Hunger Games 1. Chapter I: Playing

**Chapter 1: Playing**

A small funny shaped wooden thing and a long wooden stick with a million tiny strings on it. I watch my mother draw the stringy side of the stick back and forth against the strings on the funny round thing. The sound is nice. Cheerful and it makes me smile as I twirl around on bare feet on the stone floor of our house. When she finishes, I plop down on the ground laughing and then crawl up on the couch beside her. "Teach me, mama! Teach me!"

She looks from me to the things in her hands and says, "Alright. But you have to be very careful, Clove. Sit still." I kick my legs out over the edge of the couch. I'm still too little for my toes to touch the floor from up here. "Sit up straight." I do and she fits the curvy wooden thing under my chin just like she had it. Then she takes one of my hands in one of hers and places it on the long skinny part. "Be careful," she says again. I make sure to be. I can tell this is important to her. I won't drop it. She hands me the wooden stick and says softly, "Gently, gently." She places the soft almost-white strings against the metal ones. "Now..." she guides my hand and I play my first note.

Immediately I feel something special going from my fingers up through my arms and into my body, into my heart. Still holding tight to both the things in my hands, I kick my feet out and giggle with excitement. "Oh, mama, what is it?"

"It's a violin," she says. Then slower so I can repeat it. "VI-OH-LIN." I copy her. "Or a fiddle. You can call it that too."

"Teach me more!"

**Disclaimer:** Don't own.  
**AN:** So I know this one is really short. I actually feel a little weird about the beginning of this story. It's going to kind of jerk you around from kiddish/playful Clove to Arena-bound Clove.  
**If you're curious as to why this story starts out like this**, I wanted Clove to be passionate about something other than fighting. I didn't want her to be so one dimensional that her greatest and only interest was combat, hence learning the violin at a young age. It becomes a thing for her.  
**On the writing**, for this chapter particularly and to be kept in mind in the following ones:  
Clove is very young here. That's why you read the word 'thing' like six times. I don't know how many of you have tried this, but it is really hard to try to write from the perspective of, say, a three-year-old or an eight-year-old. I have an eight-year-old sister, but I can't read this to her to make sure she understands it all, you know? I guess what I'm saying is that I'm trying to be descriptive as a narrator while also getting across to you guys that she's young. It's a weird sort of balance. In some respects you'll find Clove to be naïve. In other situations, as you'll see, she's well aware but alarmingly apathetic and calculating. Sometimes she may seem old for her age.

Thoughts on any of this (The AN or the chapter itself)? Don't hate to hard on the 307-word chapter, please. :) The next one is substantially longer and will come soon. Promise.  
Ah, speaking of the next chapter, it'll change the rating. Just so you know.


	2. Chapter II: Testing

**Warning:** This chapter gets pretty graphic. There's chicken killing. It's the reason the rating has gone up.

**Chapter 2: Testing**

My parents don't want me to be here, but no on influences your decision to train but you. Just as no one influences whether or not you volunteer but you, or whether or not you're reaped but the luck of the draw. I think the reason they don't want me here is because they think it'll encourage me to volunteer, but how hard could it be, really? Volunteering, playing the Games, winning the Games? Enobaria doesn't seem to mind having all the money and food she'll ever need and I don't remember it being so bad when the Capitol was sending us gifts for Parcel Day.

So here I stand on a hot dry day in early August in a group of other kids. Some are older. Not many are younger. I'm small even for my age so I stand in front, up close to the short wooden fence surrounding the pen. My fingers tap out a pattern on the back of my other hand, practicing the positions for a song my mother is teaching me on the violin. I have time now to wait before we start testing and no one notices my quirk. They all stand quietly looking around, wondering what form the testing will take.

After a while of silent standing, one of the trainers approaches the pen. He stands at the opposite corner from me and begins to explain how the testing will take place. "You all know what you signing up for. We don't want any pretending or false advertising. You need to be well aware of what we're asking of you. Today, as a means of showing us you're prepared right now to do what you're instructed and to show us you have the ability and the stomach to take life, you will each enter this pen, one at a time, armed only with a knife. Your task is simple. Catch and kill the chicken we place in the pen with you. Understood? Any questions?"

One boy with dirty blond hair raises his hand and asks, "Do we get to keep the chicken after we've killed it?"

"No," answers the trainer, giving the boy a hard look. "You pick it up and put it in that box." He indicates a large wooden box near the gate of the pen. "If anyone has misgivings about their ability to complete the task, leave now. We have little time to waste with incompetence and weakness."

So it begins. The boy with dirty blond hair is the first one they hand the knife to. The chicken squawks when he catches it because he sort of tackles it, flattening it. The boy's arm is splattered with blood as he stabs the bird which then makes a noise that is unmistakably a cry of pain. The boy looks slightly surprised but not queasy. He holds tight to the chicken until it's very apparent that it's dead. Then he places the dead bird in the box and hands the knife to another blond boy who could be his twin.

The second boy takes the knife but he doesn't use it. It remains held in his hand as he twists the chicken's neck. One frightened cut-short squawk is all it has time to utter before it dies in his hands. He looks like he's not quite in his own head, like he's thinking hard about something else, as he returns to stand beside the boy I'm sure is his brother.

Then comes an older boy. He throws the knife once. It spins through the air but misses the chicken. I see some of the trainers smirking as the flustered boy retrieves the knife and tries again. He doesn't bother to throw though. He just catches his target, sticks it in the chest and places it in the box.

The crowd has been shifting as we watch. Some people are realizing as this progresses that they're not going to be able to do it and, rather than embarrass themselves, they're leaving. Of course, they don't want to look like they're leaving so they back out of the crowd slowly, daring to take only a few steps at a time before they turn and hurry away. I don't really want to kill a chicken especially if I'm not going to be allowed to eat it. Killing for sport doesn't seem to want to sit well with me, but I remind myself that the Games are a sport and that people kill other people in them all the time. How hard could it be?

One girl, in her early teens by the look of her, looks green as she forces herself into the pen. She earns some skeptical looks from the trainers but they release her chicken anyway. When she catches it, she sticks it once in the side and when it does that weird almost scream thing, she screams too and drops it. It tries to run away from her, dragging its mangled wing but she catches it again, screaming and crying and crushes it into the ground. I think she's trying to kill it quicker but she seems only to be hurting it more. Finally she takes up the knife again and sticks her victim in the throat. It dies and she curls up on the ground beside it, her arms wrapped around it as she continues to cry.

There's no concern from the trainers. One orders her to stand up and when she doesn't, he enters the pen himself and drags her to her feet. She starts shrieking at his touch but he only wrenches the broken body of the bird from her hands and gives her a shove toward the edge of the pen. Shakily she climbs over the low fence and then teeters through the crowd, looking like she's going to be sick. I don't want her being sick all over me, so when she passes I put my hands up and sort of half-guide, half-push her away from me.

There are a few more people between that girl and me. The knife is filthy dirty when it's placed in my hands. Dirt and blood coat the flat sides of the blade and I distinctly see what looks like a piece of a vein or an artery clinging to the sharp side. I swallow and wipe what mess I can off on the fence and then give the trainers a nod to indicate I'm good to go.

They release the little bird and it takes off running around like a chicken with its head cut off. . .well, not yet, anyway. I'd like to throw the knife in my hand. I've got a feeling I could (it didn't look too hard) but I don't want to end up looking stupid like that other kid. I'll just have to catch and kill it like everyone else has done. I lunge at it, but it changes direction. Dirt flies up around my ankles as my toes dig into the earth to turn me. Man, this little guy is fast! And he must know what's been happening to his fellows because what else could make him avoid me like this? The rapid change in direction just about overbalances me but I don't want to end up facedown in the dirt (how ridiculous would that look?) so I carefully and quickly adjust my footing. Unfortunately, if I'd just let myself fall, I'd probably have landed on the bird, possibly scratching myself on its beak or claws, but also definitely trapping it. Ah, well. That type of thinking is what they'll train me for. Now all I can do is adjust again, turn so my feet are facing the little running creature and launch myself at the point where it will be when I reach it.

That is effective. My arms encircle the writing feathery thing and before it knows even what's happened, I slice once across it's neck, smattering my right hand and wrist and the ground with it's blood. I swallow the instant revulsion I feel as the sticky substance begins to cool against my skin and get back to my feet, holding the dead chicken upside down by its feet. The look the trainers give me is the same one they've given every other successful participant: approving, but still distant. I cross to the box, deposit my chicken and take my place again on the other side of the fence.

I was somewhere in the middle of the group so all I've got to do now is stand and watch the others work. Now that my test is complete, it's becoming boring, just standing here watching all these other incompetent young kids kill chickens. The blood on my arm cools completely and then dries. Agitated and bored I begin to scrape it away with my fingernails. Finally, when it's nearly dinnertime, they dismiss us. "If you're still interested in training after today, come back tomorrow. We'll tell you then who'll be admitted into this year's group," explains the man who pushed the girl who had the breakdown. "You're dismissed."

**Disclaimer:** Don't own.

**AN:** I told you this would jerk you around a little. Like I said, I don't want her to seem static. If you can't tell, I'm a little self-conscious about the way this story starts. I can't quite explain why.

Thoughts?

**To Ghanaperu:** I love you. In a non-weird I've-never-met-you kind of way. Thank you for reading everything I've ever posted in the Hunger GamesEnglish language category and for always being excited and supportive and honest in your reviews. :) That is so amazing of you and it really means a lot to me.

~~Billy


	3. Chapter III: Home

**Chapter 3: Home**

After dismissal I walk back out of the main town, away from the Capitol stronghold and the Justice Building and out toward my village. I pass my school, a nice looking building from the outside, but one whose stairs are crumbling and discolored on the inside. Some of the rich folks send their kids there, but they never give money to improve the building, even though its deteriorating state can be dangerous. More than once I've seen kids pushed from the ledge of the stone stairs and fall six or eight feet to the ground. How hard would it be to fix an iron railing to the stairs? How much would it cost, really? But kids in 2, no matter how coddled they want to believe they are, are expected to learn to care for themselves.

My village lies still a good distance from the school. When I was younger, my father walked with me once to make sure I knew how to find the school. We did it on a Sunday and made it look like a father-daughter walk, not like he was guiding me around. It doesn't look good for a kid to need a guardian. You get picked on and daddy knew that. I told him later that I was glad he came with, just the once, because the mountain paths twist and turn and there are forks in the roads and sometimes steep slopes that you'll slide down if you don't know they're there or if you're not careful.

Now I climb the last small hill between the main town and home. From the top of it, I can look out at my village, spread out in a valley below me. Some villages are higher up in the mountains, some still lower down. I could get to them if I followed the path further. Other villages, the smallest ones, are built right into the sides of mountains. People don't live in houses there. They live in the caves that the rocks make. I've seen those places, and can't decide if I like them or not. Maybe they're nice in the summer, as long as the sun doesn't shine directly into your cave. In winter I bet they'd be miserable if you haven't got a substantial cover over the entrance. If you could ignore temperature, I bet it would always be wonderful to wake up and walk outside to look at a mountain, to walk down a path and meet your neighbor who lives right below you and walk to school. But those cave towns are dangerous, far more dangerous than my valley town. Landslides and avalanches have buried people alive. I wouldn't ever want that, and so I guess I don't like the cave towns, not enough to ever want to live in one, anyway.

My village was a rebel camp during the Dark Days. Brave and proud, the rebels built stone homes to show the Capitol that they meant business, that they planned to win the war and stay here. After the war ended, when the Capitol needed a new stronghold to replace District 13, they were kind–– as kind as a winning army can be to a losing one–– to the rebels because they knew they needed them. That's how my family ended up with our house, which has been in our family for sixty-five years.

I start down the path, careful not to slip on the crushed stones. I fell here once when I was very small and scraped my knees and hands badly. It hurt and I don't want to do it again. But I stop quickly when I hear a quiet rustling to my right. Sometimes, even though the Capitol promises we're safe, small wild animals get through the fence marking the border of the District. That's why I see this thing now, little paws digging in the dirt, face buried in a hole he's already made, looking for roots? He must have wandered over here from the border, which is about a mile and a half southeast from where I stand right now. He doesn't look dangerous though so I move on.

At the bottom of the path, I peel off and step onto hard packed reddish dirt. The gravel road continues around the small town, but the streets are just dirt, which becomes muck when it rains. Now though, it's as dry as the air. Mama's nose bleeds sometimes and she says it's because of the height of our village. The . . .latitude? No, but it sounds like latitude and we learned it yesterday in class. The . . . altitude. Our teacher told us yesterday that the main town is more than a mile above sea level. Our village must be a bit lower than that, but living a mile above anything seems pretty high to me.

I turn down the familiar streets, past stone houses, all of which will soon be prepared for the winter, which is always bitter cold and snowy. The day the leaves start turning colors is the day that people start hunting around for drying or dead grass to coat their floors in. We do it too and then when the days get warmer, we take all the grass outside and sweep the whole house to get rid of the dirt that's stayed there over the winter.

My house is one of the larger ones. Mama says her mothers parents were powerful rebels, but the Capitol killed them after the Dark Days, leaving the children to fend for themselves. They couldn't be kind to all the rebels, not to the ones who had organized uprisings. I think my family must have been at least well-respected, or my grandmother and her siblings well-liked, or maybe people felt bad for them, after their parents' deaths, because our house is sturdy and even built on a foundation. That's so when the streets flood in early spring, we don't take on too much water. Many people must have teamed up to build the foundation, even though it only supports three small rooms: a kitchen that doubles as a dining area, and two bedrooms.

The walls are thick and made of stone, the roof slanted and covered in curved red shngles that are very loud when it rains. The door is rough and creaky on rusty hinges, but fits well, keeping out most of the cold air, or holding it in, depending on the season. Behind the house is a small garden we've built and a water pump. Lots of people use the pump, not just us. The garden floods in spring, too, but daddy says that's good because it dampens the soil, which makes it easy for the plants to grow.

Inside the house is a wooden table that my mother's had forever, some pots and pans for cooking, cups and plates, spoons, forks, and knives for eating. I have a bed and a dresser in my room, and my parents have a bigger bed and a bigger dresser, but the most valuable and most prized objects in the house are my mother's instruments. She owns two fiddles, one of which I play and take care of myself, a mandolin, which my mother started teaching me to play about three years ago now, and an upright piano my grandmother bought when she was in hear forties. She had to save all her money to buy it. Really, the money she spent buying the piano could have been used to buy a house in town, but no one regrets the piano. Mama plays it best and has even taught daddy some songs. She's teaching me, too and I can do it, but the fiddle is my favorite. The piano stands against a wall in the biggest room, usually covered by a thick fitted blanket except when we play it. I don't dare touch it now, not with my hands filthy like they are.

I rinse my arm in the basin daddy filled with cold water this morning before my parents have a chance to see the chicken blood that I haven't managed to scrape away. They don't need to know what the test was. It'll only frighten them. When they get home, we make dinner together. I go outside and collect a good handful of mint and lemon leaves while they cook. We don't have a whole lot of money, which is part of the reason I want to train. If they let me train, they'll give me extra rations, which I can then split up with my parents. With those additional rations and the tesserae I'll be allowed to sign up for with I turn twelve, we'll probably have full stomachs all the time, which is more than some of the other quarry workers' kids can say. I don't feel guilty about the prospect of me having more food than them. For one, if they want extra rations, then they should train and sign up for tesserae and for two, it's not like the food comes from our district. Nothing grows in this soil unless it's in small quantities and very well cared for. Our food comes from the Capitol and those people always have enough to eat from what I've seen of them on the television.

I make tea with the lemon leaves and carefully place the pot of boiling water on the table. "Thank you, little one," says my dad, leaning down to kiss my forehead. Then he kneels so his brown eyes are lower than my green ones. "How was your day?" Normally this question refers to school, but in this case, I know he means to ask about the testing, if I went. I shrug because I don't want to tell him what the test was.

"It was ok."

"You walked all the way into the main town?" he asks. Our village lies in a valley a couple of miles away from the Justice Building. It's a long walk, especially for a short, slightly underfed, young, girl. But this is District 2 and difficulty is never a reason not to do something. I nod.

"It was nice. I could see our whole town from the top of that path." He seems to sense that I don't want to talk about the test and I don't think he really wants to hear about it. He picks me up in his arms and I giggle and then remember something I wanted to tell him. "Daddy! I saw a critter today!"

"You did? What kinda critter?"

"It was small and fluffy––"

"Wait, before you tell me any more, you didn't touch the critter, did you?" he asks, suddenly stern. "You remember what we said about touchin' critters?"

"Yes. I remembered. I didn't touch it. I just looked and I stood like this." I take my hands from around daddy's neck and put them behind my back.

"Whoa!" he says as I off-balance myself. "Careful there." I giggle again and put my hands back where they were. "Ok, now tell me about the critter."

"Well, it was small and fluffy and it had little hands that creepy crawlied like this," I tickle him and laugh again as he does, because I'm very smart and sneaky.

"Stop that!" he laughs, blowing air in my face. "You're not a critter!"

"What color was its fur, Clove?" asks my mother from where she stands before the coal heated stove.

"It looked brown when it was under a tree but I bet it would have been orange or something in the light."

"Did you see what it eats?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I think it was eating bugs."

"Or roots?" she suggests.

"Maybe. Do you know what it was, mama?"

"It might have been a marmot."

I lean my head back to look at her upside down and all my hair falls down toward the floor as I squeak at her, "Marmot?" She smiles.

