𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠 ✔︎ || clove Kentwell

She never misses || XIV

The screen illuminated the dim lounge with its Capitol-blue glow as we lounged together—just me, Chris, Clove, Cato, Esmeralda, Brutus, and Enobaria. The atmosphere hung heavy with unspoken tension, the weight of upcoming scores pressing down on all of us.

Onscreen, Caesar Flickerman flashed his signature gleaming smile, hair perfectly coiffed, voice crisp and theatrical.

"As you know," he began, clasping his hands, "our tributes have been scored on a scale from one to twelve."

A hush settled over us.

He paused, letting the suspense draw out like a violin string.

"After three days of intense individual evaluations..." Another pause, this one perfectly calculated. "The Gamemakers are ready to reveal their scores."

He gestured toward the screen beside him, which glowed with anticipation.

Caesar's voice echoed from the television, clear and theatrical as ever. His signature grin flashed beneath the dazzling lights of the Capitol studio. His voice boomed like a stage drumroll.

"From District 1, Marvel Standford—score of 9!"

Brutus let out a short breath through his nose. "Solid," he muttered.

"And Glimmer Belcourt, with a score of 8."

A pause, then I gave a quiet nod. "Not bad," I murmured under my breath, eyebrows lifting in faint surprise. Those were solid scores—not unexpected, but certainly impressive enough to catch attention.

"Ava Fernsby, with a score of five," Caesar announces, his voice polished and theatrical as ever through the television speakers.

The moment her name and number appear on screen, I can't help it—a laugh slips out, sharp and involuntary.

"Oh, come on," I say, leaning back against the cushions with a smirk. "You're telling me she's in our bracket?"

Cato scoffs, arms folded across his broad chest, one leg bouncing slightly with impatience. "Nah," he mutters, shaking his head. "She won't even make it past the Cornucopia. Bloodbath for sure."

Across the room, Chris winces like he's trying not to smile. Even Clove raises a brow, unimpressed.

"Definitely not Career material," I say, lifting my drink in a mock toast. "But hey—at least she showed up."

Enobaria snorts from the corner, tossing an orange peel into the trash bin. "Let's just hope she's smart enough to step away from the center when the gong hits."

Brutus chuckles low in his throat. "Smart won't save her if she hesitates."

The laughter dies down, and for a moment, the screen continues announcing scores—each name a glimpse into who might be friend, threat, or forgettable footnote.

But Ava? She was already as good as gone.

"Tom Whitlock with a score of 6," Caesar announces, his voice ringing out crisply through the speakers.

A heavy pause settles over the room.

Cato mutters under his breath, barely audible but unmistakably grim: "Yeah... we're screwed."

Clove lifts an eyebrow, half amused, half annoyed. "You're supposed to be the tough one," she whispers dryly.

Cato doesn't even glance up. "Just saying what we're all thinking."

"From District 2, Chris Throndsden—with a score of 8."

A beat of silence, and then I turned toward him with a grin. "Well done, Chris! You beat Tom and Ava."