I strut into the Training Center, oozing the confidence that every Career tribute should possess. The air inside is cold and clean, but give it a few hours and it will reek of blood and sweat. I take a deep breath, savoring the crisp, untainted air that I know so well.

In fact, this is all I know – the lifestyle of a tribute-in-training. The day I turned 7, I was sent to the best Training Center in all of District 2. You're supposed to start training at 10 years old, but my parents are high up on the social ladder in our district and are rich, so I got in early. I'm 16 now, and I haven't gone a day without training. Everyday I'm either in the gym mastering a new technique or hitting the books and working on my survival skills. I don't remember what my life was like before this, and quite frankly, I don't care; there's no turning back now.

"Hey Clove," a familiar voice shouts from across the gym, "you volunteering today?"

I turn and face the boy, staring him down with a menacing gaze; it's Cato Morgensen.

You know, I have hated a lot of people in my life, but my hate for Cato burns stronger than my hate for anything or anybody else. I imagine my icy glare whittling him down to the worthless nobody that I believe he is, and absentmindedly smirk at the pleasing results.

"What do you think?" I shout back at the tall, blond 18-year-old boy.

"Answering a question with a question; how predictable." He adds, shaking his head.

People are starting to surround our instructors in the center of the gym, so I stalk over and join them. Cato knows just the right words to say to get under my skin, and it drives me insane.

My thoughts are cut off by the booming voice of our head instructor, Alexios.

"Listen up!" he exclaims, waiting for the 29 of his pupils to settle down. "As you all should know, today is the Reaping for the 74th Annual Hunger Games." Excited whispers grow louder around the circle, but Alexios continues to talk. "And I want to remind you that only Senior Division students are allowed to volunteer, are we clear?" Disappointed sighs spread across the room and I get a few dirty glares from the other trainees.

You see, everyone hates me because I'm only 16 and I'm in the Senior Division, which consists only of 18-year-olds. But I've been in it since I was 15, seeing as though I had already completed the 8 years of required training.

"Now go put on your best clothes; the Reaping starts in an hour." As the younger divisions left the gym, he turned to address the five of us in the Senior Division. "There are five of you, and two of you better be tributes by the end of the day. One of you is going to die a warrior in the arena, and one of you will come home victorious. No exceptions." The five of us look at each other, wondering whose funeral we'd be attending in a few weeks. "Good luck to the two of you who are brave enough to take the challenge." And with that, he left the room.

"Well that was cheery." Cato said to no one in particular.

"What did you expect, a pep talk? Alexios sees the world in black and white; he doesn't sugar coat the truth. It would be wise if we did the same." I say coldly.

Without waiting for a reaction, I spin on my heel and walk out of the door and up to my dorm.


Choosing my outfit for the Reaping is easy, seeing as though I've had it picked out for months. It's a simple white dress that hits just above my knees. The dress has short sleeves and has no embellishments; it's plain. The white makes my skin look tanner and my hair even blacker than it was before. I take my thick hair out of a ponytail and comb my fingers through the tangles, letting it fall in soft waves reaching my waist. I pin back a few of the strands framing my face and look in the mirror. The dress may be simple, but it's still too feminine for me.

I leave the mirror, knowing that I'll never be pleased until I'm in something with pant legs, and grab my necklace from the bedside table. Like the dress, it's plain – it's just a small, dented silver ball at the end of a silver chain.

I leave my room for the last time, fastening the piece of jewelry around my neck, never stopping to look back on my way to the square.


At 2'o'clock sharp, the mayor steps up to the podium on the stage in front of the Justice Building and begins to talk about Panem's history and why we have the Hunger Games. It's the same stuff every year, so I don't bother paying attention. He then reads off the list of past District 2 victors. We use it as bragging rights because only one district can say that they've had the most victors, and that's us.

The mayor goes back to his seat and our escort, Agatha Churchwell, is next to take the stage. She spreads her electric blue lips in a wide smile as she steps up, her skintight silver dress glimmering with every movement.

"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor." She practically sings, throwing her arms in the air theatrically. Her sleeves, which are poufs the size of bowling balls, hit her in the face, but Agatha pretends it never happened and keeps the show going, only stopping to fix her bright orange hair piled high up on her head.

"Ladies first." She chirps.

Like a bird pecking the soft earth, she snatches a slip on paper from a large glass bowl on her left. Peeling it open, she reads the name off. "Charis Finch!"

"I volunteer as tribute!" I shout confidently from the front of the crowd.

Agatha Churchwell beckons me up to the stage with a long, bony finger and I walk up the steps and onto the platform.

"What's your name?" the escort asks me.

"Clove Englewood." I reply flatly.

Up close you can see that her eyes are a shade of toxic green with pupils like a lizard's or a cat's. They are framed by bright orange eyelashes that match her hair and are at least three inches long.

"Onto the boys!" she chimes excitedly.

As she goes to draw a name, I stare out into the crowd, trying to look bored and threatening at the same time. Good thing I mastered that look when I was about 13.

"Cato Morgensen!" she read aloud.

Cato came barreling up the steps looking like he just won the lottery. I tried not to look too pleased; I can't wait to sink a knife into that brute's chest.

"Ladies and gentlemen, your tributes Cato Morgensen and Clove Englewood!"


Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading! I decided to write a new Clato fanfic and looked at their relationship differently, gave them different back stories and changed, well, almost everything so that it didn't reflect my first Clato fanfic. Please leave a review telling me what you think! And remember, you don't need to have an account to leave a review.