So this is my first THG story (although I did write this as I wrote my other THG fanfic) and I'm just glad it's about Clato, but mostly focused on Clove, my favourite character.

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

i. beginning

Once, her silver eyes scanned the room and found nothing worthy of being her opponent. Mere weeks later, her gaze crashed against a pair of cocky blue eyes that belonged to the new boy. She sneered at him.

ii. first chapter

They couldn't stand each other, not really. But they paired up for the fights, because he was strong and dangerous, but she was sly and lethal. After the twentieth stab Cato received, they became something like acquaintances. Not friends (not yet), but they weren't enemies anymore.

iii. continuation

Cato fell on his face in the middle of the training, and she laughed at his face because, well, that's who she was and that's what she did; and he laughed with her because, well, that's who he was and that's what he did; and then they nearly killed each other after Cato got up because, well, that's who they were and that's what they did.

iv. countdown

They both wanted to make it to the Hunger Games. Their fingers itched for the feeling of a blade in their hands, and they wished to hear the roar of the crowd loving them, adoring them, wanting them.

But they also wanted each other, and you can't have both.

"I wanted it first."

"Yeah, but I want it more."

They didn't say how much they wanted to stay together.

v. disaster

They made it to the Games, you know. Together. And maybe Cato was on the verge of tears and maybe Clove didn't sleep the night before, but they didn't say a thing.

We are warriors before we are humans.

Seems they made it into their motto.

vi. prey

Everyone loved the kids from twelve. Yes, the girl that ran into the woods and the boy that accompanied them, the careers. Star-crossed lovers, the public called them. Delusional idiots, Clove named them. But dangerous delusional idiots. They were loved by the Capitol. She wasn't. And everyone knows you can't win when you are not the favourite.

(So she grabbed her knives one night and killed the blonde boy from Twelve in his sleep.)

vii. murderers

"What did you do?" he yelled at her when everyone got up.

"One step closer to the victory, my dear Cato. Isn't that what you wanted?"

Her smile was hypnotising and deathly dangerous, just like her. Victory. Fame. Clove. Everything she knew he wanted.

He helped her kill the rest of the careers.

viii. heartless

She tracked the girl from Twelve like it was the only thing she knew how to do. She was alone, the little girl that used to be her ally was killed days ago by Marvel, one of the dead careers.

(One of her kills).

Clove took out her knives while Cato kept watch.

"Well, well, isn't it the famous Girl on Fire. The girl everybody loves. The girl that's going to win the Games. But guess what, sweetheart— you can't win when you're dead."

She made Twelve scream, beg, cry, bleed, die. Just like she'd wanted for so long.

She wondered if people were right when they said she didn't have a heart.

ix. monster

Clove knew how much Cato wanted to win. She knew how much she wanted to win. She would have to choose.

(And she did.)

She picked her knives up quickly when the boy from Eleven appeared into view, and ran.

Not a single sound of alert left her mouth.

The fight was unique. Completely made of blood violence and death, and she loved it. Cato screamed for help as Eleven smashed a rock against his temple.

"Clove!"

Smash.

"Help!"

Smash.

"CLOVE, PLEASE!"

Death.

Minutes later, when she was sure Eleven wasn't near and Cato's body hadn't been took yet, she stared at his bloody face and empty eyes.

And upon seeing Cato, her ally, her companion, lying lifeless in front of her eyes, the realization of what she had just done hit her like a bullet to the heart. She had let Cato die.

(One step closer to the fame.)

His stomach, covered in its own blood, seemed to confirm that.

Oh, well.

She never was good with friends, anyway.

x. light

The light burned her pupils worse than the sun ever did. All she could see was white, white, white.

She wondered if this was what the afterlife looked like.

"Am I dead?"

The woman with a strange purple skin, let out a too irritant laugh.

"No, sweetie. You've won. You're the Victor of the Games."

So this is what they called Heaven, she thought.

Somehow, she had always imagined it less aggressive.

xi. return

She liked the Capitol. She liked it very, very much. Cato would have loved it. But he wasn't there. She was there, because she let him die, and now she was the winner, the hero, the goddess.

The music was so loud she felt like it was dancing with her, making her move in a way she would have never tried before.

And the people… Oh, the people. All those people dressed in odd robes wanted to talk to her like she was absolutely divine, and she enjoyed it —this is what she fought for— and she talked to them and dedicated them her shiniest smiles (she didn't even know she could smile like that) like it was the only purpose in her life until the colours started dancing behind her eyelids.

She felt powerful.

"I'm the Victor," she muttered to herself as her gaze rested on the stars.

It was a good night to be alive, indeed.

xii. requiem

Sitting on the grass behind her house, she remembered.

(She didn't want to.)

She remembered Cato, how cocky he was and how they couldn't express what they felt for each other —love? Hate? It didn't matter anymore— and how she let him die.

Murderer.

He wanted the fame as much as she did —fame was the only good thing in their dark, corrupted world— and maybe he just needed a little push in the right direction to shine and, since that's something friends do, she gave him one.

(But maybe she pushed him off the cliff instead.)