"Look out now, you two. This is hot." Daddy steps out of her way and brings me to the table where he, mama and I eat our dinner of hot grain and carrots. Two years ago when Enobaria won the Games, we got honey from Parcel Day. It improved the taste of the mushy grains but thinking about that doesn't make it any easier to swallow this stuff. We have a small garden where we grow some of our own vegetables, but we can't eat too much in one sitting, or the garden won't grow next year so we split one big carrot. I like carrots.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own  
**AN: **Originally this chapter was much shorter, basically just Clove with her parents, but I realized I should probably give you guys a little bit of information on the layout of the District and the houses, too. Hope you liked it.**  
**

Do please share your thoughts. I love hearing from everyone. :)

To** Ghanaperu:** She seems younger here again, but it's fun to see her as a little kid, I think. And I didn't want her to seem all grown up at eight years old. As you said, it's unrealistic. It'll even out as she finds a middle ground between trainee Clove and Little One. I'm also really glad chicken killing didn't seem to brutal. I had the idea forever ago, wrote it, expanded it, looked back and thought. . . that might be unreasonable to ask of kids, but you see it exactly as I intended it to be seen. :)

And to **SilentHeartClato:** I just realized how much of my stuff you've read. Thank you very much. I'm always excited when I see that people read more than one story of mine :)


	4. Chapter IV: Training

**Chapter 4: Training**

Testing was hard, but training is harder. They split those of us who qualify up by age and we begin training like crazy right away. I think this is done as a second level of testing, really, because a few more kids drop out within the next two weeks. We don't get extra rations until a month in. They want to make sure we're going to follow through with our promises to train before they just go handing out food. That makes training even more difficult. I'm so hungry and tired and sick-feeling all the time that I just want to eat and sleep. When they tell us to come in on Saturdays for all-day training, I bite back the groan that many other kids allow to escape. I can complain in my head, but I don't want to do it publicly. It turns out Saturday training is worth it though, because they feed us lunch. Real lunch, too, big portions with meat and vegetables and everything.

First, they teach us exercises to make us strong. My class is so young right now that we're not allowed to lift very much, but we run all the time. We run everywhere and that's hard because we live in the mountains so it's hot and dry and really hard to breathe. One kid completely freaks out. He coughs so bad he falls to the ground and they have to stick him in the leg with a needle to fix it. That gets him kicked out of training two and a half weeks in. One time as we climb a steep gravel road, I reach up to wipe my nose and my hand comes away streaked with red. It surprises me and I let out a small gasp. For the rest of that run, I have to work hard to conceal the bloody nose, fearing that it'll get me kicked out. I don't want that, especially not after all this.

Before we ever start to use the weapons, they teach us how to be safe with them. They tell us never to point swords, knives, or spears at each other. Never ever. Not even as a joke. Walk with knives pointed toward the ground and spears upright We're never to walk on the shooting range but always to press the button that slides the target back toward us. If we're practicing hand-to-hand combat, we're to practice with only forty percent of our strength or speed because the trainers don't want us to hurt each other or ourselves if we don't know what we're doing.

We see the older kids practicing with swords, maces, axes, spears, machetes, staffs, or knives with each other, but our trainers won't allow that yet. We practice with blunted weapons only with the trainers. They say the suits the older kids are wearing are designed special so they're protected, but so that the do feel some pain when they're struck. I don't understand how that works, but I guess I'll find out when I'm older.

After four weeks, they tell us that we'll be taking home our first extra rations. We're to bring something tomorrow that we can use to cart them home. Our rations consist entirely of food. No oil or soap or coal or cloth or anything else and we're not supposed to sell our extras (we shouldn't even have extras), or to share them with our families, but everyone knows we will. We get the extra rations so we bulk up eventually and have the energy for real training. I bring a wagon my dad used to pull me around in to school and then drag it in to the main town. By the time I get home that night, it's well after dark has fallen. At first, mom and dad are worried, but then they see what I'm pulling and their faces light up and they learn to expect me home late one day every week. I don't practice the violin on those nights because it's too late.

Disclaimer:

Don't Own  
**AN:** The next couple of chapters are kind of shortish, but there's a little less explanation and some more dialogue.  
Oh, another thing I should tell you about the writing is that the time will skip around just a bit. Some chapters are designed to give you an overview of several months or years and then there'll be one chapter that covers a specific event within those months or years.

**Thank you for reading:**  
So, I'm a little creepy because I kind of keep my eye on the stats of previous stories I've posted on here. I just want to say that the views for The Conspiracy are still going up even though it's been more than ten months since the Epilogue was posted (ten months, really?) It's very near 15,000 which just seems crazy to me. Thanks to everybody for reading all of this (and for occasionally putting up with 700 word chapters from me. haha). I'm so grateful for all of you.

**To my lovely reviewers  
**To** Ghanaperu: **Originally the last chapter was just the conversation with her parents but then I realized I had never really given you guys any kind of setting. Everything from the very beginning to the part where she cleans the chicken blood off her arm was written only 2 days before I posted the chapter. Way to go, self, for writing a chapter that needed major work right at the beginning of the story. haha.  
Also I'm so glad for your thoughts on Clove's littleness. It's really good to step back and see her as just another kid, not as to-be- knife-expert/Tribute-Clove.

To **hungergames98: **You found it :) I'm glad you're back! I love hearing from you and I hope you continue to enjoy my stories.  
**  
**To** SilentHeartClato:** I didn't know you were from France. That's cool. I have an international audience! J'étudié français et je peux seulement écrire un peu, mais je ne peux pas lire une histoire, ou écrire un review. Oh wow, my French is really rusty (can you tell? haha). I don't even know if that was the right way to do "I studied." Oh, past tense. That was hard. Basically, you're amazing for reading and reviewing in a language that isn't your own. :) Merci pour l'/la/le review. :)**  
**


	5. Chapter V: Tiny

**Chapter 5: Tiny**

Nobody talks at training. We're all aware of what we're here for and we don't want to make it any more uncomfortable than it already is. We work together in pairs or groups when instructed, but otherwise remain only acquaintances.

At lunch on Saturdays, all of the trainees sit together in a big cafeteria like the one at school. One day, I sit down opposite two boys who look like they could be twins. They're in my year but I don't remember their names. The one who asked if he could keep the chicken on Chicken Killing Day looks up at me first and his brother copies him. I make eye contact but don't say anything. This is the standard here. There isn't room for all of us to have individual tables so we sit together in silence.

On the next Saturday, I find that they're standing near me as we listen to directions for one of the stations. At the end of that day, I notice them, each pulling a cart of rations, going up the path I take to go home. Maybe they're from the same village.

Over the course of several Saturdays, sitting with them at lunch and standing beside them while we listen to directions becomes a habit. One day in September the trainers pair me with the brother of the boy who wanted to take the chicken home for hand-to-hand combat practice. He gets me to land on my butt on the mat we're wrestling on. I'm just about back on my feet when he grabs me around the shoulders and takes me back to the ground. But I turn in his arms as when we land I get him in a good strong scarf hold. This move, if executed correctly, is just about guaranteed to pin an opponent, especially one who's about your same size. He tries, by wrapping his arms tight around my waist, to turn to push me off him, but I duck my head down like the trainers told me, securing my lock on him. It's more than forty percent, but I'm not hurting him and what good will it do him to be able to undo an easy scarf hold but not a strong one?

I hear someone hit the mat, indicating I've won so I release him and get to my feet. They say that when you're practicing a throw to hold onto the person you're throwing. They joke that they're 'reusable'. In this case, I've just pinned, not thrown this boy, and our match is over. It's not like he's not going to get a chance to practice putting me in a scarf hold, so there's no reason for me to reach my hand down to help pull him to his feet. But I do it anyway. Just as strangely, he takes my hand and accepts the help up. "Good match," he says.

"Yeah," I say as we walk back to the edge of the mat, automatically going to sit next to his brother.

"I'm Caleb, by the way," he says, offering me his hand to shake as the next match begins.

I don't know why, but I find myself teasing him, even though I barely know him. "This is a weird time for an introduction, don't you think? 'Hi, thanks for pinning me in front of everyone. What was your name again?'"

"Sorry," he says copying my tone and retracting his hand. There's a pause before he adds, "But this is weird now. You know my name but I don't know yours."

"That's your own fault," I answer, fighting back a smile as I watch the next match.

"I'd tell him if I were you," his twin advises, "Or else he'll give you a nickname."

"Something tells me you just gave him that idea," I reply, looking at the boy.

"Doesn't matter, Tiny. You'd better give me something else to call you before that sticks." Hey! I'm no tinier than them!

I glare at the two of them, but then give in. "Clove." Then I raise my eyebrows at the boy who had the nicknaming idea. "And you?"

"I'm not involved in this," he says, his eyes now back on the pair who have just finished their fight.

"Yes you are! You gave him the idea. Now you owe me."

"Do not."

"Doesn't matter. If you don't tell me, I'll name you Chicken Killing Boy."

"That's not a name. It's a title," he argues. "And plus, I'm not the only one who's killed a chicken."

"You were the first," Caleb's eyes dart to his brother's face and then back to me.

There's a beat during which we just glare determinedly at each other. Then he says, "Fine. Cato."

Disclaimer:

Don't own.  
**AN:** And now you know that, yes, the twins are Cato and Caleb. They're all such cute ridiculous little kids.

And in other, non-story-related news, I got a Tumblr. Only I don't know how to use Tumblr. Basically it's just another place to post my stories/maybe ideas for stories. I'm agirlnamedbilly on there too if you guys want to see my stuff/tell me how Tumblr works.

Also, happy birthday to The Conspiracy. A year ago today, "Like Otters" was posted. Ah!

**To my lovely reviewers  
Clove1113: **Thank you :) I'm glad you think so.  
**  
Ghnaperu: **Indeed that last one was a short chapter. So was this one now I think about it. Actually, so are the next two because I'm a jerk like that. I'm trying to make then longer, but I think I'll just post them more closely together. Chapter 8 is regular length and then they start getting a little longer. At least now you've got the trio together. These first few chapters are just to give you the lay of the land. There are more training chapters wherein you see some of the games they play or exercises they do.

**hungergames98: **With regard to throwing knives: I wanted to give some kind of hint at Clove's potential without making her look like a prodigy. Throwing knives is a whole lot harder than it looks and Clove is smarter than me because she realizes that before she ever tries to throw.

On another note: I love writing baby Clove. The part when she looks at her mom and says "Marmot!" just seems cute to me. Some stuff is in here just because I think it's cute. Also, as far as feeling bad for Clove, people definitely don't. When I saw the movie in theaters, people cheered when she and Cato died and I just wanted to cry.  
**  
SilentHeartClato:** "j'ai étudié." Je ne vais pas oublier encore. We barely started to cover past tense when I had to stop studying French. Ton anglais est parfait. Tu es tres gentil a moi. Merci :) Now I'm just having fun writing to you, trying to remember my French.

~Billy


	6. Chapter VI: Gradually

**Chapter 6: Gradually**

Over the next few weeks, Cato, Caleb and I allow ourselves to talk more. At first, we only talk at training, but slowly, still unsuccessfully trying to retain the distance we're used to, we begin to talk on the walks home too. I learn that they do live in the same village as me and Cato and I figure out that our classrooms in school are right down the hall from each other. Once we realize that we start spending our twenty minute outside breaks after lunch together. Caleb is only in our school for part of the day. After lunch, he gets to ride in a car to the main town where they teach him math and science at a much faster pace than us. He's already being trained to work in the Capitol stronghold. He's very smart.

The other trainee kids in our year take a cue from us and begin talking a little more. As we were the ones who started the whole thing, they sort of attach themselves to us, but then break off into other groups. Older kids are stuck in their ways and unwilling to copy us little ones, but I see some of them, the ones who know they won't be tributes, talking and sometimes training together without being instructed to.

Eventually, talking at school, training, and on the walks in between is not enough for the boys and me. We give up on distance and accept that we're going to be friends. It's strange how quickly we become close once we accept that it's going to happen. We begin spending free time together, too and we don't just talk, but play as well. One of us whacks one of the others and then both people who weren't whacked take off running away from the one who was. One time we annoy a lady and she comes outside yelling and waving a broom, threatening to hit us with it if we don't shut up. Even Caleb, who usually gets on well with adults, takes off running, shouting with laughter, away from her.

One Friday night on October, they come over to my house for the first time. I've been running around with them a lot lately, so I should introduce them to my family. Cato stands up tall like he's some big man because he's the oldest of the three of us and shakes my dad's hand. He makes his voice go as low as it can and says, "Good evening. What a pleasure to meet you, sir." Then he cracks up in squeaky childish laughter and follows me into the house, getting a confused look from my dad.

"How was training today, honey?" my mom asks, kissing the top of my head. Sometimes she's extra chipper when she asks about training. She still doesn't know about Chicken Killing Day, but maybe she has a hunch.

"Mom," I say, embarrassed. Cato laughs but tries to turn it into a cough as I glare at him. "I'll get you!" I say, running at him. He yells and then laughs again as he tears off away from me. We have to dodge around my dad and Caleb.

"Careful, you two," my dad warns as one of my hands smacks the piano. It smarts, but not as badly as my pride. It's good that I catch Cato a second later, bringing us both crashing to the ground. That hurts, too, because the floor is stone, but we're not very big yet so we don't fall too far.

"I'll get you!" I say again, continuing to roll, as he did when we first fell, so that I end up on top of him. He just growls at me like a baby lion an grabs hold of my head, turning so I'm forced off him. You go where your head goes, I guess.

"Cato!" Cato quits it when he hears his brother's voice. "Quit, you two. You're gonna make them think we beat up on her."

Cato gets to his feet right away and pulls me up beside him. "No, we're friends. We don't beat up on her."

"We were just playing," I add. "It's fun."

"We'd never beat up on her. We protect her." He puts his arm around my shoulders to show he means it. See how good of friends we are? We hug each other. This is not a hug. "We're like her big brothers." I want to give him a look to tell him he's weird, but I don't think that would help much so I just smile and lean my head on his arm. See? Cuddling! They look at us and then my mother smiles and comes over to us.

"Did I embarrass you, Marmot?" she asks me. I shrug. "It's ok." And then very quickly she kisses the top of Cato's head just like she did to me a minute ago. "I'll kiss him too, see?" I laugh and so do Caleb and my dad while Cato looks a little surprised. "Tea?" Mom asks all of us.

We agree and she boils some water while we sit down. Cato and I end up kicking each other under the table and laughing while my dad talks to Caleb.

~~****

Disclaimer: Don't own  
**AN:** "Good evening, sir. I'm the most awkward human being alive."  
**To my lovely reviewers: thank you all! I get so excited when I see reviews.**

Clove1113: I suppose I should clarify that actually. Trainers would want them to be prepared for anything so they learn mixed martial arts. Obviously they're not excellent at it at only eight or nine years old, but they have to start sometime :) I've never actually thought all the rules through, except that, because it's just practice and because they're little, they not fight with more than forty or sixty percent of their strength (that's how we did standing randori when I did Judo). Hmm. . . Maybe I should think that through. The hold I pictured when I wrote this was a Judo grip, kesa-gatame. (I'll be really excited if that's what you pictured from my vague description.) I know it's basic, but it's really useful if you do it right. Also, Cato, Caleb, and Clove are all about the same size when Clove and Caleb fight. They're all about eight years old and, at that age, there's not a whole lot of difference in size between boys and girls. When they grow up, you're absolutely right, Clove won't be able to hold them down without considerable effort, if she'd be able to manage it at all. **  
****  
Ghanaperu: **Aww, yeah. Now they're friends and soon they will get into all kinds of shenanigans. (Sorry. Sometimes I have to use odd words.) Also, I have a surprise for you. Actually, it's a surprise for everyone. "Won't say no more here." (Points if you can tell me where that's from). ****

hungergames98: Oh, here's Billy not making things clear again. They are friends before the Games. This is Peacekeeper (although they pick Tributes from the Peacekeeper trainee crowd) training in District 2 not training in the Capitol. My bad. ****

SilentHeartClato: More of Cato and Caleb :) Cuter and more ridiculous this time. They grow up though, no worries. They'll always be lovable, but they won't always be tiny and eight.


	7. Chapter VII: Learning

**Pre-chapter AN: **Just so you know, this chapter jumps around a little. It starts off with a blanket statement about ages eight and a half to twelve, then describes one incident that happens when Clove is nine and one that happens when she's eleven. Chapter 8 starts off with them at age ten. Call it 'little kids don't know how to organize their stories' or 'Billy had to organize it somehow and decided to do "Training" and "Home life" rather than "Time"'.

**Chapter 7: Learning**

Cato, Caleb, and I make a good team. We learn that quickly. We're much better off working together than we ever were working separately. In the years between the start of our friendship and their first reaping, we discover and help to fine tune each others talents.

Cato is fearless. He doesn't care about getting shoved or smacked around as long as he gets a decent move in as well. He takes risks many of us would not and consequently gets hurt more frequently, but quickly becomes tough enough to handle it. Caleb and I fight a little smarter, but our fights never draw attention among the little kids the way his do. Cato also rapidly develops a talent with a sword.

Caleb is better with a spear than either of us. I tease him that it doesn't count because, where he goes to school for physics, they go over how to calculate angles and speed and the force necessary to attain a certain speed and the momentum necessary to stick a spear head in a target and he uses that to throw the spears. He doesn't take offense to me teasing him though.

I discover that I have a natural instinct that gets me through just about any obstacle course the trainers set for me. With Caleb's help, I begin to see patterns in the obstacles, even in the surprise ones they put on the courses, and eventually I outsmart even those. Caleb is good, too, but he's not as little as me so he cant slip past the more intricate obstacles. Cato needs our help to find the right path and even then his times are slower because he usually triggers something that delays him. In addition to obstacle course running, I take to throwing knives. It's frustrating at first because sometimes they just ping off the target and fall to the ground. They're also frankly dangerous because if they hit the target at the right angle, they come back straight at me, but I work at it and work at it. I throw so many times that even though the knives don't weigh more than a pound apiece, my arms and legs feel sore.

One day shortly after the 66th Hunger Games, Brutus, a Victor who won his Games six years before I was born, teases me. He tells me that throwing knives is just flashy and not really practical. He says they're cute and that it's impressive if you can hit a small target, but that they're not designed for combat, but for show instead. I ask him how he figures that, and he tells me, "Because once you've thrown you've got to go chase it down."

