004. | pondered potential

❝𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳

𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘐'𝘮 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥❞

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 ten times more agonising than being awake, and only accelerated the feeling that Clove was trapped inside her own head. Night after night, real memories blended with distorted horrors that her brain contrived to punish her even further for the murders she had committed for her crown, and the ghosts of her victims continued to haunt her. The cast list for her night terrors was rife, including all eight victims that had fallen at her hands in the games, the three allies that she had witnessed be murdered at her feet, the friend who was never truly her friend at all, who was murdering allies when her back was turned and taking Clove for a fool.

Her nightmares liked to replay the most traumatic memories from her games in slow motion, but sometimes they twisted them into something even more terrifying. She would watch her best friend slaughtered under her traitorous ally's sword, her family's bodies hanging from the wire fence alongside Blaze and her other victims, or the entire clan of dead tributes would chase her down like a pack of mutts and gnaw at her skin until she woke up screaming. Suddenly, Cato Hadley's words to her made total sense.

Winning the games isn't an escape, it's a prison sentence.

For some reason, she could not stop him from echoing inside her head, and it angered her that he had made such a distinct impression. Her brain could form his exact composition in her head, moulding the parts of his face together into a perfectly constructed picture of how he had looked standing in front of her, every precise detail down to the scar that formed on his left cheek correct.

Somehow, Cato was exactly what Clove had expected after watching him on television during his games, and yet he was also a completely different man.

The 72nd Hunger Games went down as one of the most talked about since the likes of Finnick Odair and Johanna Mason, and Cato Hadley, with his bronze stature and charismatic charm, made up the bulk of its fame. Clove remembered it vividly, from the moment he came bounding onto the stage at the reaping to the moment he returned as a victor, and every minute of it had been completely gripping.

But one picture always stood out in Clove's mind more than most - the image of Cato Hadley, stood proudly with a foot pressed against the chest of his final victim, his arms spread widely in the air as he held up his sword in a celebratory stance, covered head to toe in fallen snow that stuck to his skin like ash. It was a powerful image to say the least, and it always reminded her of an image she had read in a book when she was a child.

It was the image of a phoenix rising from the ashes, ready to be reborn into a new life of promise after so much destruction. An image that bled glory and strength.

If only she knew the true meaning that image had held when she first saw him- that Cato Hadley had not risen from the destruction for a new life of promise, but rather for a life of misery and defeat. That Cato Hadley had not risen from destruction at all; Cato Hadley was the destruction, and in his rebirth, he would have much preferred to have been dead.

Cato left District Two as a weapon with a ruthless dream - he returned with little fight left in him, to a complete nightmare.

That night Clove's nightmare was different. For the first time since the arena, her nightmares were not invaded by the never-ending cast of victims and villains, but rather, she was the only star. At first it seemed normal, almost like she was not asleep at all. She had awoken in her bed at home, her surroundings familiar, and though it was still dark, she had stretched her limbs and gotten up out of bed. Heading for the door with the intention of going to the bathroom, she pulled on the door handle several times over only to realise it was stuck. Turning frantically, she headed for the window, only to find that what awaited her outside was black, and it would not open. She opened her mouth to scream, but no noise left her throat, and it appeared she was stuck, as the shapes that formed her bedroom faded away until she was trapped in a cage of complete abyss, with no way out.

She woke screaming before dawn, her breathing heavy and fragmented. Her body was covered in a thick layer of sweat, and she knew there was little chance of her getting back to sleep. After briefly rinsing down her skin and drowning herself in multiple cups of coffee, Clove rummaged through her drawers until she found the section where she had buried her training clothes. She had never planned to abandon her training simply because she had nothing to aim towards anymore, she enjoyed throwing far too much, but she had to admit she had been putting off visiting the Academy since her return. Pulling on her jacket and scooping up the training bag that had been abandoned by the bedroom door for several months now, she headed out of the door and into the cold.

It was hardly dawn when she pulled the front gate open and headed out onto the street, the curtain of raven hair that she had left free falling down her back blowing in the breeze, and the sun was only slowly beginning to rise. She shivered under the flimsy protection of her training jacket, suddenly wishing that she had chosen one of the lavish coats the Capitol provided her with instead - winters had always been harsh in her district, so she wasn't sure what more she had expected from the early morning air.

The Training Academy sat on the crest of a sloped hill towards the outer boundaries of the district, hidden away from the populated areas of the main square. Its eroded brick structure was solid but aged, but its stature still stood high, buried beneath the trees and away from the main action in order to hide its illegal activities from all but those who chose to see it. It had always been against the rules to train your young for the games, but the Capitol had always chosen to lend a blind eye to their favoured districts - the districts that were loyal to their bidding. In District 2, the Academy had always been a symbol of their strength, but to rest of Panem, it was almost entirely invisible.

