled until I barely recognized the girl in the mirror. They chattered inanely about Capitol gossip, oblivious or perhaps indifferent to the fact they were polishing a weapon for slaughter. They stripped away the District 2 grime, replacing it with Capitol gloss. Underneath it all, the core remained – honed, sharp, waiting.
The Tribute Parade was our first real introduction to Panem. Dressed in ridiculous costumes meant to represent our districts – metallic silver armour for Cato and me, supposed to evoke masonry and weaponry – we rode chariots through the throngs. The armour was heavy, impractical, but undeniably intimidating. We played our part, waving stiffly, projecting confidence and lethality. Cato looked magnificent, a golden god of war. I felt… exposed, despite the metal. The cheers washed over me, a wave of manufactured adoration. I scanned the crowd, looking for any sign of genuine threat assessment, finding only vapid excitement.
Katniss and Peeta from District 12 stole the show with their ridiculous flaming costumes. A cheap gimmick, designed by their clearly eccentric stylist. Still, it got them noticed. Annoying. Attention meant sponsors, and sponsors meant survival. I made a mental note: the girl, Everdeen, wasn’t just defiant; she was clever. Or at least, her team was.
The Training Center was a temporary reprieve, a return to something familiar: assessment, strategy, intimidation. The other tributes sized each other up, alliances forming and dissolving in subtle glances. The Career pack coalesced quickly, naturally. Cato and I, Marvel and Glimmer from 1. Strength in numbers, control of the resources. It was standard procedure.
We established dominance early. Cato’s brute strength demonstrations at the weight stations, my unnerving accuracy at the knife-throwing range. We made sure everyone saw. Fear was a weapon as potent as any blade. Let the others tremble. Let them know who ruled the early days of the Games.
I watched Katniss Everdeen closely. She kept to herself mostly, quiet, observant. She handled a bow with surprising skill, but lacked polish. Still, there was that spark. Then came her private session with the Gamemakers. An eleven. An eleven? Unheard of for a District 12 tribute. Whispers rippled through the Center. What had she done? Shot an apple out of a roast pig’s mouth, apparently. Audacious. Reckless. Impressive, damn it. It shifted the dynamic. She wasn’t just the ‘girl on fire’ gimmick anymore. She was a target. A potentially dangerous one.
Cato was dismissive. “Showboating. Means nothing in the Arena.”
“An eleven means the Gamemakers are interested,” I countered, sharpening one of my practice knives. “Interest means camera time. Camera time means sponsors. And it means they won’t let her die easily.”
“She dies when we find her,” Cato growled, slamming a practice sword into its stand.
The interviews were another performance. Caesar Flickerman, with his chameleon hair and painted smile, knew how to work the crowd and the tributes. Glimmer simpered, Marvel flexed. Cato played the strong, silent, deadly type, promising a good show. When it was my turn, I walked out coolly, letting the Capitol see the predator.
“Clove,” Caesar boomed, his voice echoing through the auditorium. “District 2. Known for your… precision, shall we say?”
I gave a small, sharp smile. “Among other things, Caesar.”
“Tell me, what’s your strategy going into the Arena?”
“Find the others. Win.” Simple. Direct. Lethal. That’s what they wanted.
“And your knives? Rumour has it you never miss.”
“Rumours are often unreliable,” I said, letting the implication hang. “But I practice.”
“I bet you do!” He chuckled, playing to the audience. “Any messages for the folks back home? Or perhaps… for your fellow tributes?”
My eyes scanned the camera, imagining the faces of the other tributes watching backstage. I focused on the lens, picturing Katniss Everdeen. “I’d say… may the best tribute win. But we all know who that will be.” A threat wrapped in confidence. Let them know who was coming for them. Let her know.
The night before the Games was restless. We were housed in luxurious apartments high above the city, the Capitol stretching out below like a glittering, malevolent beast. Cato and I shared a tense silence. The partnership held, but the unspoken truth loomed: soon, the rules would force us apart, unless we were the last two standing.
“The District 12 girl,” I said finally, staring out at the city lights. “Everdeen. She’ll be a problem if we let her live too long.”
Cato joined me at the window, his reflection stern in the glass. “She runs, we hunt. She hides, we find her. She fights, she dies. Simple.”
“Nothing’s simple in the Arena, Cato.”
He turned, his icy eyes meeting mine. “We’re District 2, Clove. We were born for this. Trained for this. We don’t lose.”
His certainty was almost convincing. Almost. But I’d seen the flicker of doubt in the eyes of past victors during their obligatory mentoring sessions. The Arena changed people. Broke them. Even Careers.
“Just… be careful,” I said, the words feeling foreign on my tongue.