"That's the same with a spear or an ax," I point out.

"Don't interrupt," he tells me sternly before continuing, "You're much more likely to actually hit an injure an opponent with a spear or an ax. They don't require as much dexterity. And if you don't hit your opponent with this tiny part," here he pulls the knife from my hand and taps the point of the blade with his finger, "Then they retrieve it, because I bet they're closer than you are, and they hit you."

"Not if they're not as good as they need to be. Who's to say they aren't less dexterous than me?" I argue, being sure to remain respectful. Brutus gives me a hard look before turning the knife in his hand and offering the handle to me.

"Smart ass," he grumbles. I fight back a smirk, pleased that my use of his noun as an adjective got under his skin. I don't know the word 'dexterity', but I could guess from context what it meant and then make up an adjective.

I ignore this and take the knife from him. "I'll get good."

Brutus apparently takes this to mean I think I'm already good. "Alright." He guides me over to the spear station and turns me to face the targets twenty five away. This range is designed for people who are starting to learn to throw a spear. They're not for knives, which are meant to be used between ten and twelve feet. Brutus must know this, but he doesn't seem to care. He stands behind me, lines his eyes up with mine and points. "Hit the second largest ring at twelve o'clock." Brutus spends most of his time at Swords, but he knows some of the games the trainers play. This is one of them. It's more original than telling someone to hit the center of the target.

I don't argue or give him the excuse that this task is simply unreasonable, but line my feet up like I've been taught for a farther throw. It won't work, but it's the best option I have. When I'm set, I take two steps forward so that the toes of my left foot are on the line that tells us where to stop and, without pausing, loose the knife. I follow through with my right hand as I've been taught. It's a good throw, but not for tis distance. The butt of the handle strikes the target where he told me to hit it, but the knife bounces back, clattering loudly to the floor. No one pays attention though. One fallen weapon, one missed target, goes unnoticed unless you call attention to it.

I turn back to face Brutus and he presses the button to bring the target forward. It will sweep the fallen knife to us. "You didn't take the rotation into account." I did, but I don't argue. I just look back at him. For a moment, he actually sounds like a trainer and I believe he's going to teach me some trick to hit targets from twenty-five feet, but then he says, "You'd better hope to get better than that."

I'm irritated and embarrassed already, but I keep my expression unreadable as I say, "You're lucky if you get a solid stick from that far."

"Not with a spear," Brutus reminds me.

"Knives aren't spears. They aren't distance weapons."

"Well, you're little." He pokes me in the shoulder, just below the collarbone, pushing me back a step. "You should learn to use a distance weapon and if you don't like spears, I'd suggest you learn to shoot an arrow."

"I'll get good at this," I tell him stubbornly. He presses his hand to the button again and the target, which has delivered the knife, returns to it's original position.

"You just said you need luck. No amount of skill will make you lucky."

"I was wrong. You don't need luck if you're skillful," I counter, turning around and picking the knife up off the ground. When I face him again, he's glaring at me, but not as if he's angry, as if he's trying to decide something. "Can I go?"

"Yeah," he answers, "To Archery. Give the knife to me." I want to sigh, to indicate to him that I'm displeased with the order, but I don't. I just give him the knife and walk away toward Archery.

That day, as I'm leaving the stronghold with Cato and Caleb, a Peacekeeper stops me. I've done nothing wrong, but I still panic for a moment. What if something bad happened in the quarry? "Move along," the Peacekeeper barks at Cato and Caleb, who hurry on up the road. "Don't look so scared," the Peacekeeper tells me once they're out earshot. "You're not in trouble."

"I know that," I answer, my fingers flexing on the straps of my backpack.

"Oh, she knows that, does she?" she mocks me but there's no one around to hear her and therefore no reason to be embarrassed. "Clever girl, aren't you?" I say nothing, worried I've accidentally offended her. She glares for a moment before continuing, "I've got this for you. It comes with the instruction not to open it before you're home and alone." She hands me a slim cardboard package.

"What is it?" I ask, taking the box.

"Don't know, do I?" she answers.

"Who gave it to you?"

"Any more questions like that and you will be in trouble. Now, beat it."

I catch up to the boys and shrug the backpack from my shoulders as I walk between them. "She didn't say who's giving you stuff?" Caleb asks once I've recounted the conversation.

"No. When I asked, she told me to take off or she'd squish me." Having slid the box into a pocket of the bag, I pull the bag back onto my back.

"Well, you gotta tell us what it is tomorrow." Cato makes me promise.

That night, I sit on my bed and slide the box back out of my pack. I use my nails on the tape holding it shut, and tip the box upside down. Into my lap falls a black canvas thing that's about an inch and a half longer than my hand from end to end. Taped to that is a note that reads:

_They're all different. You'll figure it out. Get good. _

I turn over what I now realize is a sheath, undo the clasp and pull out a mixed set of knives: one balanced, one blade-heavy and one handle-heavy. So, Brutus is encouraging me after all.

So we all have separate talents: fearlessness, smarts, swords, knives, spears. One thing e have in common is that Cato, Caleb, and I are fast. Fast at just about everything. Fast runners and fast fighters. Our mile times and our resting heart rates are the lowest of our year. But each of us also has a chronic weakness. Caleb's is that, though he hides it well, he's not aggressive enough for this, not for the Games or for Peacekeeping. Cato and I can talk about Chicken Killing Day like it was a big joke. Big deal, we killed chickens! Caleb keeps up with the conversations, but Cato and I see it in his face, in his eyes and his jaw, so we refrain from bringing it up. Cato and I have the same weakness, namely that, when provoked, we're likely to explode.

When we spar, we're supposed to fight at about sixty percent now that we're almost twelve, but there are moments when I'm sparring when I get pinned down and kind of . . .panic. The chokeholds we've learned aren't dangerous if applied at sixty percent and we know steps to get out of them, but there's something distinctly uncomfortable about lying on my back with someone's hand or forearm on my throat. Those are times when I snap and the sixty percent barrier no longer exists. I free myself from the chokehold and end up with my knees on my opponent's diaphragm, my thumbs on their Adam's apple. One time when that happens, my opponent doesn't even try to free himself but immediately begins to gasp and splutter for air. I feel his hands on my wrists and he tryes to push my fingers away. I'm wired though so I don't let up, not until I feel someone much bigger than me wrap his arms around me, pinning my arms to my sides, and lift me up and away from my opponent.

"What the hell was that?" he snarls at me, dropping me to the ground. I land in a heap and glare up at Brutus. "We have rules in here for a reason, you know?"

"I know," I answer. "I just got. . ." How to describe it to him? There's no way I'm going to tell him I was uncomfortable or nervous and the word scared has never entered this training center. "Mad." There. I'll sound tough if I say I was mad.

"Mad? You just got mad?" Brutus shouts at me. I want to ask him not to yell, but I can't. That'd only make it worse. He'd see that I don't want to be told off in front of my class and that would ruin any impression he ever had of my toughness. Apparently saying I was mad didn't help at all. "You think I want to take that kid's body back to his house and tell him some crazy girl _just got mad_ and strangled him at training? No. I don't. That's much more effort than he's worth. You need to control yourself in here."

The longer this goes on, the more truly mad I become. "Oh, because you're so good at self control," I blurt out without thinking. I get his open palm hard to my ear for that. He drops down to my level, grabs hold of my collar and clocks me. It stings and I have to force myself not to cup my ear in my hand. But again, it's my pride that hurts more. It's my pride that forces me to clench my teeth together as hard as they go to keep my lips from trembling.

"That is self control. You'll notice your head is still on your shoulders." He goes back to talking about my fight with barely a pause for breath. "He should never have had the chance to get his hands around your neck. Fight better next time." He pushes me backward away from him and walks off. I sit there for a few seconds, blinking back the stinging in my eyes and gritting my teeth. Nobody likes getting clocked in the head in front of all their peers. Cato and Caleb stand in the surrounding crowd, but I don't look for them. I force myself to look angry, not embarrassed, and get to my feet. _Fine, Brutus, you want me to learn control. How's this for control?_ But he isn't looking at me. He's ignoring both me and the kid I was fighting. I stand in the line for the rest of the sparring matches and then walk home with Cato and Caleb.

It's the quietest walk home yet, even counting those awkward times at the very beginning of our friendship. We don't say a word until we reach the intersection where we split to go home. "See you," I say and my voice comes out much lower than usual, probably because every time I think of the incident with Brutus, my lips tremble.

"Hey." Cato catches hold of my elbow as I turn to go. "That didn't look nearly as bad as you think it did." I can't see him very well in the dark, but I knew he's not joking. "You took him grabbing you and hitting you like that like it was no big deal, and I don't know anyone else who'd have had the guts to speak to him like you did, _ever_, least of all when he was already irritated." He touches my ear gently and smiles at me. Somehow, that's all it takes. I will learn control and I will remember today, but I can walk around the training center knowing that, even though everyone has seen Brutus get angry with me, they've also seen me stand up to him and that makes me brave.

Cato learns through my experience to cool it when someone tells him "Control yourself," or "Calm yourself." It acts as a reminder to us both that we control our bodies and our reactions, no one else. We stop freaking out so much, but that doesn't mean extreme anger or fear (I can admit fear in my own head) couldn't still cloud our judgement. But we still have time to learn how to keep our heads entirely in high pressure situations.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own  
**AN: **Surprise! This chapter is long! I added a bunch right after I posted Chapter 5 and I didn't tell you when I posted 6 because I wanted it to be a surprise!  
Also, if you're wondering why Brutus gives her a hard time about throwing knives and then encourages her later, call it 'Brutus is an ass and just likes messing with Clove' or 'if he's seen to be disapproving, no one will ask him questions if they figure out Clove's got an illegal set of knives stashed in her room'.  
"Won't say no more here," is from Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Hagrid says it to Harry in the letter he sends with The Monster Book of Monsters.

**To my lovely reviewers:  
hungergames98: **Hi! I'm so excited to hear from you! Everyone must be busy with work and things and here's me writing fanfiction all summer. haha. Oo, I didn't even think about that foreshadowing Cato killing 6. This is why I publish things. The Games become more threatening as they get older. Chapter 11 gets into that. Also, the way you put their fight ("Cato makes Clove get off him by grabbing her neck") just made me want to state clearly that they're not hurting each other at all. There's no budding domestic violence here. They're just roughhousing and they're amateurs. Just thought I'd say that.


	8. Chapter VIII: The Piano

**Chapter 8: The Piano**

One Friday evening in the fall after the 66th Hunger Games, Cato, Caleb, and I come back to my house really really tired. We trade off. Half the time we go to their place and eat their food. Half the time we go to mine. Tonight, we come in and are too tired even to prepare a post-training snack. Instead, we just pile up on the cool, clean, stone floor in the front room without even bothering to take off our shoes. We've learned not to complain or allow the physical strain to show at training but it's different here. We all know we're about ready to pass out. Every so often one of us lets a hand fall onto another's stomach or side just to make sure we're all still able to push them away.

After a while, Caleb sits up, goes into the kitchen, and returns with two cups of water. "Drink slowly," he tell us, going back to get himself a cup. We do, sitting now with our backs against the wall. Caleb comes back in and sits down on his brother's other side.

"Clove?" Cato says after a moment or two.

"Cato?" I answer him.

"What is that?" he asks, his eyes on the closed upright piano.

"You've been coming over here for more than two years and you don't know what that is?"

"I never thought about it." That doesn't make much sense to me. It's a big wooden thing. How could he never have thought about it? But I answer him anyway.

"It's a piano."

"For music?" he asks. Apparently, the word is familiar to him but not exactly the meaning. I nod. He gets to his feet and goes over to stand in front of the instrument. I follow him instinctively. My mother would be furious if he hurt it. "How does it work?" he asks, looking confused.

"Here," I say, giving him my cup of water. There, now he's got something in both hands. He can't touch the keys. I rinse my hands in the bucket of water, dry them meticulously and return to the other room. Then I remove the sheet and open the lid carefully, revealing the eighty-eight white and black keys. "Don't touch it," I warn. "My mom would get mad."

"Ok," he says, keeping the cups in his hands and contenting himself for a few moments with just looking. "Can you play it?" I nod. "Are you allowed to play when your mother's not here?"

"Yes." Caleb gets to his feet, leaving his cup on the floor, and pulls the bench out for me to sit.

"We've never heard you," he says.

I sit and tell them, "I'm better at the violin. I've been learning that forever."

"He's not gonna know the difference," Caleb teases his brother. "He barely knows what this thing is, let along how it's supposed to sound." Cato glares at him but he doesn't dare pick a real fight now because that could damage the piano. "Go on," Caleb says to me. "Play." So I do. I play a short twenty-six note song with my right hand. My mother has taught me entirely by ear. Each note in each song has a designated number. For this song, there are only three different notes. I keep track of them as I play: _Three, two, one, two, three, three, three, two, two, two, three, three three, three, two, one, two, three, three, three, three, two, two, three, two, one. _"How'd you do?" Caleb asks once I've finished.

"Fine," I answer. "Well, actually, but that's a really simple song."

They both speak at the same time. Caleb says, "It sounded simple," with a grin, and Cato says, "It sounded nice."

I ignore Caleb and speak to Cato instead. "Thank you." We hear the sound of a step being taken at the other end of the room and all three of our heads turn that way. "Oh, hi mom." It's late. She must have been lying in bed waiting for me to come tell her I was home and say goodnight before she went to sleep.

"I didn't know you were home," she says. "Are you teaching them?"

I shake my head. "I said they couldn't touch it unless you said so."

"Wash your hands please, boys," Mom instructs. "And then Clove can teach you the song she just played." Looking pleased and excited, Cato and Caleb go off into the kitchen to clean up a little and then each sit beside me on the bench.

I explain the song to them the same way my mother taught me. First, I have them pick three notes all with another key in between. Cato takes three black keys, rebel that he is, and Caleb takes three white ones with black ones between them, just like me only eight notes higher. I teach them the numbers and then play the first part of the pattern through once for them, counting out loud. "_Three, two, one, two, three, three, three, two, two, two, three, three three_." My voice follows the pitches a little. "You try." Caleb, who can follow any pattern and any instruction, picks up on it immediately and plays it back just as I did. Cato isn't as sharp as his brother so his version is slower and the concentration more apparent on his face but when he gets through it he looks up at me again, waiting for my approval and I've rarely seen him smile so big. He looks the way I remember feeling when I first played the fiddle. "That was right," I say. "Do you want to try again?" He does and it's much better this time. Then I run through the rest of the pattern, have each of them play it back to me and then I play the full thing through with one of them and then the other. It sounds funny when I play with Cato because he's on the black keys and I'm on the white, but it doesn't matter.

"That sounds lovely," says my mother, who has been standing behind us watching for a few minutes. "Don't forget it and come back tomorrow and she can teach you more, ok?"

"Thanks," Cato says to her. He and his brother get up, give me a "See you tomorrow," and leave.

"You did well teaching them," my mother says as I close up her piano.

I smile as I return, "I learned from the best." She kisses the side of my head.

"Cato seemed to enjoy playing."

I nod. "Yeah, he did."

In the year and a half before his first reaping, I find out how very right we were to say that. Just about every time Cato's over at my house, he asks to sit down at the piano. He takes to it faster than I did, but that might be because he goes to bed tapping out the song he's learned on his hands. The piano is for him what the violin is for me. Eventually, my mother begins to teach us both at the same time and soon after, has us play together, me on the violin, him on the piano. We make a good pair.

~~

**Disclaimer: **Don't Own

**AN: **A little shorter again this time but the next chapter is pretty long and mad intense.  
Points if anyone can tell me what song they were playing.  
Also guys, I listen to music all hours of the day and night and I've got a whole list of potential songfics. I've written a couple, but I'm not sure if they're any good, and I've got probably a dozen more songs that I could put stories to. Would anyone be interested if I posted some? I've got a couple up already (Kiss it Better, and Frieden im Krieg/Peace in War) but I don't know if it's weird that I write a million and one songfics. Thoughts?

Fun fact, I get super excited when I put new chapters on here. I post something and like two days later I'm like "Time to post again!" and I have to make myself wait to give people time to read. I'm a goof.  
Second, less-fun fact: (I keep forgetting to put this in here) sorry if there are typos in here. I'm an imperfect proofreader.

**To my lovely reviewers:  
Ghanaperu: **I'm glad their interactions seem realistic. I remember how boys acted when I was young (tuggin' on my hair and stuff) so I drew on that to write Cato's and Clove's behavior. Brutus and Clove are complicated. I'm not sure if he likes her or if he just wants to push her to get better because he knows she's got it in her. I doubt he even knows himself and Clove certainly doesn't. Their relationship becomes more complicated throughout this story and the alternate ending. Whoa! Now I put it like that I just want to say there's no BrutusXClove in this. At all. Gross. Their coach-trainee relationship becomes complicated.  
P.S. You should totally read HP.

**hungergames98: **I'm glad the organization makes sense to you. This story is obviously covering a lot more time than The Conspiracy so it doesn't go together in quite the same way. In theory, Clove takes Brutus' advice, but never really admits it, the same way he doesn't admit that he's actually being constructive when he's giving her a hard time. You'll see a lot more of District 2-born Tributes-to-be as you read more about training.

**SilentHeartClato: **Thank you! And yay! Please do, and let me know what you think. :)**  
**

Also, I just had a thought. Is this a good way for me to answer reviews? At the end of the next chapter? or would you rather I messaged you guys?  
~Billy


	9. Chapter IX: And Now for the Boys!

**Chapter 9: And Now for the Boys**

Cato and Caleb were born on the seventeenth of April. I was born on the nineteenth of July. That means that for most of the year, we're the same age, but for the purposes of the Hunger Games, they're a year ahead of me. I think I'll always remember the reaping of the 68th because it was the first time I experienced something other than excitement. Nervousness, maybe?

