Hey guys! This is my first story ever, and I love Clato so I'm just gonna try this out ok.~ So here is how this story is going to work. The first chapter is in the past when Cato and Clove first meet in the training room but the rest of the story will take place in present time which starts at the reaping. ANYWAYS, I didn't know what to rate this story so for right now it's rated T, but it's possible it might get moved to M. We'll see. )
CLOVE's POV~ (past)
It was the first day of training for me at the academy and it took everything I had to stifle my dread and put on a tough exterior to make the trainers actually believe I wanted to be here. I suppose I was a good actress because no one seemed to notice or question my little charade, or maybe they could just care less about what I thought. It's not like attending academy was a choice, we attended normal school for a while until we reached the golden age of twelve and then we were sent straight away to the academy to spend a few years training. Once we were deemed good enough, we were allowed to volunteer ourselves for the annual Hunger Games with great pride. That's the thing about my district, we were raised to believe it is an honor to serve in these Games and lose control of all humanity that we just so willingly give up. Well, I refuse to buy into that complete bull. I feel as though they rewire our brains to think this way, certainly not all inhabitants of District 2 are born bloodthirsty savages. I most definitely wasn't. I always thought this little detail meant something was wrong with me. I'd look around my surroundings, and see the utter most cruel beings actually enjoy brutality and pain. I found this trait highly undesirable, why would someone find a sick pleasure in being forced to kill the others around you? The thought was beyond me, and just thinking about it gave me the slightest of headaches. But then again, what do I know? I'm only twelve. And apparently being the age I am still qualifies me as a "kid", which however, I am not. But still, my thoughts are juvenile compared to my superiors and I mustn't question the way of District 2 life, no matter how cruel or brutal it may be.
As I shuffle inside the militaristic building, I huff out a low groan as the other twelve year old newcomers are herded inside, packed close knit as we waited in line. I was beginning to feel the symptoms of claustrophobia. The whole atmosphere of the area was hard to place. It was unlike any sight I've seen before. Almost frightening, really. I shuttered once to myself in spite of everything, but then the features on my face quickly were frozen over. I was sent here to become fearless, like a warrior. Not the frightened little girl I was being. If I wanted any respect whatsoever, I was going to have to be convincing. No matter what circumstances, I hated being in a place where respect was simply not given. Which was practically my whole childhood, but more information on that soon enough. Thankfully, I could allow a sigh of relief once I neared the front of the line. A dull woman wearing a plain black training suit sat before me.
"Name?" She asked in her equally as dull voice, boredom dripping from her single word. This caused a strange expression to cross my features immediately, I didn't like her already.
"Clove," I say hesitantly. The woman stared blankly in my direction, as if she was expecting me to say more. Like a last name, perhaps. Ha. As if I knew. My parents were either dead or have abandoned me when I was just a baby, I still didn't know which one, nor had I really cared. Instead, I lived with my Aunt Enobaria, a legendary victor of the Hunger Games many years ago. She's the closest thing I have to family in District 2, which is sort of ironic, considering she barely treats me like family. She always envisioned having a niece who was bloodthirsty in and out, ferocity and recklessness flaming in their eyes. Unfortunately, she winded up with me. I shouldn't put myself down like this, but it's been embedded in me to feel this way. I'm different, in a way that I thought was good, but no one else did. I feel the constant pressure to please my aunt, and I wish I could. I really do. But like I said before, I personally don't find brutality entertaining in the least. Oops. I know she loves me, if she didn't, I'd be in an orphanage. But her disappointed looks are too much to bear sometimes and I almost feel guilty for not being programmed the way she wanted me. But I know one thing, she hasn't given up hope on me. She believes me going to academy will open up my eyes to the beauty of fighting. Beauty? Really? I'm dubious. Since my aunt is a victor, everyone has great expectations for when the time comes for me to volunteer and I can't say these expectations are anything to be psyched about. Failing to impress my aunt is like signing up for your own personal death wish, which I happen to know firsthand since I've been along that road my whole existence.
Just then, I realized I must have forgotten to clear up the confusion that was displayed on the woman's face as I quickly woke from my daze and snapped back to reality and what I was supposed to be doing. Her uncomfortable gaze boring into me had soon become unbearable so I just quickly add, "Just Clove." The woman elicited an irritated sigh as she flipped through the pages to search my identity up.
"Next," she yelled, allowing myself to release a small sigh of relief, knowing she was finally done analyzing me. I don't know what it was, but something about people staring at me for long tended to make my insides turn in an extremely uncomfortable way. I almost choked out a laugh as the boy behind me jumped at the woman's vicious approach to the newcomers, but I knew better.
Next thing I knew, I was being led down a poorly lit corridor, a string of about ten other newcomers following behind me. Once arriving at our destination, a mock arena that portrayed a landscape we would be likely to see in the Hunger Games was displayed before us. Although, this one is just for practice and the appearance and location doesn't change every year. We observed older students practicing hand to hand combat with each other and others throwing spears and knives in the far corner. The knives especially had caught my eye, but I didn't allow my eyes to linger in that direction for long. I've always been particularly handy with a knife, being the one who always cooked for me and my aunt. Soon enough, my attention was guided towards two girls engaged in an intense practice fight. One girl straddled the other at the waist, her fist coming in forceful contact with the other girl's jaw. Cheers of excitement were to be heard around the arena, but I just kept silent. The whole ordeal seemed extremely dangerous and a fear settled in the pit of my stomach. The sight was all too overwhelming for me, but I did an exceptional job composing myself. I was lost in my own little world when a harsh voice of a man signaled for me to listen up. I did.
"Clove?" He asked me directly, making sure I was, in fact, Clove. I nodded my head in response. "This is Cato, your partner. He'll teach you the basics that you will need to know." My eyes glanced up, and out appeared a blonde hair, blue eyed tall boy who looked about fourteen years old. I've seen him before, but the look on his face told me that I was a complete stranger to him. He didn't seem thrilled nor amused to be paired up with me. I'm sure he was expecting a boy newcomer to be working with him, someone who could doubtfully, yet possibly, be a match for him. Well, he better darn suck it up, I think to myself before flashing him my most innocent of smiles.