Summary: Clove is insane and deadly. Cato is twisted and lethal. They've both been training for the Hunger Games ever since they could walk. As long as they don't get distracted, and keep their eyes on the prize, both of them has what it takes to win. It's a match made in heaven.
WARNING: This is not fluff. It's not butterflies and rainbows. Clato, in my opinion, is not all fluffy and gorgeous and fuzzy and warm. It's very twisted and angsty and co-dependent, but it's still something beautiful, and I can't get enough of it. (I swear I'm not crazy!) XD
Clove smirks.
"Got you now," she drawls out lazily, holding the knife to her opponent's neck. Lenna's body goes limp.
Clove gently presses the knife against the pulse in Lenna's neck, slowly sliding it back and forth, not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to freak Lenna out.
"Crazy bitch," Lenna snarls.
A thin line of blood appears on her neck. Lenna's eyes close in fear and defeat. Her body goes slack. Clove just chuckles. It's all too easy. She presses the knife in a little harder, just for show, before pushing Lenna off her in disgust. She dries the blood off her knife with Lenna's shirt. Lenna lies on the ground, humiliated, the blood trickling down her neck.
Clove inspects her knife, making sure none of Lenna's filthy blood remains on it. This knife is one of her favorites. The whole training center is silent. Students from ages 12 to 18 are standing in a circle around her and Lenna, watching. Clove loves the attention.
She tosses her knife in the air, spins in a couple circles, and catches it with her eyes closed. The gasps of the crowd egg her on. She does it again, with three knives this time.
So Clove likes to show off. Is that a crime?
She slowly opens her eyes, all three knives in her hand. She makes sure to glance around the whole massive training center, staring each person dead in the eye before she speaks.
"Anyone else want to challenge me?" She asks in a bored tone. No one makes a sound.
Lenna's one of the most advanced 18-year-olds in the training center. Clove is a year her junior. No one wants to mess with Clove.
"Anyone?" Clove purposefully draws the word out.
No one in the sea of people answers.
She turns to Lenna. Lenna looks so pathetic. Clove can't believe she had to fight her. It's almost an insult to her ego, that Lenna was the best fighter the district could come up with to match her. Lenna's standing shakily on her legs, leaning heavily against a wall. Her eyes are narrowed with hatred. She's breathing hard through her nose. Her face shines with sweat.
Clove isn't even tired.
She flings the three knives she holds in her hands at Lenna. They embed themselves into the wall. She misses purposely – killing another potential tribute in the training center is illegal.
Knife #1 has stuck to the wall right above Lenna's head. Knife #2 is in between Lenna's third and fourth finger. Knife #3 has grazed her cheek, ripping open the skin, and blood seeps out of the wound. The crowd gasps again.
Clove stares at Lenna, cocking her head. Lenna's cheeks are flushed with humiliation and anger. The cheek wound looks pretty bad – it might need stitches. Clove hopes it needs stitches. Lenna's a bitch.
Lenna shakily pushes herself off the wall, and walks out of the training center, shoulders hunched, and body shaking. It's the most pathetic thing Clove has ever seen.
She turns her attention back to the crowd. "Anyone?" She calls in a sing-song voice.
No one.
She turns her attention to a training assistant. The assistant's eyes are blown wide with shock. Clove resists the urge to strangle him. God, these people call themselves potential tributes? They're bringing shame to District 2. They feel too much emotion, show too much emotion. They're all too human.
"So," she says to the assistant, her voice echoing in the massive room. "I guess this means I'm this year's female tribute, huh?"
The assistant shakily asks, "Does anyone else want to challenge Miss Emerson?"
Nearly everyone looks at the ground, and Clove sneers. They're all pathetic. Every single person in this room is pathetic. No one is brave enough to challenge her.
"Lucky me," Clove drawls out. She shifts her weight onto her front leg, and the crowd flinches. Clove laughs harshly. She loves this feeling of power. Clove saunters to the edge of the stage, and jumps onto the ground. Everyone near her backs away, frightened.
The assistant begins some shaky applause, which soon grows louder and louder as the crowd joins in. Clove mock-bows, and heads for the exit. She has no interest in seeing the boys compete. Clove already knows who's going to become this year's male tribute.
She hears a particular set of footsteps behind her, and smirks. Speaking of this year's male tribute… Clove lazily flicks her least favorite knife at her follower, not looking back. She doesn't hear a thud, so she assumes he sidestepped her attack. Damn. She's really getting predictable.
But so is he. Clove knows the hand's going to come before he even tries to strike her. She ducks quickly, and laughs when she hears him hit air. She turns around, a lazy grin on her face.
