Chapter 1:

I send a knife whizzing through the air, unquestionably destined to hit the heart of the cotton dummy its aimed at. When it does, I give a grunt of satisfaction, and pretend I'm not elated by the admiring stares I get from others in the training centre. Who else can throw knives as perfectly as I? The answer is no-one, and that's the knowledge that keeps me going throughout each tiring day in District 2. No matter what people throw at me, as long as I remain unbeaten at my talent, I won't even flinch at the hardest of blows. That's been proven time and time again in the most trying times in my life. When my Mother died, for instance, I didn't even cry, and though deep inside I was heartbroken, I just went about my usual business. The time when my best friend was reaped for the Hunger Games, and never made it through, when a gang of eighteen year olds ganged up on me and used a dagger on my left arm (I still have the scars), I wasn't even swayed. My knives are my lifeline, and without them I would be nothing.

Finished for the day, I take my bag and march out of the training centre's doors, confidence written in my every step. No-one dares mess with me. I am Clove, the girl with the knives, who doesn't care about anything, anyone. Thats what everyone thinks. Including me. Huh.

Within a few minutes, I am at the town square, where usually there is an excellent view of the mountain and quarries that so many lives in district 2 depend on. Today, however, a few Capitol camera men have arrived for the reaping later, and are setting up thier equipment. I give them evil grins, knowing that in a few hours their silly little lenses will be trained on me, standing triumphantly on that stage.

Yes, later I will volunteer for the hunger games, become the District 2 female tribute, and a career. In a few weeks, I am certain I will be the 74th hunger games victor. That, like the outcome of my knife-throwing, is unquestionable.

Soon enough, I've arrived at the house me and my Father live in. He is sitting in an armchair by the fire in the kitchen, but we don't exchange any words as I walk past. Just glower at each other. Its always been like this.

For the reaping later, I wear my only dress, which is navy and knee length and not girly at all. Just what I want. When I walk downstairs, I reflect on what other Fathers will be doing, telling thier daughters how beautiful they look in their dresses. Nothing of the sort happens to me, of course. I just get a dirty look and a nod.

Silently, I walk once again to the town square. Kids and Teens are bundled in little pens which seperate the 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, and 18 year olds. I head to the 16 year old section after letting the peace keepers know I'm here by singing my name on a sheet. Everyone's excited, as this is District 2, where the Hunger games are a oppurtuntity for fame and glory, not something to be feared. As the district's escort, Tulip Romare, makes her way to the stage, I tense, longing to say those beautiful words - I volunteer.

After a lot of giggling and swinging her creepy claw like nails around, Tulip blabs on about the Dark Days, Treaty of treason, on and on. Finally she crosses the stage, dipping her hand into the girls' bowl to pick a name out. I'm ready, ready to volunteer... But there's no need. Because she's drawn out me, Clove Gladio.

Walking to the stage requires effort, but not the kind of effort all the other tributes will need. This effort consists of pretending I like the rest of District 2, that I'm happy and bold and carefree. Of course I don't like, never mind love, anyone in the world, and I'm not happy or carefree. On the other hand, I certainly am bold. Haven't I proved it with planning to volunteer for possible death? Only it will not be possible death, because I am not going to die. Not a chance.

I suddenly realize there isn't time to lose, or waste. Because I need to spend every second planning my gimmicks, tactics, approaches. Not a single person in the capitol or the districts is going to forget me. I'll make sure of it. I have to make sure of it.

Before the male tribute can be drawn, some muscular, blonde guy I vaguely recognize from training steps forward and volunteers. I don't pay attention to his name. What does it matter; he'll be dead soon anyway.

Some burly peacekeepers drag me to the justice building where I'll say goodbye to family and friends. Father walks in the room they hurl me in and makes a flat little speech about how he believes in me... knows I will come back... make him proud... blah blah blah. He leaves without shedding a tear and my trainer Baxton enters. After giving me some tips and doing another I believe in you speech, he leaves too. Finally, my training partner, Flint, arrives. This is something of a surprise, as we hardly ever speak, except to mutter helpful pointers and, more often, insults. He and I sit without speaking, until he decides to break the silence.

"You know, I'm really hoping you'll come back, because if you die in that arena, I'll be stuck with Rosa O'Clay for a training partner..." he tells me. I laugh, because Rosa O'Clay is weedy, untalented, but also conceited, and undoubtedly your worst nightmare. Flint wishes me luck and leaves looking rather pleased with himself.

The peacekeepers return; I am dragged out of the justice building, to the train that will take me to the Capitol, to my destiny.

And I can't wait.