A small smirk plays on my lips, teasing the crowd. I know what they're thinking. I know that they don't like me, don't like the fact that I've stolen this opportunity away from them. I know they think that I don't deserve this, that I'm too young, too small, too proud and arrogant.

And yeah, I am younger than most, I am small and I am proud and I am arrogant. But I wouldn't have volunteered if I didn't think I was capable. Brutus wouldn't have told me to volunteer if he didn't think I was capable. I'm not here to make friends. I'm here to win. And win is what I'm going to do.

I stare defiantly at the crowd; they may hate me now, but in less than a month they'll be cheering my name; after all, I will be the victor of the 74th Hunger Games. There's no doubt about it. Not even Cato, my fellow tribute, is going to stop me.

He may be taller, stronger, older, but I'm faster, more agile. I'll have sliced his throat open, watching in glee as the blood pours out, draining him of life, before he even realises what I'm doing. He'll be dead before he realises what I've done.

I've seen him in training. He's good, I'll give him that. But I'm better. Sure, he's probably the more likable out of the two of us; after all, I can't remember the last time I've seen him without his usual entourage surrounding him, following his every movement with adoration. And yeah, I admit, he'll probably be the favourite going into the arena, probably get more sponsors too.

But in my eyes, that makes him weak. He's needy. He won't survive without help. He won't survive without a group of people doing all of his dirty work for him. Me, I've been fending for myself since I can remember. I don't need help. I don't need anybody. I'm a born fighter. And I will fight to the end, believe me.

The district escort tells the two of us to shake hands. I turn to face Cato, waiting impatiently as he carries on soaking up the adulation of his adoring fans. Finally, as the cheering dies down, he turns to face me, as if only just realising that he isn't alone on the stage. He looks at me, probably sizing me up, before smirking down at me. I admit, he's nearly a foot taller than I am, but that doesn't mean a thing. In fact, it means I have the perfect eye line of his soon-to-be-no-longer-beating heart. A heart that will stop beating because I'm going to make it stop.

We shake hands. His grip is strong, and I have no doubt that he's trying to psyche me out, trying to scare me off. His attempts make me smirk, make me raise an eyebrow and silently wonder if he's a complete idiot. Does he really think trying to break my hand will scare me off? I want to laugh, but I manage to restrain myself; careers aren't supposed to have emotions. We're supposed to be cold hearted killers after all.

I shift slightly, repositioning my hand in his much larger one, smirking as I dig my fingernails into his skin. It's not hard enough to pierce his skin or cause his blood to simmer slightly to the surface, but hopefully it'll leave an indentation. Hopefully it will make him realise that I'm not going to back down. That I'm not going to make it easy for him to win.

In response, he quirks one of his eyebrows and a smirk begins to toy on the edge of his lips. I smirk back, glad that we've had this silent conversation, glad that we've got to know each other, glad that we're on the same page.

AN: I realised the other day that I'm a massive Clato fan. Who knew? Apparently, not me. Anywho, this is just my attempt to write some moments between to two of them. Some of them will be important, some of them will not. I'll probably spontaneously update, and although I will attempt to go in chronological order, this is not a story per say, but random ficlets that may or may not be related to each other.

Anywho, now that's cleared up, I hope you guys enjoyed my first attempt at writing Clato.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE HUNGER GAMES!