The nerves started before Reaping Day. They came on their birthday that year because Cato signed up for tesserae. That was always the plan, but somehow knowing he was eligible to sign up for tesserae made the reaping feel much more real. Caleb broke off from the pair of us the day after their birthday. He told us to go on home and that he'd meet us at their house. We shrugged, thinking he just had something smart-people-related to do. He's training to be a pilot and he's already basically an engineer for small parts so there's a lot of stuff he might need to discuss that we wouldn't even understand. We walked back out of the main town. The walk is about two hours long but even so, we only beat Caleb by about five minutes because someone from town gave him a ride. "We'd have waited for that," I said as the driver pulled away, kicking up rocks off the gravel path as it went.

"Better to wait a while and not have to walk home," Cato agreed.

"Lazies," his brother teased, but there was something wrong with his voice. It sounded strained.

"What's up with you?" I asked him bluntly. Cato noticed as well and fixed his eyes on his twin's face, waiting for him to answer.

"Nothing," Caleb answered at first, averting his eyes from us. "I signed up, that's all." Signed up? Signed up for tesserae? Put his name in another four times? That's not the deal! He wasn't supposed to do that! Their family would be fine off Cato's tesserae. What does Caleb think he's doing?

"For tesserae?" Cato asked. Caleb didn't answer, which confirmed our suspicion.

"Take it back," I said quietly. "Go tell them you change your mind. You can't––" Caleb, who flinches when we think back on Chicken Killing Day wouldn't handle the arena. It'd mess him up entirely.

"He's signed up," Caleb argued, gesturing at his brother "And you will, too when you come of age."

"It's different for me. There's no one else to do it. Cato's got it covered for you guys."

"Why should it fall on him?"

"We've talked about this," Cato said. "We agreed––"

"I didn't agree!" Caleb snarled back, "I shut up to shut you up!" I wasn't there for the discussion, but I bet Caleb's account of it is more accurate, not because he's smart but because I doubt he agreed to let Cato take the tesserae willingly.

"It doesn't matter. Do what she said, take it back."

"No," Caleb says firmly.

"It's different for you two than it is for me. There's no one to do it but me and I'm not risking someone else having to volunteer if I get reaped," I argued, trying to insert a note of quiet reason into the conversation. Cato would never have made that point on his own, and I had considered that he might even be angry at me for making it at all, but if it worked, it was worth it.

Caleb paused and turned to face his brother before he spoke slowly and quietly, "You wouldn't." It wasn't self-pity, but denial as that realization hit him.

"Yes I would," Cato answered without hesitation. I knew then that he wasn't angry with me.

Caleb shook his head. "No. No, you wouldn't. I wouldn't let you." As smart as he is, he can be really naïve about the Games sometimes.

"Let me?" Cato had shouted. "It's not a matter of you letting me. I'd go in your place and you know it." That was kind of a low blow. It made it sound like Caleb knew when he signed up that Cato would take his place if he were reaped. That's how I assumed Caleb interpreted it, based on his next words.

"Don't do that! Don't put that on me!" He opened his mouth to continue speaking, but Cato snarled and started toward him.

"It's already on you!" Cato, probably intending to sit on Caleb's chest until he gave in, launched himself at his brother. I had no desire to be tackled so I let them collide and crash to the floor before I grabbed Cato by the back of his shirt and dragged him back off his brother, taking the first opportunity to get my arms around him in a firmer grip. Caleb pushed himself up into a sitting position while I struggled to restrain his brother. He flailed around trying to free himself, catching me once in the gut with his elbow, but he wasn't much stronger than I was and he couldn't break my hold with brute force. After about a minute, during which Cato spat out reasons Caleb should withdraw his tesserae and I tried to persuade Cato to go outside and leave his brother, I managed to shove Cato out the door. I let him go and he stumbled down the stair in front of his door, but turned around quickly, trying to go back inside, but I caught his wrists.

"It's no good," I said, looking straight into his eyes. "Shouting at him won't change his mind." Even the light weights we're allowed to lift build muscle. I felt the muscles in Cato's arms start to relax as he began to realize the truth in my words. "Come on. Let's go for a walk." I blew cold air in his face, making him blink. He shook his head and his arms went limp. I let them go and he dropped them to his sides. Then I gave him a gentle push in the direction of the street.

As we began to walk, he seethed, "What'd he go and do it for, anyway?"

I shook my head frustrated with Caleb's stubbornness and Cato's insistence on not letting the subject drop. The first answer that came to my mind is the one I blurted out, "Maybe he wants to show us he could do it. Maybe it's us he's trying to prove something to."

"It's not about proving anything to anyone. It's about winning the Games."

"Winning the Games depends entirely on proving your worth to the Capitol," I pointed out. There was a long pause before I continued. "I don't think he thought you'd volunteer for him."

Cato glared at me as he said, "Of course I––"

"I didn't mean it that way. I meant that I don't think it crossed his mind that he was endangering you when he signed up."

"It's not even about me going in," Cato said quietly. "I just don't ever want to hear his name at the Reaping."

I nodded. "Me neither."

We walked to the end of their street and back. By the time we reached their house, Cato was calm again, calm and even slightly guilty for the way he went after his brother. If we're nervous, we can only imagine his inner panic. But he signed up anyway so his brother wouldn't be the only one of them with his name in more than once. We pushed open the door and went inside. Caleb was sitting at the kitchen table, a glass of water in his hand two more at different places on the table, one for me, one for his brother. He looked up at us and tried for a smile.

"I'm sorry," Cato said, not moving from his position beside me. "I shouldn't have gone after you."

Caleb shrugged. "Maybe I should've given you a warning beforehand."

"You did. When we talked the other day."

"You can't retract tesserae," Caleb pointed out. "Once you take it, you have to keep it at least for the one year."

"We knew that," I said. Now that there was no more anger, of course we always knew that. You don't take out tesserae lightheartedly. You think it through, assess your options and take it if you absolutely need to. "My fault for forgetting," I continued, because I was the first one to bring it up. "Or for hoping that because it's you, they'd let it go."

Caleb smiled slightly and shook his head. "Nope. Not for me. Not for anyone." For a moment, because of the way he was averting his eyes, I wanted to ask if he was scared, but I didn't. He'd had enough of a rough day without me bringing that up. He raised his eyes again, crossed the small kitchen and hugged me. A second later, I felt Cato join, hugging tight, probably trying to squish me.

"You guys won't get picked anyway," I assured them, my voice muffled by Caleb's shirt.

"Can you breathe ok, Tiny?" Cato asked. I heard the smile in his voice.

"Shut up." I said. Cato's arms tightened a little more, teasing me. "Stop it!" I squeaked, wriggling to free myself. Caleb gripped me tighter, too, playfully ganging up on me. I yelled in frustration and let myself collapse, putting my full weight in their arms like a little kid, knowing they'd have to catch me. They did, and then gently lowered me to the ground. Thinking we were done, I just lay there, which was stupid because Cato took that opportunity to sit on my stomach. Squishing: Complete.

"Not to mention the fact that no one from 2's gonna let a twelve-year-old go in," Caleb said, casually ignoring me.

"Yeah," I agreed breathlessly, poking Cato, trying to get him off. "You're crazy!" I got him the next second and he flailed away from me. I was up and ready to continue wrestling in a second, but Caleb stepped in between us, laughing slightly.

"Can you quit?" Cato and I continued to glare at each other for a moment before we both shifted to attacking Caleb instead. We forgot our nerves, our discussion, and our argument in the subsequent wrestling, but it returned in full measure on Reaping day.

. . .

Now, on the hot Sunday before my twelfth birthday, Cato and Caleb stand with the other 12-year-olds at the back of the crowd and I stand close by them on the other side of the ropes. The girls reaping has very little effect on me, but I find I need to swallow the tension in my throat when the escort chirps into the microphone, "And now for the boys!"

Cato glances back at me and smirks. It isn't a happy or a triumphant smirk like I've usually seen from him. It looks more like an expression he's making to make himself feel more confident. I give him one tiny nod as encouragement. This exchange lasts only as long as it takes the escort to cross the stage to the giant glass bowl. Once she's got the slip of paper in her hand, every eye is on her and every member of the crowd fidgeting somehow. Cato's got his right arm wrapped across his body, holding his left elbow. From this angle, I can see his fingers moving on his sleeve, tapping out what would be a descant if his hands were on a piano. I remember doing that same thing on Chicken Killing Day, playing the fiddle on the back of my hand before the trainer gave us our instructions.

The escort reads out a name, "Jae Libberton." I don't know Jae Libberton, but he goes up from the fourteen-year-olds section and they present him to the cameras and to us. We all clap like crazy until the escort asks for volunteers. Then there's real screaming; people who have placed bets cheer on potential Tributes as they fight to make their way to the stage; potential Tributes yell in frustration or pain or grunt as they deliver blows to those around them. Everyone knows the drill even before they get penned in there. People who aren't interested in volunteering stand on the outside so that the bigger kids can fight it out. The twelve-year-olds are at an automatic advantage if they don't want to volunteer because they're already as far back as you can get while still being in the pool of would-be Tributes. Jae Libberton is accompanied back down out of the roped off area by Peacekeepers and he goes off to join his parents. A tall strong kid of eighteen is pulled up to replace him.

"Cory Kingwood," he says when asked his name. I think I've seen Cory Kingwood around the training center. I've never spoken to him though. He trains with the bigger kids, the ones who spar at eighty or even a hundred percent (minus the Deed itself, of course) so he has no interest in talking to someone little like me, but I wish him luck, I guess. Jae Libberton could have pulled off being a Tribute from 2, but Cory Kingwood looks like he'll be a real contender.

Cory and the girl are hurried inside the giant white marble structure, our Justice Building, and the rest of the crowd is dismissed. Cato and Caleb turn and come towards me and our parents. "One down, five to go," Caleb says. Cato and I grin at each other.

"You looked a little nervous," I tease him as we walk side by side behind the rest of our party out of the square.

"Was not!" he counters.

"It was just a joke!" I say, holding up my hands in surrender. He pushes me playfully and before I can return the gesture, his father has picked him up out of my reach.

"Dad!" he says, trying to free himself, but for now, his dad is still much bigger and stronger than he is.

"Not here, you two," his dad tells us, keeping a firm grip on Cato.

"Ok, ok! But put me down!" He pushes again and his dad lets him go. He slides to the ground, landing on his feet but disturbing a bunch of dust which flies up around the hem of his pants. He brushes the dirt off his reaping clothes and together our two families walk back through the hills to our village, Cato and I intentionally bumping into each other, subtly so our parents won't see.

The 68th is another year in which 2 provides the Victor. I remember thinking that Cory Kingwood looked confident and I was right and he was justified. By the end of his Games, he's thinner than he used to be and definitely more beaten up, but he brings home the crown and once a month for the next twelve months, we receive shipments of food from the Capitol. Once he's recovered, like many other victors, Cory returns to the training center as a victor and mentor-to-be.

~~  
**  
Disclaimer: **Don't own  
**AN: **Just for the record because I worry: Cato trying to fight Caleb, not an overly aggressive move. My dad wrestled with his brothers in exactly the same way. They love each other.  
Also, I just read over something that I wrote very recently that might strike you guys as weird: Caleb's status as baby-pilot/engineer of small parts at age 11. Think 'Clove's a biased narrator and may not really know what she's talking about when it comes to piloting and engineering' or 'Ender's Game style smart'.  
**  
AN Part 2: **I realized two things as I read your reviews: 1) I think I need a beta reader, or at least someone to tell me before I publish things on the internet for everyone ever to see that there are parts that are in my head that aren't in the story. 2) I was missing the resolution to their fight. It was in my head, but not written down here because I'm a scrub. Hopefully it answers all or most of your questions. Let me know. :)  
I apologize if there are typos in the new part. I just wrote it (like actually five minutes ago) but I want to post it now anyway. I'll put Chapter 10 up in a couple days.

**To my lovely reviewers:  
****Ghanaperu: **Ahh, again, reasons I publish things. I didn't even catch the implication of that sentence so I'm really glad you brought it up. I wanted the piano to be really significant and it is especially for Cato even if you don't factor in the threat of the Games, but it's even more of a big deal when you think of him using it to help him get through his first Reaping. Basically thank you for pointing that out because if you hadn't, I wouldn't have thought to put it in this chapter.  
Boom! Yes! Mary had a Little Lamb. I don't know why she would know that or where her mother would have learned it, but it's the only song I can play really, that and Chopsticks so here we are. I usually try to stay away from modern-day references except to bring up the fact that they no longer exist, but maybe it's ok to reference some traditional songs or influential works of literature? Thoughts?  
I'm glad you like the notes. I feel like it's good for everyone to be able to read everything. It's like an extended AN that covers the topics you guys really want to read more about.  
**hungergames98: **Of course Caleb's in on the bonding! He's like her brother! haha, Caleb is totally from my own brain, but he basically exists in the real books as far as I'm concerned. Like I said, it's weird for me when people don't know of him. Aw, like Cato's love of music is tied to his growing attachment to Clove. That's so cute. I didn't even think of that. Oh symbolism :) I read in your AN that you'll be gone for a couple days. I'll miss you, but I look forward to hearing from you again soon.  
**SilentHeartClato: **You see more of Cato playing the piano, and eventually the fiddle like Clove, in future chapters so I'm glad you like it. Like I said when I first posted this story, I want them to be passionate about other things. Caleb has his planes and Cato and Clove have music.  
~Billy


	10. Chapter X: Discovery

**Chapter 10: Discovery**

On Sundays we don't have training. We never have. Sundays are rest days for everyone, the day to sleep in and sit around before another six day work week. Cato, Caleb, and I use that time to roam around the area surrounding our village. One afternoon on the other side of our village from our houses we find a tall chain link fence. "It's the border," Caleb says, looking up at the loops of barbed wire.

"Why do they need the wire if the fence is electric?" Cato asks as we step closer and the hum becomes audible. "It's not like any animal could climb it."

"What if one day the power goes out?" I answer his question with one of my own. It's unlikely, but it could happen.

Cato begins to walk slowly away from us, going parallel to the fence, his eyes trained on the base. I look out through the spaces between the metal lines. I can see more mountains and unexplored territory. Well, probably somebody's explored it, but not me. "It isn't secure," Cato says, stopping after several yards and casting his gaze down even farther. "If we could find a loose stretch somewhere, we could probably get out."

I don't know why he says it, why he wants to go out if the fence is here from our protection, but I do know the idea is immediately appealing, even if leaving the District would be dangerous. I've never been to the border of my District before (this is the part of the village you avoid if you can help it) but now that I've seen the fence and what lies beyond, I want to see it in more detail. I begin to walk in the opposite direction as Cato, training my eyes on the base of the fence. We'll have to find an area of the fence that has already been damaged. Oddly enough, we're looking for a place where a wild animal _has_ managed to crawl through, which is strange because that's the whole reason the fence is up anyway, to keep the creatures out. Caleb stays put, processing his brother's suggestion, and then he snaps out of it. "Get out?" he asks. "Cato, when I said border, you do know I meant border of the District, right? We're not supposed to get out."

Both of us stop to look at him. "Why not?" Cato returns. "I mean, think about it, if this is up to keep animals out to protect us, and we go out armed and careful, there's no need for it, is there?"

"It's illegal."

"Yeah, and I'm sure that's for our safety and not the Capitol's convenience. Training for the Games is illegal, too, you know?" I remind him.

"If we touch it, we're dead. We'll be cooked. Do you know what kind of power is charging this thing?" That's our cue though. He's given in by implying we'll continue to explore around here. He's not arguing. He's just making a point. 'Continue to look for a way out, fine, but be very, very careful not to touch the fence.' Easy.

We don't want to split up so we stick with the direction I chose and continue north for at least another mile, which puts us almost directly a mile east of my house before we find anything of interest. There's a space about a foot deep where some very small animal crawled under the fence. The fence is as taught and strong in this spot as ever, but the tiny hole gives us an idea. We don't have to find a place where the fence is loose. We could widen this hole so we can get through, cover it, and then return. Caleb says we're absolutely not doing it and Cato and I look at him. What the heck have we wasted the afternoon doing if we're not touching it. "Not until I can get us some equipment," he says.

"How do you plan to do that?" I ask him. "You can't just go telling your teachers that you, your brother, and your friend are going to sneak out of the District––"

"Obviously not," he cuts me off. "But I can sneak stuff. It'll be a few days before I have it all but now at least we know where to come. Will you remember the way here?" he asks me. I nod. "Ok, then let's go. We'll come back here next Sunday."

So we do. And over the course of the next six days, Caleb sneaks things home in his pockets. It's dangerous because if he were caught, he would be punished, but he's careful and smart so we don't worry and on the following Sunday, armed with nonconductive gloves that go up to our elbows we widen the hole under the fence. I'm the smallest so when I'm sure it's deep enough for me to crawl through, I cautiously pull myself under the fence. The boys watch anxiously, making sure not to touch me in case I do make contact with the chain link. But I don't. I get through safely and, elated, beam at them with the fence between us. We dig it out wider for them and then Cato follows me under and his brother comes after.

Now that we're on the other side, I take a good look around and realize that we're completely exposed here. Anyone on the other side of that fence could see us. No one is over there right now, but I still say, "We should move." Cato looks around and gets to his feet. Caleb gets up too as Cato grabs my hand and pulls me up and we take off for the trees about four hundred yards away.

Once we're under cover of the trees, we smile again, excited that we've actually done this. Even Caleb who was nervous to begin with is beaming. It's still morning so we have a long time to explore. Neither of our families expects us home until dinnertime. The boys follow me as I break a path through the trees. I'm not concerned with leaving a trail. No one will find it because no one else will come out here. A hole under the fence just wide enough for the boys to fit through won't be noticed and even if it is, people will probably stay away from that place, knowing something got through the fence. We'll cover it up when we go back just to be safe.