He gave a short, barking laugh. “Careful? Where’s the fun in that?” He clapped me roughly on the shoulder. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow, the fun begins.”
But sleep didn’t come easily. The gilded cage of the Capitol felt suffocating. I lay awake, tracing the patterns on the ridiculously high ceiling, the weight of a thousand expectations pressing down. Glory or death. The mantra of District 2. Tomorrow, I would step into the Arena and claim one or the other. My hand instinctively clenched, feeling the phantom grip of a knife. Ready.
Part 2: The Bloodbath and the Hunt
Chapter 3: Sixty Seconds to Impact
The Hovercraft ride to the Arena staging area was silent, sterile. Gone were the prep teams, the mentors, the Capitol crowds. Just the stark reality of the Gamemakers’ final preparations. A tracker injected into my forearm – a violation, a leash – followed by the anonymous efficiency of being dressed in the standard Arena fatigues. Practical, durable, devoid of personality. We were all equals now, stripped down to our essential purpose: kill or be killed.
Then, the Launch Room. Small, metallic, claustrophobic. Below my feet, the circular plate that would lift me into hell. Above, only darkness. The announcer’s voice, tinny and impersonal, echoed: “Tributes, prepare for launch. Sixty seconds.”
Sixty seconds. An eternity and no time at all. My heart hammered, a frantic drum against my ribs. This wasn’t the controlled anticipation of the Reaping; this was the raw, primal surge of adrenaline before impact. My breath hitched. Breathe. Control it. Years of training clicked in. Scan the environment (darkness). Assess threats (unknown). Prepare weapon (mental visualization – the knives waiting at the Cornucopia).
My eyes darted around, though there was nothing to see. Cato would be in the tube next to mine. Marvel, Glimmer, flanking us. The rest scattered around the circle. Where would 12 be? Everdeen? The baker boy? Focus. The Cornucopia. That golden horn spilling riches – weapons, food, supplies. The focal point. The kill zone.
Enobaria’s words echoed: Control the Cornucopia. That meant immediate, overwhelming force. No hesitation. Kill anyone who challenged the Careers’ claim. Secure the best gear. Establish the stronghold.
Thirty seconds. My palms were sweating. I wiped them discreetly on my trousers. Unacceptable. Weakness. I clenched my fists, driving my nails into my palms. Pain focused the mind. Remember the training. Remember District 2. Remember the promise of glory. Failure is not an option.
I pictured the Arena. Forest? Desert? Arctic? The Gamemakers loved surprises. Didn’t matter. Adapt. Overcome. Survive. Dominate.
Fifteen seconds. The plate beneath my feet vibrated slightly. The ascent was near. A final, deep breath. Push down the fear, let the killer instinct surface. This is what I was made for. My knives were waiting. My purpose was clear.
Ten seconds. Images flashed: the stony faces of District 2, Enobaria’s golden fangs, Cato’s icy glare, Katniss Everdeen’s defiant eyes.
Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Light flooded my vision as the plate surged upwards, lifting me into the blinding glare of the Arena sun.
Chapter 4: The Crimson Horn
The Arena materialized around me: a dense, temperate forest. Tall pines, thick undergrowth, the scent of damp earth and pine needles. In the center, maybe fifty yards away, sat the Cornucopia – a massive golden horn overflowing with supplies, weapons glinting invitingly in the sun. Scattered around it were backpacks, containers, tools. Paradise for the desperate. A deathtrap for the unwary.
My eyes instantly scanned the circle of tributes frozen on their platforms. Cato, powerful and tense, directly opposite. Marvel and Glimmer to my left and right, respectively. Good positioning. District 12… found her. Katniss Everdeen, several platforms away, bow likely her target. The baker boy near her, looking terrified. Others blurring into insignificance, fodder for the initial slaughter.
The gong shattered the silence.
Action. Pure, predatory instinct took over. I sprinted, legs pumping, eating up the distance to the Cornucopia. Years of drills made the movement automatic. Peripheral vision caught the surge of bodies, a wave converging on the horn. Some hesitated, turning to flee into the woods – the smart ones, maybe, but delaying the inevitable. Most charged. Fools.
Chaos erupted. The air filled with screams, the clang of metal on metal, the wet thud of bodies hitting the ground. I ignored it. Target acquisition: knives. A sheath of throwing knives lay gleaming near the mouth of the horn. Mine.
Someone lunged – the boy from 9, I think. Scrawny, desperate. A flash of movement, a clumsy swing with a rock. Amateur. I sidestepped easily, my hand snatching the first knife from the sheath as I moved. A fluid, practiced motion. Wrist flick. The blade spun end over end, embedding itself in his throat with a sickening thunk. He gargled, eyes wide with disbelief, collapsing onto the blood-soaked grass. First kill. No time for reflection.
