BORN TO DIE | CLATO (THG)

NINE

CLOVE KENTWELL

I wake to the sound of incessant knocking on my compartment door.

"Clove, honey! It's time for breakfast!" Monique's voice chirps from outside. I listen to her footsteps clack loudly away as she continues down the hallway of the train, probably on her way to wake Cato next.

God, did all these Capitol escorts have to undergo some kind of intensive training? They had to, right? There was no way in hell people were just naturally that cheerful all the time. I catch a glimpse of the early morning sunlight beginning to trickle into my compartment through the cracks in the blinds. Especially in the wee hours of the morning.

I push myself off the floor of the train with a low groan. My neck and shoulders scream in pain. I wince as my eyes land on the luxurious bed in the middle of the compartment. It's invitingly soft covers and fluffy pillows are still immaculately made up, demanding to be slept in.

The bed was right there, Clove, and you really had to fall asleep on the floor? You couldn't have just dragged yourself onto the bed or something? Unbelievable.

I decide to take a hot bath, in hopes that it will do something to help sooth my sore muscles. I crawl on all fours into my private bathroom, strip off my Reaping dress from yesterday, and climb into the bathtub.

It takes me some time to get actually bathe though, because there are so many little knobs and buttons and faucets on the walls and in the tub that I don't know what to do.

I end up almost drowning in a pool of frothy, multicoloured bubbles and getting practically scalded with piping hot water. It's alright though, I guess. At least I'll smell good. And my muscles don't ache as much anymore.

I pat myself dry with a towel and rummage through my dresser drawers outside for clothes—all Capitol issued, of course. I decide upon a plain burgundy coloured shirt and a simple pair of trousers. I scoop my still-damp hair into a hasty high ponytail at the back of my head and hurry outside into the dining compartment.

Seated around the table are Cato and Monique. No sign of our mentors yet.

As expected, the table is heavy with an assortment of dishes. My stomach gives a slight growl at the sight of them—a tureen of fresh fruit, a basket brimming with rolls, plates piled high with fried eggs and slices of meat that smell heavenly and pitchers filled with orange juice.

Mouth watering, I drop into the seat next to Cato, completely forgetting about the awkwardness between us from yesterday's Reaping situation. I'm tempted to get up and sit next to Monique instead, but I figure that might be a little too obvious. So I play it off and just stuff myself instead, and soon I forget about Cato and our situation.

Apparently, Cato doesn't seem to care about it at the moment either, because he's shovelling breakfast down his throat at top speed. You would think that at least he would show a little bit more self-control considering the fact that he's grown up with enough to eat. But I guess even the wealthiest of us still refuse to turn down anything from the Capitol. Especially the food.

I pause, swallowing the last of my roll. "Careful there, Hadley. We don't want you choking again." I snort at the memory of him red-faced and coughing his lungs out at dinner yesterday when Enobaria showed up.

He rolls his eyes at me. "Look who's talking, Kentwell." We laugh, and for a moment, the tension between us melts away.

"Aw, look at them, having a fun little bonding session."

Cato and I look up at the sound of this new voice. Standing in front of us, are our mentors, Enobaria Golding and Alvaro Morgenstern. I'm satisfied to see that they're in a much better state than yesterday.