But for now we're outside and far enough away that our voices won't carry back to the District. We laugh as we hang upside down from the lowest branches and then pull ourselves higher up into the trees. I jump badly when I startle a squirrel and the boys laugh. I tell them to shut up and drop sticks down on their heads.

We play around in the trees for a while, but there's no progression farther away from the fence (unless you count the time I jump away from Caleb into a different nearby tree) so we jump down, scattering dirt and leaves when we land, and continue up a gentle slope.

After a while, the forest becomes less dense. I wouldn't dare jump from one tree into another here. I'd break a bone. The slope becomes steeper and then we're standing on dirt and rocks looking up at what seems from this angle to be a giant mountain. It isn't though, we're heading east and the farther east you go, the smaller the mountains become. This is one of the smaller mountains–– a hill really–– on this side of the District. The sun is right overhead when we begin to hike up the hill. My dark hair holds in the heat and all of us are quite sweaty, but we've been training now for four years and we're more curious about the top of the hill than we are tired from the heat so we continue. Only Caleb comments on the discomfort and that's just to say, "Next time we come out here, we're bringing water." I'm starting to get hungry, too, but I choose not to say anything, deciding it won't help.

Gratefully, after a two hour trek, we reach the top of the hill. It's large and flat with a couple of trees. We all sit down with our backs against one tree, grateful for even the minimal shade. Once we've caught our breath, we get back to our feet slowly and begin to explore the hilltop. Caleb walks right up to the edge and looks out eastward. "This is what it looks like flying, guys," he says. Sometimes I forget how childlike he can sound, even though he's only twelve. He's as excited about building and flying planes as Cato and I are about the piano and fiddle. "Come look!" We join him and stand there looking over the tops of some of the shorter hills or into the sides of the bigger ones.

"Do you fly this low?" Cato asks, spotting the same problem I've seen. Wouldn't a plane crash into a mountain if it was only this high?

"The big planes don't but the bombers and the planes they've let me fly, just the really little ones, they could fly around here."

"Where did all the roads go?" I ask. "Didn't you say there used to be cities all over the place? And roads people used to use to get from place to place?"

"Destroyed," Caleb says. "Some places flooded. 4 and 7 would be much bigger if the floods hadn't been so bad. Fires burned up a lot of places around here though. Even with the low oxygen levels to fuel them, they destroyed hundreds of homes and killed a lot of people. Avalanches and landslides, too. Big ones. Much bigger than anything we've heard of from the cave towns."

"That was way before the Dark Days, wasn't it?" I ask. "Before the Capitol, even?" Caleb nods.

"Hundreds of years ago. That's why you can't see the roads anymore. They've all fallen apart."

"That's cool that you get to fly over it all. There's no destroyed roads in the sky." Caleb smiles at me.

"When they make me a pilot officially, I'll take you up if you want. Both of you." I wasn't trying to get him to say that. It didn't even occur to me that it might sound like I was asking, but I grin and so does Cato. In our silence, we hear what we've been too distracted to hear until now. Water. Cato and I, excited, competitive, and thirsty take off immediately for the sound, kicking rocks over the edge of the hill, racing each other to what we now see is a small spring, kept shaded by a massive rock on its west side. I hear Caleb skid to a stop, then feel his hand on the back of my shirt, and then a sharp jerk as he pulls me away, making me spill the water I had cupped in my hand. "Don't drink it!" he says, as both his brother and I fall hard on our butts. We both glare at him. "Didn't we just talk about this? All the damage the people before us did to the earth? You don't just drink water unless it's been purified, are you crazy? You don't know what kind of bacteria could be in there." He's such a scientist.

"Ok, ok, fine. We won't drink it," Cato says. "Sheesh, would you calm down?"

"Why don't you calm down?" Caleb retorts, sounding childish again. He crouches down, examines the pond, cups some water in his hands, examines that, too, and then splashes his face with it.

"Don't drink it but put it on your face?" I ask.

"Your hands are fine, his hands are fine, my hands are fine. If you keep your eyes and mouth closed, you should be ok to splash yourself a little I think. The bacteria that could be in here don't do bad things to skin. They do bad things to your digestive system."

I think that through a moment and then answer, "That's gross." I don't realize how much I sound like a kid from the main town until both boys stare at me, Cato barely holding back a smirk.

"Get over it, princess," Caleb says, splashing me. I splash him back and then Cato joins in. For a few minutes, we play in the water, drenching each others hair and clothes. We laugh and then lay out in the sun to dry, coating our backs in dirt and tiny rocks. When the sun signals to us that it's almost evening, we decide we should head back down. We leave our pool and the little stream it's sending down the eastern side of the mountain and carefully make our way back down to the trees. Cato and I begin to play once we're off the steepest part of the path. We push each other like we did at the Reaping, like we do all the time. There's little room for that in the woods though, so we cut it out in there.

From the western side of the woods, we can see the fence but there's no one on the other side of it. Still, we don't take chances, but sprint as hard as we can back to our hole. Quickly, we slide under it, hide it and then begin to walk back home.

We have to work hard to contain our elation at having escaped the confines of 2. We decide not to tell our parents, knowing it would only worry them. On Sundays, the three of us are gone all the time anyway. This isn't that far out of the ordinary. Over the next several weeks, leaving the District on Sundays becomes a habit and gradually something we look forward to to get us through training and school. We carry water, iodine and small quantities of food with us on all ventures after the first one. We return to our hilltop, but also make other paths, become familiar with new parts of the landscape and even brave a real mountain that takes us a good six hours and we don't even reach the top.

One day as we're scaling the side of a new hill it begins to rain. It's gentle and the drops are small, but it cools us off. The sun stays out though. Caleb makes us stop walking to look around and, in moments, we understand why. Far off in the distance, stretching over another mountain is light. I've seen light like this before and can't decide if it's strange or nice. It looks unnatural because it's multicolored, but somehow I know it's not happening because of chemicals in the air. I decide it's something simple and biological and pretty. "How does that happen?" Cato asks, taking a step closer to his brother and me and speaking quietly, as if he's afraid his voice will scare away the light.

"It's the way the sunlight reflects off the mist. That's the color spectrum: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet. I expect you'll learn about it in science class in a few years. When it's in the sky like this, it's called a rainbow. People used to say there was gold at the end of rainbows." Cato and I laugh. We could use a pot of gold. Caleb smiles, too, and adds, "It's nonsense, of course."

"Do you see rainbows when you fly?" I ask. "Clouds are water, right? Shouldn't the sun reflect on them and make it hard to see?"

Caleb's look is approving even as he corrects me. "They're condensed water." Right. I remember now from science the year before last. Three states of being for water, liquid, solid, and gas. Water gets back into the sky as a gas and then condenses in the sky to form the clouds. They're like ice in the sky . . . I think. "But I've never seen a rainbow while I'm flying. There are other things that make it hard to see up there." I smile. We continue to look out at the rainbow for a few more minutes before continuing up the hill. By the time we reach the top, the rainbow is gone.

I've trusted these two for a long time now, but I realize while I'm outside the District how deep our friendship really goes. When I climb up to get an arial view of something, I have to believe that they'll be there for me if something goes wrong. When I'm showing them a path, they have to know that the places I put my feet are safe for them, too. Even the fact that we've come out here together requires us to trust each other. If any one of us runs his or her mouth to _anyone, ever_, we're all dead.

**Disclaimer:** Don't Own

**AN: **Hello friends. Originally, I wrote really long responses to your reviews, and then I decided just to make it all part of the AN and maybe three days later, I thought, "No, this needs to be explained in the chapter itself." I figured you should actually see the resolution of their argument as Clove would describe it, rather than from me. Consequently, I added a bunch to Chapter 9 and I hope that clarifies your questions. If not, let me know and I'll write it as an AN or a response. :)

Also, heads up, this chapter marks 1/3 of the chapters of this story. (unless of course i spontaneously add more to the end, which I might. . . I don't know

**To my lovely reviewers:  
Ghanaperu:** Thank you for always being so nice to me and for asking questions when I make little to no sense. Do let me know if everything clearer now with the addition to 9 or if you want to see my explanation of things.  
**SilentHeartClato: **Your English is beautiful, dear. Thank you as well for asking questions. I don't want you guys to be confused.  
**Clove1113: **I'm glad you like the training center scenes. There are several more chapters that center on training/pre-Games themes. I'm really happy parts of this are making you laugh. I love laughing. And don't be sorry for the length of your review. Write as much as you want all the time. I love reading comments from you guys :)


	11. Chapter XI: Remembering

**Chapter 11: Remembering **

A simple white dress with a blue sash around my waist. A second ribbon braided into my hair. Flat white shoes with thin soles. Reaping clothes.

I don't want to go to the main town today. For one, these shoes are not going to be comfortable for walking several miles on the rocky paths, and for two, I don't want to go to my first reaping. Somehow, being old enough to be reaped changes things, even though I'm only as likely this year to be reaped as either of the boys was last year. My name will be in the drawing four times. Once for me because I have to and once for me, my mother, and father because I'm signed up for tesserae. I don't fuss though. I just let my mother tie up my hair, slip on the shoes and then walk with them on the path that leads into town.

We meet up with the boys and their parents as we exit our village and together the seven of us walk the rest of the way. Somehow, Cato and I can't find it in us to joke just now. He's already gone through this once. It should just be old news but he seems tense anyway. His name will be in there ten times today. It makes my four seem insignificant. I manage to try at least for some playfulness. I make my feet walk toward him and then push him with my shoulder. He doesn't push me back though. Instead, he just raises his eyes from the rocks, gives me a half smile and says, "Come here, Tiny," as he pulls me into an awkward walking-hug. I hug him back because it's nice to hug someone. "Nervous?" he asks, letting me go.

"I shouldn't be," I answer. "Even if I get reaped, which isn't likely, I know I won't be going."

He could prompt me to actually honestly admit that, yes, I am at least a little nervous, but he has the decency not to. He just nods and says, "Me, too."

We're separated at the reaping as usual. They stand in the pen in front of me and to my left and we stand as close together as possible so we'll be able to reunite quickly when the reaping is over. I stand in the front left corner of our pen, they in the back right corner of theirs. Knowing I won't be a focal point for the cameras for the reaping, I allow my hands to grip the rope that forms the wall of the pen when the escort in her high heeled purple shoes clicks over to the girls reaping ball. Tapping out a pattern won't help. It'd be too distracting. I want to look like I have my wits about me if my name is called. The rope would offer some support if I really needed it, but as it is, I just use its rough surface as something else to concentrate on –– some other sensation to occupy my nerves –– until the escort asks for volunteers and I know that whatever name she pulled from the bowl was not mine. Then I relax.

There are no 12-year-old girls who want to volunteer, so I'm able to keep my position at the ropes until the fighting dies out up front. A girl named Sterling Scheer wins for the girls. She's the typical female from District 2, tall and strong and well-trained.

Both Cato and Caleb keep their eyes on the stage this year as the boys' reaping takes place. They aren't called though and a boy named Stark Fernley wins the fighting. I've seen Stark Fernley at training and I don't really like him. He's _that_ kid, the one that tries to one up everyone including the trainers and I don't like that. If you're good, you're good, get better. If you're not as good as you think you are, shut up and learn something rather than waste everyone's time.

"Two down, four to go," says Cato when we're together again after the crowd's been dismissed.

"For you," I answer. "Mama, can we bring other shoes next year? These are hurting my feet."

"You're such a girl," Cato teases me and then runs. I chase him six or eight feet before I feel my dad's arms around my middle.

"You're going to ruin your dress if you run around," he tells me sternly, then softens, "I'll carry you so you don't have to walk on your sore feet." I hug him and let him carry me for a while before it starts to get hot. It's already hot here in summer, but having someone hold you makes it hotter.

"Daddy, put me down. I want to walk," I say, trying to squirm free. He lets me go and sets me gently on the ground. I see Cato's dad put a hand on his oldest son's shoulder, telling him not to make me chase him. I walk the rest of the way home, take my shoes off the second I'm inside and then go into my room to change into something more versatile for the rest of the day.

Cato's and Caleb's family comes to our house for Reaping Day Dinner, bringing some food of their own to prepare with us. We're friends, but we're well aware that neither family can provide for a decent meal for seven. Caleb stands in the kitchen with our mothers, helping them cook and learning to do it himself. Cato and I run around like lunatics for a while before my dad grabs Cato, and spins him around and around. Cato's grown bigger than me now, but my dad is a mason and has spent all his adult life lifting heavy rocks. A squeaking little boy is nothing. He laughs as he puts Cato's feet back on the ground and then tells us to go inside and play the violin and piano quietly.

I'm always happy to play and we know the rules about touching the instruments. First thing's first, go inside and wash our hands. We don't want dirt and grime and grass stains all over the place. We don't fight or get excited when playing. We never have. We've seen the way my mother handles her instruments and seen how her eyes watch us when we did when we were littler and we know how important they are to her and we wouldn't dare hurt them.

Cato sits down on the piano bench while I take the violin and bow out of the case. I hand him the violin and he tunes it against the piano by just plucking the strings while I put rosin on the bow. Then I stand beside him and we play. We're not perfect by a long shot. Sometimes my fingers don't quite find the right places in time and the notes come out a little wrong and sometimes Cato's fingers slip and he hits a white key when he should hit a black one, but we play on anyway. There's one point when he hits a wrong note, thinking it's the right one and that throws us both off so he stops. "No, wait," he says, confused. "How does that...?" his fingers find the keys again and he tries once more, stopping where he messed up.

"This," I say playing a few notes for him. I've been playing for nine and a half years. I should know how this goes. He tries again and, having figured it out, we finish the song. Then we play another and that runs through just about flawlessly, although we play this one all the time and it's shorter and easier but still, he looks up at me, smiling and holds up a hand. I take the bow and the violin both in one hand and give him a high five.

"Well done, you two," says my mother from behind me. I turn around to face her, smiling still. "That sounded wonderful."

"Can I come in now?" We hear Cato's mother ask from the kitchen.

"Yes, come on," my mother answers and then explains to us, "I didn't want to make you nervous but I did want to come on and check on you."

"That was fantastic!" Cato's mom says, coming over, hugging Cato around the shoulders and kissing him. She knows very little about the actual fundamentals of music, but it's nice to hear that she liked it anyway. Cato goes a little pink when she kisses him. "I just can't imagine this. It looks hard. Lily, can I?" she asks, indicating the piano keys. I turn to watch Mama's face. She's very protective of her piano and she should be. Her mother spent a fortune on it years and years ago.

"Only if your hands are clean," Cato answers for my mother, saving her the discomfort of having to tell her no.

"I've been cooking, honey, of course they're clean." She makes to touch the keys but Cato takes her hand.

"Won't they be covered in cooking stuff if you've been cooking?" he asks. She pauses and then withdraws her hand.

"If I go wash them, then can I try?" she asks him this time.

"If you promise to be gentle," he says. She promises and goes back into the kitchen.

"Thank you, Little Man," my mother says. I guess it means something to her that he refused to let his own mother touch her piano until she complied with the rules. When his mother comes back in, Cato teaches her a simple song with only a three notes. After a few times through, she gets it, kisses her son and goes back into the kitchen, pleased. "Keep playing while we finish up dinner if you want. It'll be ready soon," my mother says before returning to the other room as well.

Reaping Day Dinner is as enjoyable as ever, despite the discomfort of this morning. With tesserae and training rations from three kids, we're able to sell some of the less delicious things for items that would otherwise be too expensive. Our usual dinner of mushy grains and a few vegetables is improved vastly by the quantities of meat and fruit. My dad bought a butchered chicken that we've just had to cook today and Cato's family splurged on sweets, mostly strawberries because everybody likes those. I think they begin to regret that decision though as Cato and I realize how much energy we've just pumped into our bodies and begin to relieve it by wrestling. Caleb joins for a few minutes too, which makes the grown ups smile.

At the end of the night, Cato and I sit on the piano bench again and play a few songs while the others clean up. They say it's nice to hear us play and that the kitchen would be too crowded with everyone washing things and putting them away, but I think they figure this is a good way to keep us quiet and calm and out of their hair. Whatever. I'm not about to pass up an opportunity to avoid household chores to play the fiddle instead.

Like last year, the party breaks up a little before everyone usually goes to bed anyway. It's been an exhausting day and, required as we are to celebrate the Games, we're not required to mess up our sleep patterns for them. The boys and their parents are home by ten o'clock.

~~

**Disclaimer:** Don't own.

**AN: **I just realized the next few chapters are very Games/training-oriented, so I hope you like those. And as always, please excuse any typos. I do apologize for them.  
**To my lovely reviewers:****  
hungergames98: **Thank you! I'm glad you're liking the story and grateful you took the time to review with your phone in a shady wifi area. :) Also, I'm sorry for such a short response. I feel like a scrub.


	12. Chapter XII: Goodbye Naïvety

**I just realized this chapter is kind of graphic. I like to let you guys know before you read. Just a heads up.**

Chapter 12: Goodbye Naivety 

I never knew Sterling Scheer very well, but her death stays with me. She's brave and fast and really tough but there's a boy from District 6 who takes her out. I see the fight, but what's worse is what follows. My mother doesn't watch, but leaves the room with her hand over her mouth. I'm so stunned I can't take my eyes off the screen. My dad, looking pale, watches my mother leave, then looks at the television, then at me and finally flips off the power switch. No more of that. That time when Enobaria used her teeth was one thing. That was in the middle of a fight and, at the time, the question in her head was still "Me or him?" But this kid from 6 has no reason for such action. She's dead. Why bother bloodying your hands and clothes digging out her heart? Sterling is the first but not the last, and the kid from 6 makes it to the top three before an avalanche takes him out a week or so after his fight with Sterling.

My emotions are strange at Sterling's burial. I've never been close to a Tribute so their deaths haven't particularly affected me, but today I find I don't want to talk or play. I sort of just want to sit down and wait for the formalities to be over, but I know I can't do that. I'm not little enough anymore to get away with that.