I grabbed the entire sheath, securing it to my thigh. Perfect. Balanced. Deadly. My weapons.
Cato was already there, a whirlwind of destruction with a massive sword, cutting down the boy from 10. Marvel had claimed a spear, Glimmer a bow and arrows, though she looked less comfortable with it than Everdeen. The Careers were functioning as planned. Securing the prime real estate.
More tributes poured in, grabbing what they could. A girl – District 5? – made a dash for a backpack near me. Mistake. Another knife left my hand. It took her in the back, between the shoulder blades. She screamed, stumbling forward, then fell silent. Two.
The initial bloodbath lasted maybe two minutes, but felt like an hour. A whirlwind of violence. We, the Careers, formed a loose perimeter around the Cornucopia’s main stash, cutting down anyone who dared approach. I moved with deadly efficiency, my knives finding targets with chilling accuracy. The boy from 3, trying to assemble some electronic gadget. Dead. The girl from 7, wielding an axe wildly. Predictable. Easy target. Dead. Four kills already. A good start.
The cannon boomed repeatedly, signalling the deaths. Each boom was a mark of our success, a testament to our superiority.
Then, I saw her. Katniss Everdeen. She hadn’t charged the horn. Instead, she’d sprinted, grabbed a backpack from the edge of the clearing – orange, visible – and was now grappling with the boy from District 9 for it near the woods. Resourceful. Avoiding the main fight, securing basic supplies. Smart. Annoying.
Before I could line up a shot, she wrestled the pack free and disappeared into the trees. Damn it. Let her run. For now.
The baker boy, Peeta Mellark, was surprisingly still alive, grappling clumsily with another tribute near the edge of the supplies. He looked lost, out of his depth. Cato roared, charging towards him, but the boy managed to break free and stumble away, wounded but alive, disappearing into the woods in a different direction than Everdeen. Interesting. Separate. Easier to hunt.
The initial frenzy subsided. The survivors had fled. The clearing around the Cornucopia was littered with bodies, maybe a dozen or more. The ground was slick with blood. The air hung thick with the coppery tang of death.
The Career pack gathered amidst the carnage. Cato, Marvel, Glimmer, myself, and surprisingly, the boy from District 12, Peeta Mellark. He’d somehow circled back or been caught. He stood slightly apart, bleeding from an arm wound, looking pale but resolute.
“What’s he doing here?” Glimmer asked, wrinkling her nose, gesturing at Peeta.
Cato wiped blood from his sword onto the grass. “He fought well enough. Might be useful. Knows the woods, maybe? Besides,” he grinned savagely, “he might lead us to Lover Girl.”
My eyes narrowed. Using the baker boy to find Everdeen? A plausible strategy. Keep your enemies close. But something felt off. Mellark looked… too calm, considering he was surrounded by killers who’d happily gut him.
“Fine,” I said, sheathing my remaining knives. “But keep him on a short leash.”
We surveyed our haul. Weapons, food, water purification tablets, medical supplies, ropes, sleeping bags. Enough to last weeks if managed properly. We established a base camp near the Cornucopia, stacking the supplies. Dominance asserted. The Arena floor was ours.
As night fell, the chilling anthem of Panem played, followed by the projection of the fallen tributes in the sky. Eleven faces. Eleven cannons had sounded. Good odds for us. My face remained impassive as the faces flashed – the boy from 9, the girl from 5, the others whose names I barely registered. Just obstacles removed.
We set watches. I took the second shift with Marvel. The forest was alive with unseen sounds. Every rustle, every snap of a twig, set my nerves on edge. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness and the grim reality of the days ahead.
“Good work today, Clove,” Marvel muttered, fiddling with his spear. He seemed nervous, despite the bravado. District 1 bravado often hid insecurity.
“It’s just the beginning,” I replied, scanning the dark treeline. My gaze kept drifting towards where Katniss Everdeen had disappeared. She was out there. Hunting or being hunted. An eleven. A loose end.
The hunt was on. And she was target number one.
Chapter 5: Chasing Shadows
The first few days were about consolidation and hunting. We, the self-proclaimed Career pack, patrolled the area around the Cornucopia, establishing our territory. Peeta Mellark trailed along, quiet and watchful. He offered tidbits about edible plants (useless, we had Capitol food) and tracking (potentially useful, but Cato preferred straightforward pursuit). His presence was a constant, low-level irritation to me. He was playing a game, I could feel it, but his angle wasn’t clear. Was he truly helping us find Katniss, or was he subtly misleading us?
“Any sign of Lover Girl?” Cato would demand periodically, shoving Peeta.
“She’s smart, Cato,” Peeta would reply evenly, nursing his wounded arm. “She knows how to hide. Probably heading for water.”
