𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠 ✔︎ || clove Kentwell

She never misses || I

Nervousness grips me as I step out of my house on this fateful day.

Today is the Reaping.

I approach Cato's house and knock on his door, waiting for him to answer. As soon as he opens the door, I can see the wide grin on his face - He has been waiting for this day for years - Finally, he can volunteer as tribute

"You look excited," I say, chuckling slightly.

"I feel great, Iris," he responds as we make our way towards the middle of town.

Cato has been my best friend for about a year now. However, we dated when we were 16 years old, but decided it was best to end the romantic relationship and just remain friends.

As we walk, I catch sight of my arch-nemesis, making her way towards us. "What do you want now, Clove?" I groan.

She rolls her eyes at the nickname. "Just wanted to remind you that you have no chance in the arena, and I'll come out on top."

I ask, "And why is that?"

"I'm volunteering," she says smugly.

I laugh in disbelief. "Yeah, right. Good luck with that."

"Happy Hunger Games," she smirks. "And may the odds be never in your favor."

Anger courses through me, and I can't help but yell, "Yeah, keep walking, Clove, you nasty piece of shit!" as she heads towards the town square.

"I hate that girl," I mutter. "She thinks she's so tough, but she's named after a four-leaf clover."

"Garlic clove," Cato chimes in, causing me to burst out laughing.

"Happy Hunger Games," Cato says in a terrible British accent, adding to the amusement.

"And may the odds be ever in your favor," I mock in an even worse accent. We both chuckle before continuing on our walk to the reaping.

Finally, we reach the town square. The plaza is adorned with banners of Panem, and camera crews are stationed around the perimeter, ready to capture both the event and the reactions of the tributes.

I approach a long line of people waiting for their turn. When I finally reach the front, a needle pierces my finger, causing me to wince in pain. "Next," the woman says, urging me to move on.

The atmosphere in the square is dark and tense. Everyone is silently waiting for the Reaping to begin. Our people have their heads down, small children being split from their families to stand in roped off sections. The crowd parts as Cato and I make our way to the 17-year-olds section, I find a spot near the front as Cato moves to the right of our section.

"Do you think you will be chosen?" a voice asks from beside me. I turn my head and realize it's Emily Rosewood, a typically reserved and introverted girl.

"Honestly," I reply, exhaling deeply. "I hope not."

The sound of a microphone squeaking breaks our talk. The Host; Esmeralda Sinclair, soon steps up to the podium to  begin the ceremony. "Welcome district two, to the 74th annual hunger games reaping day," the green haired woman spoke.

She quickly began ranting on about the history of the hunger games as if we didn't hear the same bullshit every year. "Let's get started now shall we?" Esmeralda announces into the microphone.

She walks over to the bowl of female tributes and puts her hand in, picking out a slip of paper. She unfolds it and reads out, "Iris Foster." My heart dropped and felt like it was pounding out of my chest as I stumbled forward, my mind racing with fear and uncertainty.

The Hunger Games were the most brutal, vicious and unforgiving tournament of the year, one in which children were forced to fight to the death in a gladiatorial arena.

As I reached the stage, I was greeted by a sea of faces, some filled with pity, others with glee. They were all waiting for the moment when I would be chosen - or not chosen - as a tribute. As the peacekeepers handed me a
microphone, I took a deep breath and tried to compose myself.

"My name is Iris Foster," I said, my voice trembling. "And I am a tribute from District 2."

A murmur went through the crowd as I spoke, and I knew that I had their full attention. Sweat was pouring down my face as I looked out at the thousands of people who had gathered to witness the event.

"You have been chosen to compete in the Hunger Games," Esmeralda the announcer said, her voice booming through the arena.

My stomach churned at the words, and a wave of nausea washed over me. I had to fight to stay upright as  as Esmeralda approaches the bowl containing the slips of paper with the names of female tributes, ready to announce another name.

She reads the next name on the slip. "Ruby Mathews."

Suddenly, an irritating voice belonging to my enemy calls out, "I volunteer as tribute."

We make eye contact for a brief moment as she makes her way up onto the stage and I can see the determination in her eyes. I realize that she is not going down without a fight.

"Now it's time for the boys," Esmerelda announces as she walks over to the bowl containing the names.

Before she can even pull out a slip, Cato speaks up. "I volunteer as tribute."

I feel relief wash over me knowing that Cato is with me. The two of us together might just have a chance to win this thing.

"Our last district 2 tribute for this year's Hunger Games is..." our escort reaches into the bowl and pulls out a slip of paper. "Chris Throdsdon."

My stomach sinks as I watch a small, 13-year-old boy being pushed up onto the stage. Tears stream down his face, and I can't help but feel a sense of protectiveness over him.

This isn't right. He's just a child. He doesn't deserve this. I make a silent promise to myself to do everything in my power to keep him safe.

"Come on, you four!" Esmerelda encourages. "Shake hands."

The four of us reluctantly shake hands. When I reach Clove, we both hesitate, not wanting to touch each other.

"For God's sake," I mutter before quickly reaching out to grab her hand.

"Happy Hunger Games," Esmerelda smiles out towards the crowd, "and may the odds be ever in your favor." She proceeds to lead us out through the large wooden doors that stood behind us.