Instead, when it's not inconvenient for anyone else, I go up to where Sterling's body is laying. I look at her take in how thin she is. She lost weight in the arena but not this much weight. I reach forward and touch the tips of my fingers to her knuckles, then quickly jerk my hand back. It's cold, not like ice but like death, I guess. I touch the back of my own hand and then, prepared for the strangeness this time, touch Sterling's again. Her skin is cold and dry, like soft leather, and when I tighten my grip on her hand and gently try to move one of her fingers, I realize how stiff they are. "You ok, Tiny?" I feel Cato and Caleb step up beside me and I draw my hand away again.

With my eyes on Sterling I say, "She's stiff." I don't say it, but for a moment I wonder if this really is her body. The Capitol wouldn't trick the Tributes parents by sending back a replica of their children's bodies, would they? Why not? Even if the parents knew, what could they do about it? But that doesn't seem right now I think about it. They're no closure in burying something that was never alive. We would never hold this ceremony of the painted statue. I don't know whether to be comforted or frightened by the fact that this body was mobile and warm and alive no more than a week ago. I suppose it's nice to think about laying forever in a soft white bed under the earth of my home like Sterling will soon, but still everything about her body scares me a little now.

"Rigor mortis," Caleb says quietly. "All bodies go stiff. Her heart's not beating and he muscles aren't moving so she's stiff."

"And she's so thin," I continue. It's strange, almost superficial, that I should fix on something so simple, but it's the greatest difference I can see without touching her. That and the paleness of her skin. Cato reaches forward and touches Sterling's hand like I did the first time, just for an instant before he withdraws quickly.

Caleb's eyes linger on his brother's fingers for a moment before he says, "They drained her blood." Cato and I look at him. They _drained_ her blood? For _what_? "It's part of the process," Caleb expands quietly, "If they don't drain it, the body will smell funny." Suddenly my head hurts and I don't want to be standing up here anymore. I don't want to be near Sterling Scheer's too thin, stiff, cold, bloodless body.

"Can we go?" I ask them. Without a word of either judgement or confirmation, we move away from the casket. When we're far away from it again I feel a hand on my shoulder blade. Cato tries to give me a half smile to remind me that, as gruesome as it sounds, it's probably for the best. Probably. The blood draining thing. The images of that kid from 6 are probably not so good. Caleb has the same look on his face that he did after he killed his chicken five years ago. Like he's trying to push the bad thoughts out of his head. He's so smart he might be able to do that, but I'm not. I try though.

After Sterling's burial, things are different for me, more different than they've been after the burial of any other Tribute. Sometimes I wake up sweating in the middle of the night, unable to remember exactly what woke me. One time, though I don't remember my dream exactly, I know it was about Sterling and the boy from District 6. My heart is beating so hard it hurts. Or am I imagining the pain? It feels piercing, not throbbing like usual after a hard run, but like my heart wants to go out from between my ribs, or like someone wants to take it from me. Through the darkness, I see the boy standing by the door of my room, his lips and chin covered in Sterling's blood, his teeth visible and bloody too as he leers at me, what's left of Sterling's heart clutched in his hand, dripping blood on my floor. I gasp, close my eyes tightly and shake my head vigorously. When I open my eyes again, he's gone. I'm glad he didn't win. It scares me thinking there might be people like him outside my District, just waiting for the right time to attack.

I wish I was still young enough to crawl in between my parents but I know that I haven't been since Chicken Killing Day. Certainly they would let me in and the would cuddle and sooth me until I could sleep again, but I have to be strong. You don't do well in 2, and in life from what I understand, if you don't make yourself be strong. I breathe deeply and put my hand over my heart, reassuring it and myself that it's safe in my chest. Gradually it slows as I calm down. It takes a long time for me to want to go to sleep again. I lay on my bed scared to close my eyes for a half hour or more before sheer tiredness takes over and makes me forget the boy long enough to fall asleep.

When the Victory Tour makes its way to 2, for the first time I can remember I'm not excited. I don't like this girl from 5, Perri, the Victor. She's never done anything to me, of course, and it's not like she killed Sterling or Stark, but she got to go home and live happily with her family, while all the other tributes' families still suffer from poverty as always but also now from the loss of their children. And this girl has the guts just to stand there on the stage in front of two tributes' families, to answer our mayor's glowing speech with her own, to return to the Justice Building to be fed and taken care of! No, I don't like her. I don't like any Victor, save the ones from 2, whose winning at least benefits those of us here at home on Parcel Day. I wonder if everyone feels like this or if it's just me.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own.

**AN:** Clove's growing up. She's still not entirely right (honestly she's rarely going to be 100% right about anything) but she's getting there.  
Sorry for the shortness of this chapter. I feel like it's intense, but still short. Is it as intense as I think? Let me know. The nightmare scene scares me, honestly. haha. I hate when you have scary dreams and wake up and can't get rid of them.  
The next chapter is nearly 4,000 words though and full of action. Excited!  
Oh, important note: The tribute who killed Sterling is Titus from 6. Katniss mentions him in the first book (? I think it's the first one).

**To my lovely reviewers:  
Ghanaperu: **I'm sorry your internet keeps going in and out. How very frustrating. I lose my mind when YouTube doesn't load fast enough. haha. I'm glad you figured out the fight. That was my bad. Also I'm happy you like the hug scene. I like writing scenes like that between them. I think that idea might have been implanted in my brain by Evanna Lynch (Luna Lovegood) who talked about how much she loves filming scenes where you get to see normal wizarding life. Even in the alternate ending (which is very very long now but not quite done) you see Cato and Clove tease each other the same way they do in 2. They maintain that relationship even through the war.


	13. Chapter XIII: Playing Again

**Chapter 13: Playing Again**

Shortly after Sterling's and Stark's burials, as part of our training, the trainers begin taking us outside the District once a week. Cato, Caleb, and I are careful never to show that we know some of the areas. We're careful never to excel at navigation because that could give us away. The trainers split us up into groups at first, when we're beginning to get acclimated to the mountains that we've theoretically never traversed before. We split off and search for water, or practice hunting, or build shelters for inspections, collect specific plants as instructed, learn what to touch and what not to touch. One day, they tell us we're going to play a game as practice for those of us who might one day enter the Arena. Not all the Peacekeeper trainees are seriously planning to go into the actual Games, but it can't hurt to be prepared.

They train us to use all sorts of weapons back at the training center. Knives, swords, spears, maces, anything likely to be in any arena, you name it, I've held it, practiced with it, and know how to use it. Guns are not in the category of, "Likely to Show Up in an Arena," but as we're going to be Peacekeepers, we know how to use them as well, how to clean them, put them together, aim and fire. The trainers explain the nature of our game today.

"It's a sort of scrimmage," a woman explains to us as other trainers hand out large backpacks. The woman's name is Avery. She trained when she was my age, but she was never reaped and never volunteered, which means she's not a victor and therefore is not a qualified mentor, but some former trainees, if they're proficient enough, are invited back to help even if they don't join the Peacekeepers or go into the Games. They're the really lucky ones. Training pays well and keeps you out of the quarries. "To test your abilities in everything from accuracy, to ability to conceal yourself, to the mental capacity to shoot or throw or strike a real human opponent. Guns won't be provided in the arena, at least, they never have been thus far, and therefore, don't expect them to be, but for today's Game's sake, and because if you're sent to another District as a Peacekeeper you may need to shoot at a moving, thinking target, you'll have them as well as the special weapons and armor you've used before. Open your packs." We do. All of us find a random assortment of the special electrical weapons we've used in training. Collapsable spears, knives, Cato even finds a sword that extends as you pull it out of the sheath. It's much too heavy for its size when it's covered, but we understand why when he removes it. Also in the packs are the fitted black clothes we wear when we use these weapons.

"Suit up, but keep listening," Avery instructs. We all do as we're told. "These aren't real guns. When you hit a target, all that will happen is that the projectile will burst, splattering your target with paint. If you're hit in the head or over a vital organ, you're done for the game. If in a fight your opponent falls unconscious or taps out, they're out, unless you're stupid enough to let them up again without making sure they turn their suit off. If you're fighting with the other weapons, you know your own limitations as to how much pain you can tolerate. When it's too much, turn the suit off and you're out. Each suit is tagged with a marker that signals a computer when it's turned off. They will not turn back on. The last one still playing wins, just like the Games. Understood?" Nods of assent. "Good. Collect one gun apiece and position yourselves." We form a line and collect our guns as instructed while Avery continues. "From this point you have a two mile radius as your arena. There are trainers posted as sentries along the perimeter so you don't go too far." Once we're all armed, she gives the line of us one last once over before saying with a grin, "May the odds be ever in your favor." There's a pause as we wait for dismissal. She checks her watch and tells us, as she pulls a starting pistol from a holster on her belt. "You have sixty seconds to position yourselves. When you hear this, let the games begin. Go."

Without a doubt, I know Cato, Caleb, and I will be a team up until it's no longer possible. There's no risk of dying here so it's really all just one big joke, but I take it seriously because winning will earn me points with the others. The boys and I take off running, but take cover as soon as we find it and hold our guns ready to fire. When the starting pistol goes, we begin to shoot at any opponent within range. I'm good at this, even with trees and leaves in my way. Two girls and one boy end up with bright orange paint spattered across their chests. When hit, one of the girls lets out a squeal of pain. The other lets her gun fall from her fingers and drops to the ground, apparently not keen on being hit again, or totally willing to allow any friend or ally behind her to be hit as well. The boy, after a moment's pause, raises his own gun anyway, aiming for the place the shot came from, aiming at me though he can't see me. If he hits me, I'll be done because no one will make the exception for me, "Well, you got hit but he was cheating so continue playing." I'm about to hit him where it really hurts because I'm just low like that when I see his head snap to the left, my left, his right.

With a yell of pain he falls to the ground. One hand supporting him, preventing him from falling all the way down, the other at his temple and now covered in paint. "You're out! You're done, Ewan!" I hear Cato's voice from my right and know he's the one who covered me.

"I knew that!" Ewan shouts back, irritated. "But you didn't have to shoot me in the head." He gives an exasperated sigh as a couple of vulgar retorts cross my mind, but then I hear Caleb's voice from his position.

"Shut up and get back to camp or I'll shoot you, too." Ewan grumbles, picks up his gun and goes back. The two girls follow him. There are shouts a short distance away from us, shouts and laughter and sometimes angry words from irritated people. I put a finger to my lips, and move toward the sounds of the fighting, being sure to stay hidden. Between the three of us, we should be able to take out this crowd. Cato and Caleb move in beside me and we take positions. I tap the trigger of my gun three times and then look at them. I need no words for them to understand. My tapping asks the question, "On three?" Both of them give the tiniest of nods. We take aim and Caleb taps once, then I copy him and Cato finishes the code and we open fire on the group.

The central fight immediately ceases as everybody reaches for weapons to fire back at us, but we take them down before they make any kind of direct hit to us. Their orange paint smatters the trees. Drops of it fall onto us, but not enough to indicate that we look like we've been shot. To prevent a situation like the one with Ewan, namely that someone who isn't too badly hurt tries to shoot even though were these real weapons they'd be dead, we're careful to make the shots that hit them painful enough to stop them shooting back. There's some swearing as we stand up again and move on but we only grin back at them.

There are no cannons here, obviously, which is unfortunate because I'd like to know how many more people we've got to face. I'm not sure how many of us there are in this age range. I guess I should have counted. As we move through the fake arena, I ask Caleb what he thinks. "Probably forty or fifty," he answers. "And we took out three at the start. There were at least another ten that we shot back there and we can't be the only ones taking people out so there are probably between fifteen and twenty-five left."

"Easy enough," I say. "But the next few people we knock out of the running, we should probably take their weapons. What if we run low on these paint things?"

"These guns will hold a lot of them. They're really little. But we can take some if you want. What good will it do them if they're done playing?"

We spread out, hoping to catch and corral a few opponents between us. But either Cato or I (honestly probably Cato because my sense of direction is unrivaled) ends up off course, because we meet up, which wasn't supposed to happen quite yet. He presses a finger to his lips and points to his right, my left. My eyes flick to try to find whatever he was pointing at, but I don't see it. He slings his gun across his back and steps closer to me. I feel his hands on my head, turning me to face the correct direction. My heart jumps up as I see them, the two girls. They're talking quietly to each other. Cato moves his right hand from the side of my head to my shoulder and leans down to whisper his plan in my ear. When he's finished, I turn slightly to look at him, feeling my heart do that drumroll thing in anticipation of the stealthy attack.

"Ok," I agree and we separate as his plan dictated. Both of us give the girls a wide berth until we're even with them. I'm facing the girl I'll shoot and behind the one Cato will shoot. Cato and I make eye contact over their heads. There's no need for subtlety so he nods once, then I do, also just once, then we wait a beat and on the fourth beat we both fire once. Both girls squeal and fall backward off the logs they'd been sitting on.

"You could've warned us!" one of them says to me. She's joking. She has to be, so I respond in the same tone.

"That's a good way to guarantee you two stay put."

"We're taking your guns, too, ok?" Cato says.

"Whatever," says the other girl. "At last then we don't have to carry them anymore."

They walk away and I turn to Cato. "What do they train for then if they don't so much as want to carry guns?" He shrugs.

"You guys having all the fun without me now?" Caleb's voice reaches our ears. He must have heard the shots and come to check it out.

"Well, you weren't around and ––" I begin. It doesn't sound apologetic. It's just an explanation, but he pretends to be hurt anyway.

"No. No. It's fine," he says fake-stoically.

"Aw, we're sorry, Caleb," Cato adds, moving closer to him.

"No," Caleb says, raising a disciplinary finger. He's dropped the fake-hurt/fake-stoic attitude entirely now, knowing it'll only result in something amusing for me and something relatively unpleasant for him.

"Aw, Come here." Cato says, still fake-sorry. He wraps his arms around his brother in a bear hug. I laugh at Caleb's protests as I sling the girl's gun over my back. Those two. . .

Shortly after this exchange, we run into one of the sentries. Are we really that far off course? The path we were taking wasn't one that was going to lead us into the edge of the "Arena". "We're closing it in now," the sentry explains. "There are only six of you left and we want you to find each other so we can get going. We don't have all day to do this, you know? The winner is being driven back to the District in a truck. That's the reward. But the rest of us are hiking."

"Avery didn't mention that," I say. "We didn't know one of us was getting to go in a truck."

"Well, we know now, don't we," Caleb says, wrapping a hand around my head and pulling me back farther into the arena. "Come on." I push him off me and give him a slightly playful, slightly dirty look.

They must really have closed ranks, because it only takes us another fifteen minutes to find the other three, who have also formed a team. Probably someone told them along the way that Cato, Caleb and I were working together and they figured their best chance of taking us on was in a pack. Actually, saying we find them is giving us a little too much credit. What really happens is that I think I see something that looks suspiciously like a human eye about ten yards in front of us and I stop to examine it. Sure, I could just spray the area with paint, but if I've just imagined the eye, if our opponente aren't really here, the noise would draw them to us, which I don't want. I want to meet up with them on our own terms.

But while I'm looking, another sound to my left has me snapping my head around just in time to see Caleb step in between me and the girl who had tried to tackle me. What stupid moves on both their parts! The likelihood of that girl being able to bring me down was slim, though I guess more probable than her taking out either Caleb or Cato. But the way she ran with her knife raised and the way Caleb blocked her, she was able to stick him in the chest. There's no real damage done of course, but the electrical shock they have wired to go through the suits when you get stuck in the chest is enough to bring Caleb to his knees.

He gives a yell of pain, lets go of the girl and drops to the ground breathing heavily. I can hear the effort it's taking him to draw air into his lungs. The pain would stop instantly if he turned his suit off, but he doesn't want to do that. Unfortunately for him, he's going to have no choice. The suits are designed to hurt worse depending on the severity of the injury you're supposed to have sustained. Therefore, what would have been a knife in the chest, is going to immobilize him on the ground. He's out.

Maybe cruelly because he's only about ten feet away, Cato fires his gun and the paintball hits the girl in the cheek. At the same time, I draw a knife from where they're tied to my belt. I haven't used them thus far, preferring to shoot from a distance, but as she's just stabbed Caleb, I get her back. She shrieks and collapses completely. Caleb's voice reaches my ears, pained still because he's too stubborn to turn off the suit. "Turn!" I do just in time to clock the boy, who had been trying to attack me, in the side of the head with the barrel of my gun. That knocks him sideways and Cato tackles him the rest of the way to the ground.

I end up engaged in combat with the second boy of their little group. It's clear by his posture that we're to fight this out hand-to-hand. No guns. That sounds fine with me. I'm not so stubborn that I keep a hold on my gun, but drop it to the ground to keep my hands free to defend myself. The boy takes a grip on my suit up by the left side of my collarbone with one hand and with the other gathers the material at my right elbow. There are a hundred moves he could do from here and a hundred things I could to do prevent it. The alternatives begin racing through my mind and, curious about his plan, I allow him to pivot on the spot. A shoulder wheel then. When he flips me over him, I land hard on the leafy ground, but not so hard that my plan goes out of my head. I get a grip on his hair and bring him down as well. He wasn't expecting that. Probably didn't think I'd have the leverage from here. But I did because he didn't want me to rip a handful of hair out of his scalp. From there, I have no trouble putting him in an arm bar. He knows instantly what could happen if he doesn't tap out. I hear it in the panicked cry he gives and feel it in the urgency with with he taps on my leg. I don't complete the move, don't bridge up and break his arm, but I keep a firm grip on it and tell him, "Turn off your suit then."

I watch him do it and then let him up. We stand and look around. The girl Cato shot/I knifed still lies curled up on the ground. She doesn't say anything, but I know she wasn't as stubborn as Caleb. Her suit's been turned off. She's done, but being a baby anyway. Caleb holds up his hands and tries for a grin. "I'm out too."

"Sissy," I tease him.