Water. Logical. We made a sweep towards the nearest stream indicated on the Gamemakers’ map projected briefly at dawn. Nothing. Just tracks from smaller tributes, easily ignored or eliminated if encountered. We picked off the boy from District 8 during one patrol – cornered him by a stream, a swift end courtesy of Cato’s sword. Another cannon boom. Another face in the sky at night. The list of competitors was shrinking, but the one I wanted most remained elusive.
Katniss Everdeen was proving infuriatingly adept at survival. We’d find signs – a snuffed-out campfire, snare wires cleverly hidden, tracks that vanished on rocky ground. She was moving fast, leaving little trace. It was grating. Careers hunted; we didn’t get evaded by District 12 nobodies.
“She’s making fools of us!” Glimmer whined one evening, applying balm to her blistered hands. Her archery skills were proving less impressive in practice than in training.
“We’ll find her,” Cato snarled, pacing restlessly. His frustration was growing, making him even more volatile. “And when we do…”
“Maybe Peeta’s leading us in circles,” I suggested quietly, watching the baker boy pretend to sleep nearby.
Cato glared at Peeta’s still form. “If he is, he’ll regret it.” But the doubt was planted. Peeta’s value was diminishing rapidly.
Our first real break came unexpectedly. We were tracking near the edge of our established territory when we heard it – a commotion high in the trees, followed by the distinctive buzzing sound. Tracker jackers.
We found the girl from District 4 thrashing on the ground, her body grotesquely swollen, dying from the venomous stings. A dropped nest lay nearby. Foolish. But then, high above, clinging precariously to a branch, was Katniss Everdeen. Sawing at something.
“There!” Marvel hissed, pointing his spear.
She was trapped. The branch she was on looked ready to give way, and the swarm, though dispersing, still lingered below. This was it.
“Shoot her down!” Cato ordered Glimmer.
Glimmer fumbled an arrow, nocked it unsteadily. Her shot went wide, thudding into the tree trunk inches from Katniss’s head. Useless.
Before anyone could react, Katniss finished sawing. The branch didn’t just break; it swung down, carrying a buzzing, agitated mass – another tracker jacker nest – directly towards us.
“Run!” Cato bellowed.
We scattered. Blind panic. The genetically engineered wasps were terrifying, their stings inducing agonizing pain, terrifying hallucinations, and, in large doses, death. I sprinted, ignoring the branches whipping at my face, the angry buzzing growing louder behind me. One caught me on the neck – searing agony shot through me. Another on my arm. I swatted wildly, desperate to get away.
We regrouped by the stream, splashing water on our stings, gasping for breath. Glimmer was sobbing, her face already starting to swell. Marvel looked pale, clutching his shoulder. Cato had several stings but seemed more enraged than hurt. Peeta was unscathed – he’d been lagging behind, conveniently. Suspicious.
“Where is she?” Cato raged, scanning the trees.
We looked back towards the attack site. Katniss was gone. Vanished again. But worse, Glimmer was stumbling back towards the nest tree, disoriented, calling for Marvel.
“Glimmer, get back here!” Cato shouted.
But she didn’t listen. Delirious from the venom, she staggered right under the remnants of the swarm. Her screams were horrific, short-lived. The cannon fired almost immediately.
Another one down. Our own pack member. Killed by Everdeen’s trap and Glimmer’s own stupidity. Frustration curdled into cold fury within me. This girl was not just lucky; she was dangerous. Resourceful. Ruthless in her own way.
We waited, hidden, watching the tree. Eventually, Katniss reappeared, cautiously descending. She looked weak, disoriented herself – likely stung during her escape. She approached Glimmer’s body, hesitated, and then did something unexpected. She took the bow and arrows. Glimmer’s bow.
“She took the bow,” Marvel whispered, eyes wide.
“Let her,” Cato growled, but his eyes held a new level of calculation. “She’s wounded. Probably hallucinating from the venom. Now’s our chance.”
But before we could move, Peeta suddenly yelled, “Katniss! Run! Get out of here!”
We stared at him, stunned by the betrayal. He shoved past us, running towards her, yelling warnings. Katniss, jolted into action, scrambled away and disappeared into the undergrowth just as Cato recovered, roaring in fury.
“Traitor!” Cato bellowed, raising his sword. He swung, but Peeta dodged, stumbling back. Cato advanced, murder in his eyes.
“Wait!” I yelled, stepping between them. My mind raced. Peeta’s betrayal confirmed he was playing his own game, likely protecting Everdeen. But killing him now felt… premature. What if he knew something more? “He’s wounded her,” I said, pointing towards the woods where Katniss vanished. “She won’t get far. He might still be useful, even as bait.” It was a weak argument, but Cato was blinded by rage.