"You're this year's tribute," her stalker says. He towers over her, at 6'2.
Clove quirks an eyebrow. "Is that such a surprise?"
"No." The boy says. "I knew you would be. I'm glad. I can't wait to kill you in the arena, to see the life drain out of your green eyes, to see the fight seep out of your body."
"Trust me, Cato. The feeling is mutual."
They both flash an expression at each other. Not a smile, not really. It's more like a baring of teeth.
"You're too predictable," Cato says easily. "I knew exactly when you were going to throw that knife, and where you were hoping to strike."
He sidesteps suddenly, and Clove's brow furrows. Damn it. She hates wasting her knives.
"See?" He smirks. "I knew you were going to throw that knife too."
Clove scoffs, then turns around and keeps walking towards the exit. She hears him follow. After five seconds, she calls, "Don't even bother, Cato. I know you're going to try to slam me against the wall in a few seconds. I'll easily dodge your attack. You need to change up your timing, and then maybe you'll be able to get me."
He curses.
When she reaches the door, she turns around. Her eyes meet his. Even though he's almost a foot taller than her, she still feels superior to him. His lips quirk up. "What?" He asks.
She narrows her green eyes. "Make sure to win your fight today. I can't wait to kill you in the arena. I'll give the audience a show." She winks.
He leans over, so his breath ghosts over her forehead, ruffling her hair. "I wouldn't miss it for the world, Emerson."
She turns around and walks out the door.
Her trainer is waiting for her outside. They begin walking at a brisk pace.
"I'm assuming you fought today?" He asks coldly.
She nods. "Of course, Damen. I've been training for this my whole life."
He growls. "Damn it, Clove! I want you to wait another year. You're only seventeen. We all know Cato's going to win today and become the male tribute this year. And you both are very talented. So we should send a weak female tribute for District 2 this year, and Cato will win. Then next year, when you're eighteen, we'll send you. That way, our district will be guaranteed to win two years in a row. We've gone over this."
"Yes," Clove says coolly. "But I don't care. I'm volunteering this year because I'm going to be the one who kills Cato Evans. And I'll be the first seventeen year old volunteer District 2 has seen in a few decades."
"Stupid bitch," Damen growls. "You don't care about our district at all. You should try to bring honor to the district, not honor to yourself."
Clove chuckles. "Have faith in me, Damen. I'm going to win the Hunger Games this year. I'm volunteering. I won the fight today."
Damen rolls his eyes. "Of course you won the damn fight. You're the best. Everyone knows it. So stop showing off and wait for next year, alright? Talk to the trainers and let Lenna volunteer this year. God, I invest all this time into training you, and this is how you repay me?"
"No," Clove replies simply. "And this is a good thing. It'll bring you glory, too. You're the one that trained me, after all."
Damen is silent.
Clove smirks. "Trust me."
Damen rubs his eyes tiredly. He's only twenty-one, but he's so lethal and wise that he appears much older. He won the Hunger Games three years ago, and has tutored Clove ever since she was a child. He taught her all she knows. "Go do whatever you want, Clove. I'm sick of listening to your bullshit," he says. He sounds exhausted. "I'm going to go practice in the training center. Possibly kill someone because of how frustrated you're making me."
She nods.
Clove makes her way home slowly, enjoying the sunlight. She's too pale, and she's hoping the sun will tan her skin. In certain lights, Clove looks like a ghost.
She reaches her front door, and puts her thumb up to the scanner. After a second, the scanner recognizes and identifies her. The door unlocks with a satisfying click. As Clove steps in, the speaker above her head says, in a voice programmed to sound like her parents, "Welcome home, Miss Emerson."
Clove steps inside and shrugs her light jacket on the stairs. She decides to not train today, a reward for her accomplishment.
Clove grins. "I'm going to be a tribute," she says proudly. She's known it all her life, but it's not true until now, and God, does it feel good. She takes a device off the wall, and says into it, slowly, "Hello, Father and Mother. I am going to be a tribute in this year's Hunger Games." She presses save, and programs it so that when her parents come home, this recording will play for them.
Clove realizes she's starving. She goes into the kitchen and takes out the food tablet. She turns it on, drumming her fingers impatiently as it warms up. When it finally does, she says loud and clear, "Menu". The tablet screen instantly displays all the food they have in the house. Using her finger, she scrolls through the choices, until she decides on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Clove's not really one for fancy food.
She taps the picture of the sandwich, and waits patiently. A few moments later, her butler appears with a tray.
"Hello, Miss Emerson," he says politely.
She gives him a nod.