"Oh, shut up," he says. Cato stands up, leaving the boy I whacked unconscious on his back.

"He's out too?" I ask, casually taking up my gun again.

Cato nods. "I turned his suit off for him. He's out cold." He tries, but is unable to keep the grin from crossing his lips and he puts together in his head what has to happen now. "Just you and me then." He raises his gun and trains it on me. I grin as well, take up my own gun again and mirror him. There's a pause while we communicate without words again. He raises his eyebrows a fraction of an inch asking me, "Like before? On three?" I hold his gaze. I don't dare do something as obvious as nod, not with the others all watching us, but I pause, blink a little slower than usual and then fix my eyes on him. He taps three times on his gun, giving me the tempo so that we shoot exactly at the same time. Then he does it once more and this time I shoot on what would be the fourth beat.

For a moment, I'm confused. I hear only one shot and immediately wonder if he held out on me. Did he just let me shoot him in the chest and not fire back? I know I pulled the trigger and I'm confused until I see the orange blossom over his suit and feel the impact of his shot against my own chest. It hurts, stings, but isn't unbearable. Caleb laughs and then so do we. The boy I fought goes to help the girl to her feet and Caleb rouses the boy Cato knocked out. Together the six of us return to the start of the Games.

"Must have been some fight," Avery says upon seeing her. We watched the suits activate and then go off. What happened?" We explain the fight. When we're done, Avery says, "So, who was hit first?"

"They hit at the same time," says the boy I fought. "That was it. You should have seen it. I don't know how they managed it."

"There's no way," Avery says. "There had to be some discrepancy." The boy whose arm I nearly broke launches back into the story starting from when I picked up my gun again and Caleb tries to explain a little calmer to Avery.

"There was," Cato interjects after a minute. All of us look at him, confused. "She hit me first. I felt the impact right before I saw her get hit. She won." I see where he's going with this. We have to end the argument somehow and there's no way Avery would believe either of us if we insisted that we one, so we have to deny it, say that the other won, and the game will end in confusion, but with both of us as victors.

"You did not!" I counter him. "Don't pretend to be so chivalrous."

"What are you––?" like the beginning of "What are you talking about?" from Caleb.

"Jumpy over here pulled the trigger right before––"

"Oh, shut up!" Avery cuts me off and I glare at her. "Fine. Both of you can get in the damn truck. See if I care." Cato and I grin at each other. Sure, we've both just given each other welts from the paintballs, but we've outsmarted our trainers. No matter what they did, they would have had to change the rules. Either they let the two of us win because we were the last two still playing up until we shot each other, or they have us fight again even though we're technically both supposed to be dead. Either option is going to bring dissent from the group at large, but I think Avery knows the truth and therefore wants to change the rules accordingly. There's a pause before she gives the rest of the group their instructions. "If you haven't taken off the suits yet, do it now. Pack up. You're carrying your gear back to training." If this were a normal crowd, there'd be some grumbling at that, but these kids will be Careers and Peacekeepers if they aren't quarry workers. They're tough and they know better than to grumble at something so trivial. Cato and I take off our suits again, leaving just our regular clothes on beneath them. The others begin preparations for departure as our ride shows up. "See you tomorrow, then," Avery says to us.

"See you." We swing our packs up into the bed of the truck and climb in.

The driver, another trainer, steps out and goes over to Avery. He looks irritated but we know they won't want to show disagreement. Usually the trainers try to stay united as one big decision making body. She shakes him off and he returns to the truck, muttering a hurried "Congratulations," to us as he passes.

As the truck begins its careful path back down to the District, Cato and I relax. We laugh a little at the whole thing because it's funny that we changed their minds by shooting each other. We sit with our backs against the cab of the truck, watching the world move around us. It's curious how effortless such quick movement now feels. I've never been in a car, so the sensation of sitting just about motionless while you're actually moving at fifteen miles an hour is new.

As we drive down the little mountain where we played our game, the ground is very bumpy and it jostles us around a lot, but then it begins to flatten out. Carefully, I stand and face the direction we're traveling, letting the wind rush through my hair. I grip the black bar on top of the truck, the one usually used to tie things to, for support and drop the other one down. Cato takes it, letting me know he's there to cover me if we hit some unexpected rock.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own The Hunger Games.

**AN:** Oo. A new kind of playing. Not quite the Games but definitely not the violin either. Thoughts?  
Also, sorry I haven't updated in what feels like a long time to me. I just got hooked on Game of Thrones and that's basically been my life for the last nine days.  
I hope you like the chapter. Please do review. I love hearing from you guys :)


	14. Chapter XIV: Fighting

**Chapter 14: Fighting**

Many of us at the training center are friends, or at least, friend_ly_. Despite the fact that most of us have injured each other at one point or another, we maintain civil relationships. There's one time when that breaks down though.

Some of the young kids who are too young or too frightened to train, hang around near the Capitol stronghold, near our training center. Too frightened to train, but not too frightened to try for some stealth and snatch food from some of us sometimes as we leave. They're clever, most of them. They don't pick on the bigger kids like Cato and Caleb usually and they don't do anything when we're in big groups. Most of them are clever.

A little girl, probably no older than I was when I started training, approaches our tribute-to-be for this year. She thinks she's inconspicuous, but she's wrong. He's tall, taller than Cato and Caleb, although he's got a good three years on them, and muscly and stocky. Really, he ought to be _giving_ this girl some of his extra rations, but when she tries to take a loaf of bread from the wagon he drags behind him he stops, turns, catches hold of her and shoves her hard to the gravel path.

I've had that happen to me. Kids have tried to take from my cart. If I notice them, which is always, I never refrain from letting them know, usually by a little bit of force. I can't give out rations to all of them so I usually just grab them by the collar, pull them around to face me, and make them give back whatever they took with a firm reminder that stealing's punishable by death. It's relatively painless but it scares the daylights out of them so they keep away from my stuff. One time though when I felt the spine of a little girl against my fingers, when I felt how easy it was to pull her and when I saw how near she was to collapsing in my arms, I gave in. "Stealing's punishable by death," I reminded her quietly, but the threat had gone out of my voice. I said it on autopilot. Her upper lip trembled and her eyes filled with tears. Her hands didn't resist as I took the bread away and they hesitated as I offered it back "This stays between you and me," I'd said. If she went blabbing, I'd have the whole group of them on me and I didn't want that. Not to mention I'd lose face with the other trainees. She took the bread and nodded up at me. "Ask next time." I took my hand from her bony back, reached into my cart and handed her an apple. "I'll try to help." Looking ecstatic, the little girl ran away back to her house.

But this kid, our tribute-to-be, loses it completely. It's awful watching him shove the girl to the ground. Her hands and knees are instantly bloodied, staining the loaf of bread she was trying to take. Tears fill her eyes, but she tries valiantly to blink them back. I remember the girl I helped and without thinking, I stride toward the tribute-to-be and put a hand on his elbow, pulling him away from the girl. "Come on, man," I say. I'm angry, but don't really want a fight. "She's just a kid. Let her be."

"Let her be?" he fires back, shoving me away. I stumble backward. "Why don't _you_ let it be, huh? This isn't your fight. Get out of here!"

"What are you gonna do? Beat the hell out of a starving kid over a loaf of bread? Really sensible," I say, mocking him.

"I'll beat the hell out of you!" I don't even have time to get annoyed at him for constantly repeating what I say like he's clever for turning it around before his hands grip the collar of my jacket. He shoves me backward forcefully keeping a grip on me this time, but I'm no novice. I entangle my feet with his, tripping him, and rotate as we fall so that I end up on top of him. It's a clever move, but it's not without risk and he's no fool. A strong blow catches me on the side of the head. It hurts but isn't intolerable, but I still don't want him doing it again so I manage to pin his shoulders down with my knees and his wrists with my toes.

Then I grab hold of the front of his shirt and push him down roughly into the gravel. I feel his muscles tense up and redouble my lock on him, but I'm much lighter than him and he's therefore proportionally stronger. After a second futile attempt, he throws me off him. I make to stand, but he's having none of that. His hands grip the front of my jacket and the breath is forced from me as he pushes me hard into the stone wall of an empty shop. One hand keeps me there while he draws back the other in a fist. It catches me in the teeth, which can't feel good for him, but I definitely come off worse. My upper lip splits and I taste blood. The back of my head also whacks the building which is bad news for my brain. My voice is thick as I snarl at Cato, "Stay out of it!" He looked about ready to intervene, still does, but he won't now I've told him not to. You pick your own battles and you fight your own battles and you don't let other people take your place if you're still conscious. The little girl our tribute-to-be threw to the ground a few moments ago is long gone, having been frightened off by the fight. It's just me, the tribute-to-be, Cato, and Caleb.

"You ought not to have told him that!" the tribute-to-be snarls at me, closing his fingers around my throat. I don't know this kid. I have no idea about his personality or his limitations, but in the arena, a hand around a throat usually equals a speedy kill if your opponent is defenseless. We aren't in the arena, obviously, but as he's someone who will be, I wouldn't put it past him. If I pass out here in the street, it's guaranteed one of the boys will step up and pull him off me, but hell if I'm going to let it come to that.

He's an inexpert fighter with a decent build, I decide, looking at his arm. His elbow is hyperextended. Any trainee will tell you never to hyperextend your elbows. I grip his wrist and he sneers, thinking I'm trying to pull him off me. But I lock my other hand around his twisted elbow and without hesitation, using the momentum I gathered in raising my arm, I push up hard, keeping a firm grip on his wrist. He gives a howl of pain an instant after the crack that indicates I've just broken his elbow. He's horrified and in pain, but I feel no guilt because I get what I wanted. He lets me go.

If he were able to move the damaged arm, my guess is that he'd hit me again, but he can only stagger away, tears glistening in his eyes. He won't do well in the arena if a broken bone is going to reduce him to tears. I maintain eye contact with him, feeling blood run from my cut lip down my chin. Caleb steps forward rather slowly. He speaks quietly, calmingly, "I can set it for you. Then you need to go back to the medical station at the stronghold to have them wrap it up. If I set it here, it won't be so painful to walk back over there."

Caleb is within an arm's length of the tribute-to-be, but he lashes out, pushing Caleb away with his one good hand. "Get away!" His voice breaks and there's more than pain in it. Fear. Despair, even. It's not the broken bone that's making him upset. It's the realization that this injury will hinder him in the arena. Even if he spends the next three months in intensive rehabilitation, there will be kinks he's unfamiliar with and intensive rehab takes time. He'll lose some of his skills from training. When he volunteers, he'll be knowingly sentencing himself to death. I didn't think of that and now I wish I had.

He walks away from us now, dragging his cart behind him with his good hand, wincing and gritting his teeth against the pain in his awkwardly bent left arm. For the first time in minutes, my eyes leave him. First they find Caleb who's looking solemnly at me. I don't know why. I can't tell if he's judging what I've just done harshly or if he's just had some kind of epiphany. Cato on the other hand is still smoldering in anger and a desire to join a fight and just beginning to feel concern. "You ok?" he asks me brusquely. I role my damaged lip once in over my teeth, feeling the torn flesh. It hurts. It'll need to be cleaned. My head where his first strike hit is still tender, and the back of my skull throbs, but I doubt I'll have more than a bruise. I expect the same of my throat where his fingers were. "Yeah. I'm alright," I say.

"I'll take your cart," Caleb says, picking up the handle.

"I got it," I say. He's doing it to be kind but there's no reason for that. I don't need his help dragging a wagon back home. My arms are fine and he's got his own cart. The metal handle clanks a little as I take it from him and they walk with me back to my house.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own THG.  
**AN:** Oh my gosh. I feel like eleven days is forever between chapters for me. I'm still hooked on Game of Thrones and that's why these chapters are coming slower. All I do is sit around and read and pack and get stung by wasps.

I don't know if I said this in my last AN, but I'm a little nervous about this chapter. It's been edited a few times, but when I first wrote it, the fight felt kind of forced, but I think it's a little better now. Thoughts?

I just want to comment on Clove's morals real quick here, as well. I said in a previous AN that she's rarely going to be 100% right and I think this chapter throws that into light. Giving the little girl an apple and some bread and standing up for this other girl that the tribute-to-be goes after wins her points as well. Way to go her. Breaking his arm . . . well that escalated quickly. Or did it, because he was kind of squishing her? Clove got the right ideas, the right motives, but doesn't always execute them so well. That's my comment. Thoughts?  
**  
Ghanaperu: **Here's a funny story for you: Suzanne Collins was influenced by Roman stories and things like that. One of those is the "I am Spartacus!" story, (lots of people claimed to be who the officials were looking for because they figured if they all were Spartacus, no one was Spartacus. I feel like everyone knows that story, but maybe not) which is where I got the idea for Cato and Clove to win the way they do. Of course, the people who said they were Spartacus did _not _win, but still. Insights into my brain. Thank you as always for sticking with me :)


	15. Chapter XV: Travis

**Chapter 15: Travis**

Of course, my parents freaked out when I came home last night. They're used to bruises and soreness but a lump on the back of my head, a bloody lip and finger marks on my throat all at once worry them. Cato and Caleb stick around while I let my mother clean up my lip. There was nothing we could do to slow the swelling of my head though because we don't have ice in the house. Caleb explained what happened while his brother sat beside me. I winced when the cleaning solution began to sting my cut, but didn't get any judgmental looks and figured that those would probably come in the morning.

My dad accompanied the boys outside for a moment and then came back in alone, having sent them home. I wasn't hungry so I just drank a bunch of water and went to bed.

This morning when I wake up, my lips are stuck together and when I pull them apart I rip open whatever scabbing had already begun. I clean the cut again with the solution Mama has left out in the bathroom, cut up an apple, stuff it in a plastic bag, and grab a few rolls to eat on the way into town for training. I meet Cato and Caleb at our usual corner and we walk the few miles to training in silence. The acid of the apple burns my cut but I don't bring it up.

"You look like hell," someone says when we enter the gymnasium for training. I look around and see our tribute-to-be, his arm wrapped up in a white cast, smirking at me.

"You don't look much better," I return. I don't quite understand this. We beat each other up yesterday and today he's teasing me?

"Oh don't look at me like that," he says to Cato who's glaring at him. "I think we've established she could take me, right?" He holds up his cast as evidence.

"Did they give you something for pain?" Caleb asks.

"Yes," answers the kid assuredly. Caleb raises his eyebrows. "So my arm is numb, but I'm not completely uninhibited. I just wanted to tell you something," he says to me. 'Proceed,' I think. "After they set this and wrapped it up yesterday, I walked home and on the way, I found that girl." He doesn't give any more specifications, but we all know exactly to whom he's referring. "And I gave her my cart, told her to split it with her family." That surprises all three of us, shocks us right into silence. He sees this and explains, "Because tiny people who fight people twice their size for strangers should be listened to." He pauses a second before adding, "I'm fucked anyway. Those weekly rations aren't going to do me any good now."

It's not said to guilt trip me. I think it's something he's known for a while by the way it comes out of his mouth. It makes me think of Stark Fernley from years ago. I wonder if he too was putting on a cocky confident façade to cover for his own misgivings about entering the arena. "You're alright," I tell our tribute-to-be.

He smirks again. "You still look like hell." I laugh a little and the four of us get out of the doorway and go into training.

For the next several months, we spend a significant amount of time with our male tribute-to-be. He's strong like Cato, but not as fearless. He's bigger than me, but correspondingly slow. And no one's as smart as Caleb, especially not this kid. We help him train, help him strengthen his weakened left arm once it's free of its cast, get close to him before the reaping. His name is Travis.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own HG.  
**AN:** Sorry for the shortness. There's a few chapters coming up here that are pretty small, but then there's another monstrously long one. :) Probably I'll post these next few not ten days apart.  
Also, if you're wondering why Travis is suddenly surprisingly cool to Clove, that's me writing what my brother and many of his friends have told me, that guys who get in fights usually end up friends. I think it's funny so I wrote about it.

BIG NEWS: The next chapter will be coming to you from RUSSIA! I'm going there for a year abroad and I'm so excited!  
**Ghanaperu:** You're so fabulous. You read Clove exactly as she's intended to be read. Usually fairly lovable but at the same time wildly imperfect. Caleb, in that moment when he looks at her is thinking what you're thinking: "I'm glad you weren't hurt, but there was probably a gentler way to end that fight than to break his arm."

Ok, until Russia :)


	16. Chapter XVI: The 70th Hunger Games

**Chapter 16: The 70th Hunger Games**

At the reaping, Travis volunteers just as he's been instructed to. He takes the stage like Stark did two years ago and we -Cato, Caleb, and I- cheer for him, partly because it's what we're expected to do, partly out of arbitrary we-know-you-need-this support and partly because we genuinely want him to come home and we know he'll appreciate that.

When we see the recaps of the reapings in each District, it doesn't seem like arbitrary cheering though. Compared with the rest of the tributes, he's probably got a good shot. His arm has mended well and he's big and strong and tough. Maybe he will come home.

Training is always a little subdued during the Games. We still go, of course, and we still work hard, but there's always someone with their eye on the television screen. This year it's me who catches one of the major fights: the boy from 4 vs. Travis. I'm working with a club, one of the weapons I'm not as proficient with because it's heavy and blunt, when I see it start up over the head of my trainer. He stops when he sees that my eyes have lighted on the screen. Ordinarily, if someone became distracted like this, it would be cause to swing at their head or knock them in the teeth with a fist, but for these few weeks, it's tolerated.

The room goes quiet as more people realize who is fighting and then we're all puzzled because one of the other tributes, the girl from 4, tries to stop the fight. She's screaming and trying to get in between the two boys, but it's no good and they continue to fight, snarling at each other. Travis's opponent appears to have figured out his left arm is weaker than his right because he tries to maneuver his weapon in such a way as to catch him on that side, but Travis has worked to avoid such attacks. I've helped him do it. On one of those occasions, Travis gets his mace up above his shoulder and whips it around. We hear the sound the boy's skull makes as the mace crunches the bone. And then we see blood from the puncture wounds the teeth of the mace make in the boy's neck. They're deep. The mace doesn't so much as puncture his skin as it does impale him and when Travis frees the mace, he looses his former opponent's head from its shoulders, covering his own hands and pants in blood.