Cato hesitated, his chest heaving. He glared from Peeta’s pale face to the woods where Katniss had fled. Finally, he lowered his sword slightly. “Fine. But you watch him, Clove. One wrong move…” He left the threat hanging.
Peeta clutched his leg where Cato’s sword had apparently grazed him in the earlier scuffle near the Cornucopia – or maybe a new wound? Hard to tell. He didn’t meet my eyes. The dynamic had shifted. The pack was fractured. Glimmer was dead. Peeta was an overt enemy within our ranks. And Katniss Everdeen, armed with a bow and fueled by tracker jacker venom, was still out there.
The hunt had become personal. She wasn’t just a target anymore. She was an insult to District 2, to the Career legacy. And I would be the one to correct that insult, knife by bloody knife.
Part 3: Fractures and Fortitude
Chapter 6: The Pack Thins
The tracker jacker incident left its mark, both physically and psychologically. The stings throbbed, painful reminders of Everdeen’s cunning. Glimmer’s death, though quickly brushed aside in the ruthless calculus of the Games, had thinned our numbers and sown seeds of doubt. Marvel was jumpier, less confident. Cato’s temper simmered constantly just below the surface. And Peeta… Peeta was now openly marked as a traitor, yet inexplicably still alive, trailing us like a wounded ghost.
My initial justification for keeping Peeta alive – potential bait, information – felt increasingly flimsy. Cato clearly wanted him dead. Marvel eyed him with suspicion. Why was I protecting him? Was it purely strategic? Or was some perverse curiosity at play? Watching his game unfold? It didn’t matter. He was a liability. His continued presence actively aided Katniss by diverting our attention and resources.
We tracked Katniss relentlessly for a day, following the signs Peeta grudgingly pointed out – broken twigs, faint footprints, the occasional drop of blood presumably from her stings. The trail led us towards a rocky area with several caves.
“She’ll hole up in one of these,” Cato declared, gesturing towards the cave mouths. “Nowhere left to run.”
We approached cautiously. Peeta lagged behind, his leg wound – real or exaggerated – slowing him down.
“Check that one,” Cato ordered Marvel, pointing to the largest cave entrance. Marvel hesitated, glancing nervously into the darkness.
“Go!” Cato snarled.
Marvel crept forward, spear held ready. He peered inside, then waved us on. “Clear.”
We searched the caves systematically. Nothing. Empty. Cold. Frustration mounted.
“Where is she?” Cato roared, kicking a loose rock.
“Maybe the trail was false,” I suggested, eyeing Peeta again. “Maybe she doubled back.”
Peeta just shrugged, leaning against the rock face, looking pale. “Or maybe she found a better hiding spot.”
As we argued, a cannon fired. Distant, but clear. Who was it? We wouldn’t know until nightfall. Another competitor down. Good. But not the right competitor.
We spent the night uneasily near the caves. I took first watch. The forest felt different now – emptier, yet more dangerous. The remaining tributes were likely the tougher ones, the survivors. Or the desperate ones, which could be just as deadly.
Peeta sat huddled by the low fire, tending to his leg. He hadn’t spoken much since his betrayal. I walked over, knives loose in my sheath.
“Why did you warn her?” I asked quietly, my voice low and dangerous.
He looked up, his blue eyes surprisingly steady in the firelight. “I owed her.”
“Owed her? This is the Hunger Games, not a debt repayment society.”
He gave a small, humourless smile. “Maybe for you Careers. For the rest of us…” He trailed off.
“You think she can win?” I scoffed.
“Someone has to,” he replied softly. “Why not her?”
His quiet conviction was infuriating. It flew in the face of everything District 2 stood for, everything I stood for. Superiority. Training. Ruthlessness. That’s what won the Games. Not sentiment. Not luck. Not District 12 Cinderellas.
“She’ll die,” I stated flatly. “Just like you will, if you keep protecting her.”
He didn’t flinch. “Maybe. But I won’t help you kill her.”
I turned away, disgusted. His loyalty was misplaced, suicidal. But it also confirmed my suspicion: Katniss was likely nearby, possibly wounded, and he was actively covering for her. He needed to be eliminated. Soon.
The face in the sky that night belonged to the girl from District 10. Not Katniss.
The next day brought a new twist. As we were breaking camp, the Gamemakers’ announcement echoed through the trees: Attention Tributes. Attention. There has been a rule change. Under the new rule, both tributes from the same district may win the Hunger Games. This is the only amendment. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favour.
Silence. Then, Cato let out a whoop of raw triumph. He grabbed my shoulders, spinning me around, his icy eyes alight with fierce joy. “You hear that, Clove? Both of us! We can do it! District 2! Victory!”