"You requested a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?"
Another nod.
Her butler puts his tray down in front of her. On it is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a glass of wine.
She frowns. "Did I ask for wine?"
A bead of sweat rolls down the butler's face. "No, madam, but I thought after today's accomplishment, you might want to celebrate."
Clove nods. So he's heard, too. A sense of pride floods her, but she doesn't let it show. "Thank you, Butler."
He nods. "And your clover, madam." He sets a four-leaf clover on her plate.
It's stupid, but, ever since Clove was little, with every meal she had, a four-leaf clover was served with it. As her real name was Clover, her parents thought it would hold some sentimental meaning. Also, four-leaf clovers represented good luck. And Clove was very, very lucky.
She nods her approval. "You are excused, Butler."
He bows, then retreats.
Clove looks around to make sure no one's watching, then rips the crust off the sandwich. It's been a personal embarrassment of hers that she can't eat the crust of bread. Ever. The taste of it makes Clove gag. Clove doesn't tell anyone this, because, well – how childish is that? No. So Clove keeps it a secret.
She throws the crust outside. Let the birds have it. Or the homeless children roaming the district. She doesn't really care.
Clove finishes her sandwich, then takes her clover into the elevator. She presses the little gold button with the word "four" on it. Underneath the button, printed on a small strip of metal, are the words: "Clover's Room. Library. Theater. Training Room. Weapons Room." The elevator dings, and Clove steps out onto the fourth floor. She walks down a few corridors before coming to her massive bedroom. Clove picks up the book on her nightstand. Since her seventeenth birthday, she's kept all her clovers pressed in it. When Clove was fifteen, she knew she wasn't going to volunteer at eighteen years old like everyone else. Clove was going to be special. She was going to stand out. At age sixteen, Clove knew she wasn't ready yet. But next year, she would be. So when Clove was seventeen, she started saving all her clovers. She knew this would be the last year she'd be spending at her parent's house. When she's eighteen, she'll be living in Victor's Village.
Clove would die if anyone knows she keeps the clovers. It's so sappy and mushy and not like her.
After firmly pressing the clover in between the book's pages, Clove decides to go for a swim. She walks out of the room, and goes down the stairs to the third floor. Clove goes inside the Swimwear Room, and quickly changes out of her training clothes. She looks at all her swimsuits. Hmm. Which one for today? In the end, she settles on a deep green bikini that brings the color out in her eyes. She walks out the room, changed, and heads down the hallway to the indoor swimming pool.
As soon as she walks in, she's faced with the menu. Clove bites her lip. Decisions, decisions.
She's torn between the beach at daytime and a lagoon in the jungle. In the end, she chooses the beach. It's sunny and bright, and Clove thinks she deserves to relax with little plastic umbrellas in her drinks. Clove taps the "Beach" option, and the screen tells her to wait while everything is being prepared. When the loading bar finally says "Loading 100% Complete", the doors to the small room Clove was in opens. Clove steps out, and she's instantly relaxed. Sand surrounds the pool, and there's a bunch of beach chairs. Palm trees are everywhere. The smell of sea salt and fresh air fills the room. The walls and ceiling are designed to look like she's outside. Her father has even designed the room so that it projects children running by or people tanning.
Clove jumps in the pool, shivering at the delightful cold. She touches the bottom and grins – it's covered with sand. Clove makes a mental note to thank her father for creating such realistic simulations of the environment. It really does feel like she's in the ocean. She grabs a tube and lays in it, fully intending to relax today. She looks up at the ceiling and watches synthetic clouds drift by. They can even produce rain every now and then. She watches a cloud that looks like one of her throwing knives. It slowly morphs until it looks less like a knife and more like a face. What? Clove squints her eyes, trying to see who it looks like.
It's… it looks like. Damn, it looks really familiar.
And then it hits Clove. Sputtering with rage, she flips out of her tube on accident, and falls into the pool. She surfaces a second later, her cheeks flaming. Clove spits out a mouth full of salt water. God, that was so embarrassing. No one better have seen that. I'll kill them.
She looks at the face. It seems to be smirking at her. Stupid cloud-face.
She jumps out of the pool, intending to take a shower and clean up.
Clove looks up one more time. Cato's face smirks down at her.
God I'm losing it. Comparing Cato Evans to a cloud? What's wrong with me?
She mutters angrily to herself and leaves the room, banging the door behind her.
Clove really hopes Cato won the fight. She can't wait to kill him.
Yay! My first multi-chapter fic! And it's Clato too!
As always, pretty pretty please review, just so I can see how I did and if I should continue this story or not.
Kthxbai.