A/N: Hi guys. This is my first fan fiction, so there are guaranteed mistakes. This takes place pre-Games, and months before the Reaping. Sorry that this chapter is short, I just wanted to get it up quickly.

Clove stared into the vast expanse of trees decorating the lower land of District 2. It was going to be cut down for more residents moving in to District 2. Clove's thoughts wandered through her mind. It was upsetting to see where she grew up—practically her whole childhood was going be cut down by a simple prompt from the mayor to the Capitol.

Her fingertips brushed along the blade of her knife, inspecting it. She had never in her lifetime killed someone, but Clove was very capable of doing so. She'd fought and trained her hardest ever since she was 8—4 years younger than when most kids start their training. Her father forced her to, though. He'd yell at her every day she didn't train; beat her and abuse her. Except for weekends. He often left the house then, so Clove took weekends as a gift from heaven. A light tap on her shoulder, which caused her to jump and raise her blade on a brooding figure, interrupted her thoughts.

"Hey, Clove. I see your reflexes are as fast as usual." The corner of Cato's lips curved upward into a smirk, and his hand reflexively moving towards the hilt of his sword just in case she actually did swing.

Clove swore and lowered her knife. "Damn you, Cato! I could have hurt you." Her hazel eyes flickered with annoyance. Cato and Clove had been friends since they were 7, since their families were long-time friends and both families had a long line of past Victors.

Cato merely shrugged, staring at her knife, which was laid by her waist. "But," he sat down beside Clove, eyes locked on hers, "you didn't."

"Do you value your life?" She hissed, obviously irritated at Cato's reaction to her worry. Cato was one of the only people who she cared about, and he was one of the people—maybe the only one—who could make Clove laugh. But he could also get on her last nerve easily, especially since he knew her inside out. They were extremely close, but one small action could set either one off—they both had a short fuse, which intervened quite a bit in their relationship.

"Yes, I do. But, you weren't going to hurt me, though. And you didn't. So can we end this argument?" Cato's tone was earnest now. His gaze was still held on Clove, but all laughter that remained had vanished. "I came here to ask you if you would like to train with me," he remarked.

Clove bit down on her lip hard. Blood sprung on her lip as she pierced the skin, and the bitter taste of her own blood filled her mouth. "Sure," she muttered, almost to herself. Clove almost lost her temper on something that barely mattered. She'd began wondering if she couldn't manage her anger better, she would injure someone that sneaked up on her, when she was lost in thought—just as Cato did.

*Switch to Cato's POV*

Cato led the way to the Training Center. Along the way, they past by both of their homes. He'd been neighbors with Clove for the longest time, and visited each other very often. His eyes drifted up on Clove's house—it was large. Multicolored stones decorated the front, and the rest of the house was beige stucco. The house was significantly square, but some perceptible rooms had multiple vertices, forming an octagon. The main entrance were mahogany doors with two long glass windows; the pattern on them distorted your sight from a clear view inside.

Cato tore his eyes away from Clove's house and continued to approach the Training Centre, Clove ahead of him now. His eyes wandered onto Clove's figure—her petite frame, the way she walked in small yet confident strides, and how her hair was tied up into a high ponytail. She'd never let her hair down. Not that Cato remembered, at least.

He cursed silently, reprimanding himself. Cato couldn't love Clove, or form any sign of attraction towards her. It made him weak. But when the Reaping came and the time was for volunteers, he had to volunteer with or without Clove. Cato was 17—he would have one more year, but from now on, he couldn't get any stronger. And he decided his eagerness for the Games overwhelmed the thought of waiting another year.

The Training Centre began to come into view. It was this grand, dome-shaped building with a small entrance. Shades of grey covered the whole building. It was nothing special—Cato saw it 5 days a week. The bold red lettering was capitalized on top of the doorway:

DISTRICT 2 TRAINING CENTER

Cato stepped into the Training Center nonchalantly seconds after Clove, already shrugging off his sweater. He flicked the light switch on, and light flooded his vision. He blinked several times, regaining his sight, and walked directly ahead to the mats. There was no one at the Center on Saturdays, even though it was open for everyone. But Cato wanted to spend time training with Clove.

Cato already had his weapon. They practiced without shields. "Come on," Cato said.

Clove stepped towards Cato until her feet were on top of the soft mat. She nodded at him, before her gaze wandered towards the targets. "Can I practice knife throwing first? And then I'll even have a sword fight with you," she said with a large grin enveloping her face, and soon her cheeks.

Cato shrugged, his lips moving to right of his face. "Sure."

*Switch to Clove's POV*

Clove wandered over to the targets, slipping out one of her knives that were lined in an impressive array in her jacket. She took several steps backwards, until she was about 25 feet away from her target, and narrowed her eyes. She began to aim, holding the dagger so it grazed her cheek, and after a moment she threw it with great force. The knife flew across the room, flipping several times, and Clove tensed. For a moment she thought it wouldn't hit directly on the bulls eye. Her thought was incorrect as it landed straight on the red circle that marked the center of the target, and a satisfactory grin spreaded across her face that replaced the concentrated look. She threw another knife, landing just beside the other knife, and went to retrieve them.

After sheathing her knives back into her coat jacket, she walked back in the direction of the weapons' rack. Clove found her sword—it was 3'5" long, and was steel coated with a faded bronze color. The grip was rubbery in her hands. She stepped back onto the blue mat laid on the floor specifically for sword fighting, and averted her gaze from her sword to Cato. "Ready?"

"Always have." He gestured for her to make the first move—they both knew Cato was stronger and more talented with swords, while Clove was specialized in knives.

Clove swung the sword directly at Cato, and he countered it with a diagonal block. He returned the swing with a stronger one that required Clove to sidestep it. His strength would have easily overpowered her block. While he was stunned, Clove took the opportunity to swing her sword, backhand, to Cato's back. He winced in pain as the blade made contact to his back, forming a long wound.

Clove didn't hesitate to send another swing his way. He blocked her swing again, and slipped his foot in between hers to trip her. She went tumbling to the floor, and Cato flung around and pinned her to the ground, holding his sword's blade to her neck. After a moment, he stood up and extended a hand to her. Clove glanced at his hand, and after a moment's hesitation she took it.

Her action was a big mistake. He flung her sideways and lifted his sword up to hers. Clove's strength was no match for Cato's, though. Their swords clashed again, this time barely missing her face. Clove flinched away and slipped out one of her knives, and suddenly a huge smirk plastered her lips. She stepped past Cato and cornered him to the wall, holding it to his neck.

He cringed slightly when the blade made a shallow cut in his neck. Cato shook his head furiously, shoving Clove into a wall. "Don't play dirty. I clearly said this was a sword fight."

She flung her gaze left and right, gulping her saliva. "Cato." There was a warning note in her voice. "Watch it. You're . . ." Her voice trailed off. Instead, she asked a more important question. "Can you hear me?"

Cato ignored her voice, eyes burning with rage. It was all a blur to him. He hit her with the hilt of the sword and kicked her shin, what he hoped was lighter than intended suddenly. Clove cried out. Her cheek had the imprint of the handle, now. The skin where Cato had kicked her was now bleeding—her scab had reopened, and blood poured onto her shoe. She tried again, ignoring the sharp pain in her leg. "Cato."

He placed his two hands slightly over Clove; his huge figure looming over her. Clove somehow knew this was it. He'd kill her. Whenever he got angry, or even slightly agitated, things could go from serene to havoc. She focused on the sheen of sweat caked on the back of his neck, and then squeezed her eyelids shut, bracing herself for the blow.

Instead, he kissed her.