The relief was palpable, washing away some of the tension that had existed between us since the Reaping. The unspoken competition, the inevitability of one of us having to eliminate the other – gone. Now, we were truly a team. A two-person wrecking crew destined for glory.
“Both of us,” I echoed, a genuine smile finally touching my lips. The path was clear. Eliminate everyone else, then walk out hand-in-hand. District 2’s ultimate triumph.
This changed everything. Our motivation doubled. Our focus sharpened. But it also sealed Peeta’s fate. He was no longer a potential tool or bait. He was simply an obstacle. And more importantly, he was Katniss Everdeen’s district partner. She would be coming for him now, trying to enact this new rule.
“We find Katniss,” Cato declared, his voice ringing with renewed purpose. “We find her, we kill her. Then we hunt down the rest. Starting with him.” He jerked his head towards Peeta, who was watching us, his expression unreadable.
But Peeta spoke first. “If you’re going to kill me,” he said, his voice strained but clear, “do it now. Don’t drag it out.”
Cato grinned savagely. “Oh, I’m not going to kill you. Not yet.” He stalked towards Peeta. “She’ll come for you. The rule change guarantees it. You’re the perfect bait now, Lover Boy.” He grabbed Peeta roughly. “You’re going to lead us right to her.”
Peeta struggled weakly. “I won’t.”
“You will,” Cato growled, twisting his wounded arm. Peeta cried out in pain.
“Enough, Cato!” I snapped. “He’s no use to us delirious with pain. Let him be. She’ll find him eventually.” My earlier defense of Peeta now seemed foolish, naive. He was the key to finding her, and his connection to her was our best weapon.
Reluctantly, Cato shoved Peeta away. Peeta stumbled, collapsing near the stream, clutching his leg, which now looked seriously infected. Blood poisoning, maybe. Good. Let him weaken. It would make Katniss more desperate to reach him.
We left Peeta by the stream, concealed ourselves nearby, and waited. It felt like a turning point. The pack was effectively dissolved – just Cato and me now, a unified force. Our objective was clear. Our victory seemed almost assured. All that stood between us and glory was a girl with a bow, a lovesick baker boy, the big brute from 11 we hadn’t seen since the bloodbath, and maybe the sly girl from 5 nicknamed Foxface. Manageable odds.
The waiting gnawed at my nerves. Hours passed. The sun climbed high, then began to dip. Peeta lay moaning softly by the water, occasionally calling Katniss’s name, his voice weak. Was it genuine delirium or part of his act? It hardly mattered now.
Then, a rustle in the bushes downstream. My hand tightened on the knife hilt. Cato tensed beside me. We exchanged a look. Showtime.
Chapter 7: The Feast and the Fury
It wasn’t Katniss. It was Foxface, the girl from 5. Sly, quick, she darted out, snatched the backpack nearest the Cornucopia during the bloodbath, and had presumably been living off its contents and her wits ever since. She moved like a shadow, observing Peeta from a distance, likely assessing the situation. Smart enough to realize he was bait, or perhaps just too cautious to approach. After a few tense minutes, she melted back into the trees as silently as she’d appeared.
Disappointment warred with grudging respect. Foxface was a survivor. But not a fighter. She wasn’t our primary target.
Another day crawled by. Peeta’s condition worsened. His leg was visibly swollen, streaked with red. His moans became weaker. If Katniss didn’t come soon, the infection or dehydration might claim him first. Part of me almost hoped it would – a less messy resolution. But Cato was adamant. Katniss had to come. He wanted the satisfaction of killing her himself.
Then, Claudius Templesmith’s voice boomed again, announcing a Feast. Not of food, but of need. “Tomorrow at dawn, at the Cornucopia, there will be a feast. Each of you needs something desperately. Each backpack laid out will contain that something.”
Our eyes met. Cato’s and mine. We didn’t need anything desperately. We had food, water, basic medical supplies. But the others? Katniss would need medicine for Peeta. The boy from 11, Thresh, wherever he was, might need something too. Foxface? Who knew. It was a trap, obviously. A way for the Gamemakers to force a confrontation, to satisfy the Capitol’s bloodlust.
“She’ll have to go,” Cato breathed, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “She’ll go for him. For the medicine.”
“And we’ll be waiting,” I finished, feeling the familiar thrum of anticipation. The Feast. The perfect stage for the final act.
We left Peeta hidden, barely conscious, near the stream. He wouldn’t be going anywhere. We made our way back towards the Cornucopia under the cover of darkness, establishing a hidden position in the treeline overlooking the clearing. We had a clear view of the golden horn and the spot where the backpacks would inevitably be placed.