It was through this school that Clove had become a Career - one of the district's most able teenagers, built like a ruthless machine with a knack for killing; a child that was brought up on the thirst for death. By the time she hit her teens, Clove already craved murder; it wasn't until it was too late that she realised just how twisted she had become.

After all, it was what Snow wanted, wasn't it? He favoured them in the hope that they would be bred that way, in the hope that they would do his killing for him and keep his people entertained in the process.

Clove arrived at the Academy just as the sun had taken its full form in the sky above her. The Academy opened for students a little after nine, though all group sessions were held in the late afternoons and at the weekends in order to avoid disrupting school schedules, but the training staff always arrived around dawn to open up. When Clove pushed open the double doors, the inside of the building was hollow and almost lifeless, missing the light murmurs of chatter and the thudding of weapons hitting targets that usually filled it when it was buzzing with trainees. The building was rectangular and consisted mainly of one large room, centred with cushioned training mats and lined with separate weapon stations, decked with racks of rusted weapons and targets. A small back office sat to one side of the building, closed off for private meetings and coffee breaks.

As a whole, the building had always brought a newfound brightness to Clove's eyes, but her station by far lit her up the most. Towards the left of the Academy stood the knife throwing station, where several metal racks were mounted to the wall, containing knives of every size and shape. The weapons were mainly handed down from the district's own weapon manufacturers, and so they were nothing compared to the likes of the polished silver that she used in the arena. As she made her way towards it, she noticed that the posters advertising her Victory Tour were still plastered on the walls. It took all of her strength not to tear them down and rip them to shreds, but that wasn't the kind of victor behaviour that the people wanted to see.

She took off her jacket and tossed it to the side, picking up one of the knives from the rack before walking over to the throwing range. She stood facing several flat targets, smaller than those in the tribute centre but hanging from the ceiling so that they were just as tall as a typical human chest, several painted rings surrounding the only place that Clove ever aimed - the heart. The feeling of the Academy almost gave her shivers now, but somehow, the feeling of the knife in her hand still felt the same.

Comforting. Familiar. Good.

She sent one knife hurtling towards the targets, slashing the rubber right in the centre. It felt nothing like it had when she had witnessed the knife slashing the leg of meat in the Mayor's dining hall, it did not send her straight back into the arena with blood on her hands. It felt the same as it always had - exhilarating, and for the first time since her victory she felt like her old self again. Free.

There were moments where she felt better, moments where she was almost able to push back the memories towards the back of her head and block them out by distractions, but nothing compared to the feeling of having her knives back in her own hands.

It was ironic, sickly even, that the thing that had made her so twisted in the first place was the only thing that could make her forget.

Several more throws followed, each more deadly than the last as she began to pick up her pace again. She was out of practice, the thought of throwing after her games making her feel slightly sick to her stomach, but the talent that bled from her hands meant that they would never forget. They were too well-trained, too instinctive, and so even after six months away from the sport she still threw like a machine. Her hands took to the knives like a duck takes to water, each blade slotting perfectly into the centre of the targets until there were none left to throw.

"Somebody hasn't lost her touch", a familiar voice interrupted Clove from her thoughts only seconds after she had thrown her final knife, sending her hurtling across the training centre.

For once, she had been interrupted by a voice that she wished to hear; not by lecturing from the likes of Valeria or Nyx, and not Cato Hadley's voice taunting her failures above her head as she broke down. No, this voice was comforting and calm, a voice that she had been longing to hear since she had left for her tour. Her best friend.

"Oh my god!", she shrieked and picked up her feet, flying across the gym until she was in her friend's arms, "You have no idea how much I've been dying to hear your voice".

Her friend chuckled, twisting her arms around Clove's tiny frame to reciprocate her embrace, "I've missed you too, but was the tour really that bad?".

Clove released her friend from her hug and approached the centre of the room, dropping to the floor and sitting with her legs crossed on one of the mats. Caelia sat opposite her, and raised her eyebrows, indicating for Clove to answer her question. She sighed, "It was a lot - enough parties and dinners to last me a lifetime, and those speeches, well let's just say it isn't a barrel of laughs facing the families you've robbed of a child".

"Unfortunately, that's part of the job description", Caelia gave her a sympathetic smile, but she knew that her friend would never completely understand.

Clove had been introduced to Caelia Nox when they were only very young children, their fathers being old friends that had just so happened to birth daughters of the same age. They had been close almost since birth, their families tied together with an invisible bond that would likely never be broken, but their differences were mighty.