The girl, Shelby Somethingorother, begins shrieking something awful at this. Her eyes go wide and she seems unable to tear her eyes from the body of her former district partner. Travis turns to her and I can't tell if he feels sorry or if he's thinking she's next. She clearly feels it's better to be safe that sorry, or maybe she doesn't care if he's sorry, maybe even if he still wanted to be allies it wouldn't matter to her. She bolts and the camera follows her as she crashes through tangles of leaves and brambles. Travis doesn't pursue her and she must know it, but she keeps going. Maybe she's trying to run right out of the Game, straight home.

But she can't. None of them can, just like none of them can escape with the dam breaks, flooding the entire arena. Travis's food supply is wiped clean away two days after his fight with the boy from 4. The water bears him up and carries him across a field into the low branches of a tree. He clings to it for dear life. We can all swim here (they teach us in training) but some are more competent than others, not to mention the fact that if he falls back into the water, there's no telling where it'll take him.

In the tree, he manages for another three days and by that time, he's sickly. The water from the broken dam continues to gush. Apparently it held back quite the river. Travis braves drinking some but it isn't the kind of sustenance he needs to keep himself supported in the tree. He dies at around nine at night on the thirteenth day of his Games. We're all still at training when it happens. I know the boys feel for him even if the rest of the trainee crowd doesn't because our the atmosphere on our walk home is tainted with what can only be grief. We've never lost someone as close as Travis to the Games before.

The 70th Hunger Games end the next day. The girl from 4 wins that year, the crazy one who ran from Travis. Turns out, her name is Annie Cresta, not Shelby.

**Disclaimer:** Don't Own.  
**AN:** AH! I'm sorry there have been almost three weeks since the last chapter! If you're wondering, I'm safely arrived in Russia (so excited!)! This is wonderful for me, but it also means that chapters are going to be a bit less frequent now because I'm very busy. The next chapter is longer than this one and also pretty intense, so be ready for that.  
**To Ghanaperu: **You know that thing where guys who fight end up friends afterward? That's kind of what I was going for with Travis. I have a brother who's gotten into a few fights in his day and he's basically besties (haha sorry had to do it) with those guys now. Also, not only were you correct in your prediction, but look who else appeared in this chapter! Annie!  
**To anyone else, **if you're coming in late and feel like making me post chapters more quickly, drop me a review because if you flood my inbox, I'll see it and post more. haha. Or just let me know what you think of the chapter/story/about questions/predictions whatever. I love hearing from you guys.  
Ok, tata for now. Gonna go learn some more Russian.  
~Billy


	17. Chapter XVII: Not a Good Situation

**Chapter 17: Not a Good Situation**

"Anyone can do that," I tease Cato, joining him at Swords on the Monday after Travis's burial. He's got a group of foam dummies surrounding him and he's practicing beating them up.

"Oh yeah? I'd like to see you try it." He hands me his sword and I take it and weigh it in my hands. It's heavier than I'm used to, but should still be manageable. All I'm doing is swinging it around, anyway, cutting up foam dummies. I get through four of them and turn around to behead the fifth but instead, I'm met with another sword, a second that Cato picked up. "It's harder when your opponent's a real person."

I back up, take a stance and we face off. This isn't exactly allowed, but I think they've accepted at our age that if we hurt each other, it's our own fault. Cato lunges at me with the sword and I block unnecessarily. That wasn't officially an offensive attack, which I realize too late. "Shut up," I tell him as he smirks.

"I didn't say anything," he reminds me, but I can hear what is almost a laugh in his voice. He makes another attack, a real one this time, and I block it, earning a satisfying ring from the blades as they collide. "There you go, Tiny," he praises me, pushing against me, freeing his weapon. I give him a mock glare and launch an attack of my own. His feet shift easily into position as he defends himself. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, slightly frustrated. "Do you do that when you throw?" he asks.

"Do what?" I counter, raising my eyebrows.

"Tense up if you miss."

"No," I answer. Throwing, like shooting, is strangely therapeutic. You're supposed to relax and center yourself and tensing up is not conducive to that.

"Don't do it here either," Cato corrects me. "It's the same principle."

"How's she doing?" Brutus asks. He hasn't been to training since coming back from the Capitol. He mentored Travis and it's expected that the mentors of dead tributes take a week or so off training after a Games.

"Alright," Cato answers him. Brutus approaches me and takes the sword from my hand.

"This is too heavy for you," he says and walks away, returning maybe thirty seconds later with a weapon that fits better in my hand. "Here," he says to Cato, indicating that he should give him his sword. "I'll train her." Cato's eyes meet mine as he hands over the sword and then Brutus and I step into position.

I think there's a reason they encourage mentors not to train for a few weeks. It has nothing to do with strength or weakness and everything to do with resentment. You train a kid for upwards of five years, mentor him in the Games and then watch him drown, you resent the people who put him in the arena to begin with and that resentment comes out at people who were never involved. That's what happens now. I play strictly defense as Brutus gets his anger out. I'm by no means perfect and it definitely takes some warming up, but I'm also no novice swordsman and I have a healthy aversion to being hit so I do alright for a few minutes until I'm disarmed.

Usually if you disarm someone in training, the match is over. In some circumstances, you just wait for them to take up their weapon again before you use yours, but Brutus seems to have forgotten that cordial rule. Sure, he tosses his sword aside, but he by no means stops, pauses or even slows the fight. Instead, he grabs two handfuls of my shirt and lifts me off the ground, slamming my back into the wall a few paces behind me. I lean my head forward, making sure the back of it doesn't collide with the stone. Brutus looks livid and it seems like his rage is directed specifically at me only I can't think why. Whatever the reason, it'd be smart to end this fight right now, only no one around me has the decency or the courage to step in and I don't think tapping out would help. On the contrary, he'd probably just laugh at me. Instead, I try to free myself from his grasp, at first just with my fingers but when that doesn't work, I dig my nails into his flesh. That's a childish attack and it only seems to make him angrier. He takes me from where I'm pinned against the wall and flings me away from him. I turn back to face him, not liking him being in my blind spot and as I do, I feel a violent blow to my left knee and in conjunction with that, I hear a loud snapping sound.

He hits me so squarely that there's literally nothing I can do to keep myself upright. I feel my right side and then my head hit the stone floor and for a second, the damage in my knee is eclipsed by the pain of the fall itself, but I'm not so lucky as to be allowed to live in my diverted state. I feel something hot starting from the point of impact and working its way up and down my leg. It hurts now, but I can tell it will become much, much worse very rapidly. Brutus either doesn't realize the damage he's just done, or he doesn't care because he drops to one knee and grabs hold of my shirt again, pulling me up into a sitting position so he can make eye contact with me. "You shouldn't have gotten between him and that girl."

So that is what this is about, then? He doesn't just resent the Capitol, but is actually angry with me. Why? Because of Travis' broken arm? Does he blame me for what happened in the arena? Think that Travis' I old injury was his undoing? Maybe, but I don't have time to think it all the way through Just now.

Brutus shoves me away from him, much harder than necessary, as he gets back to his feet. I have enough sense left to tuck my chin so my head doesn't hit the ground again, but I can't help the involuntary squeak of pain that escapes my lips. It was one thing being hit when I was twelve, but it's another entirely now because I can't even trust my injured leg to support my weight. I can't get up and walk back to my place in line, calm, cool, collected, and spiteful. My immobilization, embarrassment, and pain make me curl up right there on the floor. The pain is now such that it's bringing tears to my eyes and I really don't want that. No matter what the injury, I don't want to cry in here.

I hear someone's shoes on the stones near me and then feel a gentle hand on my arm. "You're gonna be alright, Tiny," says Cato's strained voice. "Caleb went to get the nurse." I don't really want the nurse. I've always sort of prided myself on never needing the nurse to come down here to take care of me, but I also don't see how it'd be possible for me to move on my own. "Don't even argue," he continues. It's times like that when I appreciate how well we know each other. I feel the backs of his fingers brush tears off my face.

"It hurts," I tell him, almost defiantly. It's not really funny, but he laughs anyway.

"No, really?" About now, the nurse and Caleb return. The nurse kneels by my legs to assess the injury and I hear Caleb's voice telling his brother to stand and help. Cato's hand leaves my shoulder and he and Caleb set a stretcher down beside me.

"I don't want to set it here," says the nurse to Caleb. "Help me stabilize it and then we'll move her." I have to turn over for them to stabilize my leg. Curiosity takes over and I tense my core to lift myself up to get a look at the injury. My toe points straight up but my lower leg is at about a forty-five degree angle to my upper leg, although it feels like it should be straight. That sensation coupled with that visual just about makes me faint. Instead, however, I just relax again and let myself fall back against the stone. A second later, Caleb's up by my head, fitting some sort of plastic collar around my neck and instructing his brother, "Don't let her do that. Keep her still."

"Ok," Cato says, placing a hand back on my shoulder.

Moving is an unpleasant process. I feel sweat on my forehead and every so often I have to grind my back teeth to prevent myself making a sad squeak. Once they've got the leg stabile it's easier. Then they move me onto the stretcher, then onto the gurney and from there, Caleb pushes by my head, the nurse guides by my feet and Cato keeps his hand on my shoulder and they wheel me into the infirmary.

"This is an X-ray machine," the nurse explains to me, covering my upper body with a thick heavy blanket. "It will take a picture and tell us what's wrong." I don't really care what an X-ray does. I don't care that they need pictures and I don't even really care that there's something wrong with my leg. What I'd really like right now is something for the pain. Then they can do whatever they need to do to the leg, but I'm not going to ask for that. "Don't be afraid. Just be very still. You'll hear my voice through the speaker when the test is over." Caleb puts another heavy blanket on his brother's shoulders and then he and the nurse exit together.

"You doing ok?" Cato asks, setting his hand on my shoulder again like he had it a minute ago only this time also covered by the blanket.

"Never better," I answer and then force a laugh. Cato squeezes my shoulder and we hear the machines start clicking. It doesn't take long to finish the pictures and then I'm moved out of that room into another. Cato stays with me while Caleb and the nurse talk to a doctor. We start a funny stupid thing where we wrap our fingers around each other and try to hold each other's thumbs down but after a few times of me trying to sit up to win the fake fight and ending up falling back with a groan of pain, Cato stops playing the game and just holds onto my hand instead. He massages it, pressing from my palm out toward the tips of my fingers which go tingly as he stops and then releases the blood flow.

We wait a little while and then the doctor, nurse and Caleb join us again. The doctor pulls up a stool and Caleb comes to stand beside his brother. Cato stops massaging my hand but keeps a hold on it and his brother puts a hand on his shoulder. "Even without our test, I assume you've gathered from the pain and the look of your injury that it's a rather serious one," the doctor says to me. I look down at my knee, still at that odd angle and still very painful.

"Yes," I say.

"Good. I won't explain everything to you. You wouldn't understand it even if I did. All you need to know is that there's damage that isn't fixable by merely resetting the bones. We're going to sedate you and take you into surgery where we'll repair what's been done." Cato has the decency not to look condescendingly at me when my fingers tighten around his hand. Surgery should be no big deal here. Injuries happen in a place where a couple hundred kids are wielding heavy objects at each other six days a week. Surgery is common. These doctors have probably done it a dozen times at least. Still, the idea makes me uncomfortable.

With Cato's hand as an anchor, I answer as calmly as I can. "Ok. When?"

"As soon as the operating room is prepared."

"Ok," I say again.

"I'll be performing the surgery so I need to wash and change," the doctor says, getting to his feet. "See you in there." Then he leaves and Caleb takes his abandoned stool.

"You doing alright?" he asks me.

"Yeah," I answer and my voice is strangely high-pitched. I'm nervous and I sound it. I want to cough to clear my throat but I'm afraid if I do I might start sobbing so instead I just swallow hard and say, "It just hurts."

But they know me. Pain is certainly part of it. Without the pain, I wouldn't be so close to tears, but they know sedation scares me. It scares everyone. You're totally defenseless when you're sedated. You can't even see what they're doing. What if they decide the damage is unfixable and that it's easier just to amputate the rest of my leg? I blink rapidly. "Don't worry. You'll be fine. We can't go in with you but they'll make sure you're ok. Promise." I think he tried to say it fast, like you're supposed to pull off medical tape. Just, "One, two, three, go!" to ease the pain but it doesn't work. It just scares me more. I don't like being looked after. I like to think I can take care of myself, but if I'm unconscious, I want someone there I trust. I want them.

"You can't?" Cato's eyes snap to his brother's as my question comes out, now half a sob. "Why not?" I'm being a baby, really, but I just want one of them in there. It'd make me feel safer. "Why not?" I demand, pulling my hand from Cato's to wipe the tears from my face.

"It's not sanitary," Caleb says, but I see he's not as resolved as I know the doctors are.

"Can't you talk to them?" Cato asks. Caleb could. He can't make them. He doesn't have that power, but he can try. Caleb hesitates. He could try but he might be pushing his luck.

"I..." he says, "I'll try. Of course I'll try." He comes over on the other side of my bed from Cato and cups my face in his hands, making sure I look at him. "I'll see what I can do, ok? I can't guarantee they'll let one or both of us in, but you'll be in good hands. At the very least, they'll let us into the viewing room upstairs. And they know we'd beat them silly if they let anything bad happen to you." This kind of talk is unusual for him, but I think he knows it'll have some calming effect on me. It tells me that just because they might not be beside me, doesn't mean they won't be able to keep an eye out for me. I know those doctors don't want these two on their case. "Right?"

"Right," I confirm.

"Ok," he says. He leans forward and kisses my forehead. "I'll be back." He goes and Cato and I are left alone again. I reach out my hand to him and he takes it.

"Good thing we've got him, huh?" Cato says with an attempt at a smile.

"Yeah," I answer. "Good thing I have both of you." His smile goes from an attempt to the real thing at these words.

"Yeah. We've got your back." I smile too now. It's not quite as genuine as Cato's because my back teeth are clenched against the pain in my leg, but it's close.

We sit quietly for a little while longer, maybe a quarter of an hour. Cato tries to keep me calm, but my hand is shaking in his as the minutes ware on. Eventually, he goes over to the sink, fills a plastic bin with cool water and then places a damp cloth on my forehead, trying to sooth me. Caleb comes in as Cato turns the cloth over. I could do it myself (it's not like my arms aren't working) but I let him. "What'd they say?" I ask Caleb.

"He can go in with you, just until they administer the anesthetic. After that, we'll both be in the viewing balcony. We'll be right there." It's not quite happy news. I mean, I'm still going to be unconscious in a room full of strangers, but at least the two of them will be just on the other side of some glass.

"Thanks," I say and then wince as my knee twinges.

"Don't hurt yourself," he says, trying for a joke. "They're gonna be in here in a minute to get you into proper medical unit attire. We'll leave for that, ok?"

"Please do," I say. We all sort of chuckle at that.

Just like he said, about a minute later, two women come in, shoo the boys out, and get me into a hospital gown. There's some discomfort at that because the pants I was wearing to train in have to come off over the knee, which is now swollen to three times it's usual size and still crooked, but I get through it by digging my nails into whatever my hands are near.

Then I'm allowed to lie back on the bed again and cover my legs for the time being against the cool air with a thin but heavy hospital blanket. I feel the bed move forward on wheels and sort of freak out for a minute. "Wait a second!" I say, smacking my hand accidentally on the plastic handle on the side of the bed as I try to turn to face them. "Where'd Cato go? They said he could come with."

"Sit still," one of the nurses orders. "Or you'll make it worse."

Before I have time to turn nasty, the other cuts in, "He'll meet us in the operating room. It's a sterile environment." Oh. Ok. So I let them wheel me down to the sterile environment without complaining. As promised, Cato joins us. I smile at him because he looks funny, dressed almost like a doctor: mask, gloves, smock, funny hair thing and all.

"Come here," I say as he takes my hand. He lowers his face nearer to mine. I poke gently at the mask and tell him, "You look funny." I think I'm crossing some kind of line between nervous and loopy.

Cato exhales, forcing the mask back into its normal shape, and says, "Glad I could be of amusement to you."

"Ready?" asks one of the surgeons.

"Yeah," I answer, trying to relax my hand in Cato's, to tell my body to be calm.

"Will you be still when we insert the needle or should we strap your arm down?"

"I'll be still," I say. I don't want them putting an unnecessary hole in my vein if I jump and I don't want them strapping my arm down. I already feel powerless enough.

"You'll feel a little pinch and then you'll need to just breathe normally as we place this mask over your nose and mouth. When the mask is in place, count backward from one hundred so we know you're asleep."

"Ok." It happens just as he described. There's a little pinch in the crook of my left arm and then they place a mask over my nose and mouth. It smells funny, hospital clean and something else.

"Count," the surgeon reminds me.

I feel funny, counting backward, but I do it anyway, smiling at Cato as he runs his thumb across my knuckles. "A hundred, ninety-nine, ninety...eight, ninety..."

Disclaimer: Don't own.  
AN:2nd chapter from Russia! 1st posted from my iPad!

Fact: I always get a little nervous when i post fight chapters.

So, this is what I meant by Clove's and Brutus' relationship being complicated. On the one hand, he's overly critical in order to be supportive, and on the other. . . this. It gets better. Both more complicated and also Clove situation improves.

To my darling reviewers:  
Ghanaperu: I always sympathize with murderers in stories. I think we've already been over my crushes on Michael Sullivan and Sandor Clegane. That's probably the only reason I can write them at all. haha. But I'm glad you do as well.  
Guest whoever-you-are: So this is a training center scene. Uh. Only it ends rather badly. But you'll see more and they don't go nearly this way so :)


End file.

Hunger Games, Family, Friendship