The night was long, tense. Sleep was impossible. We spoke little, conserving energy, sharpening senses. The forest seemed unnaturally quiet, as if holding its breath for the dawn bloodshed. I ran through scenarios in my head. Katniss approaching from the trees. Thresh charging from another direction. Foxface making a lightning-fast grab-and-dash. My knives felt reassuringly heavy on my thigh. I mentally practiced the throws, visualizing the targets. Everdeen first. Then Thresh, if he showed. Foxface was an annoyance, not a threat.
Dawn broke slowly, painting the sky in hues of grey and pale pink. Mist clung to the ground, swirling around the Cornucopia. Then, as promised, a table rose silently from the ground near the horn’s mouth. On it sat four backpacks, identical in size, marked with district numbers: 2, 5, 11, 12.
Our pack, District 2, was there. What could it contain? Better weapons? Armor? We didn’t need it, but denying it to others was strategically sound. Yet, going for it seemed an unnecessary risk. Our targets were the other packs.
We waited. Silence stretched. The sun climbed higher, burning off the mist. The clearing lay empty, exposed. Was anyone coming? Had the Gamemakers miscalculated?
Then, movement. Fast. Unbelievably fast. Foxface erupted from the woods on the far side, a blur of motion. She sprinted directly to the table, snatched the District 5 pack, and was gone, disappearing back into the trees before we could even fully register her presence. It took less than ten seconds.
“Damn her!” Cato hissed, raising his sword slightly as if to hurl it after her.
“Let her go,” I murmured. “She’s not the prize.”
More waiting. The tension was unbearable. Where were they?
A flicker of movement near the edge of the woods where Katniss had often appeared. My heart leaped. It had to be her.
Slowly, cautiously, Katniss Everdeen emerged. She moved low, using bushes for cover, bow held ready, scanning the clearing, the treeline, the Cornucopia itself. Her eyes, sharp and wary, swept past our hiding spot without lingering. Good.
She paused for a long moment, assessing. Then, seemingly deciding the immediate area was clear, she began her approach towards the table. Tense steps, arrow nocked, ready to draw and fire at the slightest sound.
This was it. My moment.
I exchanged a glance with Cato. Now.
We burst from our cover simultaneously. Cato roared, charging towards the table to cut off her escape route back the way she came. I took the direct path, knives flashing in my hands as I ran, closing the distance between myself and the girl from 12.
Surprise flared in her eyes, quickly replaced by panic. She drew her bow, but I was too fast, too close. She wouldn’t get a clean shot. She hesitated, then darted towards the Cornucopia, seeking cover behind the massive structure.
“Going somewhere, District 12?” I snarled, my voice dripping with venom and triumph. I hurled a knife. It wasn’t aimed to kill – not yet. Just to wound, to intimidate. It sliced through the fabric of her jacket, pinning it momentarily to the Cornucopia’s metal horn before she ripped it free.
She scrambled behind the horn. I advanced, circling, knives ready. Cato took the other side, effectively trapping her.
“Nowhere left to run,” Cato growled, his sword tip scraping against the golden metal.
“Thought you were smarter than this, Everdeen,” I taunted, my voice echoing slightly in the enclosed space. “Coming here? All alone? Did you really think we wouldn’t be waiting?”
She didn’t answer. Smart. Don’t engage. Don’t give anything away. But I could practically smell her fear.
“It’s over,” I continued, savouring the moment. Years of training, the weight of District 2’s expectations, the personal insult of her survival – it all culminated here. “We know about your little boyfriend. Peeta, isn’t it?”
A flicker of reaction. Her head moved slightly. Got her.
“Oh yes,” I purred, stepping closer, knife held loosely, ready to throw. “Cato wounded him. Badly. By the stream. Doubt he’ll last the day.” I let the words hang, twisting the invisible blade. “All that effort, coming here for the medicine. Wasted.”
I saw her knuckles whiten on her bow. Good. Let the anger build. Let it make her sloppy.
“Want to know how he’s doing? Want to know how much he’s suffering?” I edged closer still, positioning myself for the kill shot. Center mass? Throat? Head? Decisions, decisions. The head was cleaner, more satisfying. A testament to my skill.
“It’s too bad, really,” I mused aloud, enjoying the psychological torment. “You two seemed so… close. The star-crossed lovers from District 12. Touching. Pathetic.”
I raised the knife, sighting the target – her temple, just visible past the curve of the horn. “Don’t worry,” I whispered, the words meant only for her, a final twist of cruelty. “We’ll send him your regards.”
My arm tensed, ready to make the throw that would end it, that would propel Cato and me one step closer to victory.
And then the world exploded.