In her head, Clove had always liked to think of Caelia as a wildflower. Beautiful and free-spirited with an open view of the world. By the time she turned ten, Clove's future was set for her - she was a master at her art, with a clear aim and a tunnelled view. She would train until she turned seventeen, and then she would volunteer. She would return with a crown and live the remainder of her life knowing that she had been victorious, and nothing else mattered. Clove was sharp and quick-witted, but sometimes her behaviour could become almost robotic.

At the age of seventeen, Clove Kentwell had become everything she had ever intended to be, but Caelia Nox continued to grow every day.

Caelia had never trained at the Academy either. The only child of a merchant family, her parents would never risk sending her into the arena at the risk that she might not come back, and then they would have nobody to take over their business when they retired. Clove was the middle child of three siblings, one of which had already passed reaping age and was well on his way to taking over his father's business - to the Kentwells, sacrificing one child would pose no risk at all.

And thus, though Caelia had always had a knack for making Clove feel better, the pain that she currently suffered from bled far beyond anything that she could heal, and she would never truly understand.

"Something interesting did happen last night at the Mayor's house, though", Clove trailed off, fiddling with the peeling rubber at the soles of her old training shoes, "What do you know about Cato Hadley?".

"Cato Hadley?", Caelia's eyes lit up at the mention of his name, "What interest could you possibly have in the ghost victor himself?".

Clove sighed, straightening her back, "That's the thing - he was at the Mayor's house last night for my dinner, and he was surprisingly talkative".

"Talkative, really?", the reality of her words seemed to send her friend into a state of shock, "Most people haven't seen him since his games, and the people that do see him don't tend to be there to speak".

Caelia was correct. Clove knew very little about Cato Hadley, other than what was known commonly by the entire district. During his games, he was charismatic, charming and very brooding, with an air of mystery surrounding him that had made him that much more captivating to his audience. Before the games, he was a top student at the Academy and a master with a sword, but Clove had rarely bothered to pick out his face amongst the many that trained there, and she was normally too preoccupied with her own training to pay any attention to his. When he returned home, he shut himself away day after day until he became exactly what Caelia had referred to him as - a ghost.

And so, Clove began to tell her best friend about the tour, the event at the Mayor's house the previous evening, and most descriptively, her encounter with Cato - the liquor, the cherry, their encounter in the garden during dinner. The only parts she withheld were the technical details about her own mental state - the flashbacks, the words Cato had spoken to her before he left her stood alone in the night. That was far too much detail for even her best friend to know.

"Clove!", she shrieked when Clove had concluded her story, "Cato Hadley was flirting with you".

"Trust me, you haven't met that boy", Clove scoffed in response, "he would flirt with anything that crossed his path - he's a pig".

"Well, all I know is that before his games he had a girlfriend, I can't remember her name", her friend responded, "but you might remember her - the girl with the auburn hair that volunteered two years ago, the year before his - she was really close to winning until she was slaughtered by Johanna Mason's axe".

Clove gulped. She did remember that girl, and she remembered the impact her death had had on her district. Nobody had known the extent of Johanna Mason's skillset until it was too late, and underestimating the girl with the axe from District 7 had been the Careers downfall that year. That year taught them to never underestimate a tribute from an outlying district again, and certainly to never, ever be deceived by one.

"That girl was Hadley's girlfriend?", Clove questioned, before a sudden realisation clicked in her head, "Oh - I remember now, he spoke about her in his pre-games interview, right? Talked about how she had died in the games the year before and he wanted to win for her - it won him a ton of sponsors".

"Right. He seemed really hurt by her death - that has to have something to do with the fact he's so messed up now", Caelia responded, and Clove nodded.

"And his family?", Clove asked, though she wasn't sure why she was so intrigued.

Caelia shrugged, "I've never heard anything about them, before or after the Games. Like I said, the guy is a ghost, hardly anybody knows about his home life".

That was where the conversation on Cato Hadley ended, but the question continued to loiter at the back of Clove's mind. There were many things about Cato that people had forgotten over time, things that their minds had been trained to block out even though it had happened before their very eyes. It was intriguing to say the least, but it seemed he had managed to tangle himself quite a complicated web, and she wasn't sure if she was brave enough to let herself be entangled in his trap.

Her life was complicated enough on its own.

───𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ───

Hey guys! for some reason, this chapter has taken me a while to write. But I've been trying really hard to properly plan my books out over the past week and now have detailed plans of each chapter of this book, so hopefully writing will become easier.

I also for some reason decided to edit Clove's Victory Tour poster myself, for some unknown reason haha. Totally extra for the sake of a visual, but it was fun to make.

Anyway, thank you for reading, and much love,

dani ♡