Part 4: The Crushing Stone
Chapter 8: Rue’s Avenger
One moment, I was poised for the killing blow, Katniss trapped, victory within my grasp. The next, a force like a landslide slammed into my side. I was lifted off my feet, thrown violently against the hard, unyielding metal of the Cornucopia. Stars exploded behind my eyes. The knife flew from my grasp, clattering uselessly somewhere nearby. Air rushed from my lungs in a painful whoosh.
Disorientation. Pain – sharp, blinding – radiating from my head and ribs. I tried to push myself up, gasping for breath, vision swimming. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard Cato roar my name, followed by the clash of steel.
My vision cleared slightly. Standing over me wasn’t Katniss. It was Thresh. The massive boy from District 11. He must have been hiding inside the Cornucopia itself, or used the structure as cover to approach unseen while my attention was locked on Everdeen. Where had he come from? How had we missed him?
He was huge, terrifying up close, his face a mask of cold fury. In one hand, he held a rock – not just any rock, a jagged, heavy piece of stone easily the size of a loaf of bread. He must have used it to knock the wind out of me, maybe cracked a rib. In his other hand, he clutched the District 11 backpack, presumably retrieved from the table during the chaos.
“What did you do to the little girl?” he growled, his voice low and menacing, vibrating with rage. “You kill her?”
The little girl? Rue? Katniss’s diminutive ally from his district? I vaguely remembered Marvel spearing her while she was caught in a net. We’d left her for the hovercraft. What did he care? She was just another tribute.
“Who?” I rasped, trying to stall, trying to clear my head, fumbling for another knife on my thigh sheath. My fingers felt clumsy, unresponsive.
“The girl,” he repeated, stepping closer, his shadow falling over me. “From my district. Rue.”
“I didn’t kill her,” I managed, forcing the words out. Technically true. Marvel did. “Don’t know who did.” A lie, but survival instincts screamed at me to deflect his rage.
He stared down at me, his eyes burning holes into mine. He knew I was lying, or suspected it. He knew the Careers hunted together.
“What about her?” he demanded, gesturing vaguely towards where Katniss must have been. “The one you were playing with? What did you do to her?”
Katniss. Where was she? I risked a glance. She was still there, near the horn, bow half-drawn, watching the scene unfold, frozen. Why wasn’t she shooting him? Helping me? No, of course not. Why would she?
“Nothing,” I choked out.
Thresh seemed to consider this. He looked from me, prone and wounded, to Katniss, still alive. Then back to me. His expression hardened. “You killed the little girl,” he stated again, conviction solidifying in his voice. He must have heard my taunts about Peeta, assumed my cruelty extended to Rue. Or maybe Katniss had told him something when they were allies. It didn’t matter. His judgment was passed.
“Liar!” he roared. He raised the rock high above his head.
Panic, cold and absolute, seized me. All the training, all the confidence, all the arrogance evaporated in an instant. This wasn’t a calculated kill in the Arena; this was primal, brutal execution. I saw the rock descending, obscuring the sky, blotting out the sun.
“Cato!” I screamed, a raw, desperate sound torn from my throat.
CRUNCH.
Agony. Unimaginable. A white-hot explosion centered in my temple. The world dissolved into a blinding flash of pain, then darkness rushing in from the edges. I felt a sickening crack, a wetness spreading through my hair. My body convulsed once, involuntarily.
Sounds became muffled, distant. Cato’s enraged bellow. The clang of his sword against… something. Thresh? The Cornucopia? Someone shouting. Katniss?
My thoughts fractured. Failure. District 2… shame… Cato… knives… so heavy… cold…
Was this it? After all the training? All the promises? To die like this? Crushed like an insect under a stone? No glory. No victory roar. Just… darkness. And the fading echo of a cannon boom, mocking my extinguished potential. My last sensation was the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth and the crushing weight of failure.
Then, nothing.
(Epilogue Note: From an External Perspective/Summary of Canon)
Clove’s death was brutal and swift. Thresh, enraged by what he believed Clove did to Rue (and possibly hearing her taunts towards Katniss about Peeta), possibly spared Katniss out of respect for her alliance with Rue, grabbed his district’s pack, and vanished back into the Arena’s depths after a brief, inconclusive clash with a furious Cato.
Cato, devastated and enraged by Clove’s death, likely blamed Katniss as much as Thresh. Clove’s demise solidified his resolve to hunt Katniss down, setting the stage for the final confrontations of the 74th Hunger Games. Her death marked the effective end of the traditional Career pack and highlighted the unpredictable brutality that could overturn even the best training and strategy within the Arena. She died as she lived – violently, caught in the deadly game she was forged to win, ultimately falling victim to an unexpected surge of vengeful strength. Her name would be read, her face shown in the sky, another casualty consumed by the spectacle, her dream of District 2 glory dying with her in the bloodstained grass by the Cornucopia.