Hello :) I've recently become obsessed with HG fanfic, and these characters in particular. I'm sorry for the shortness of this chapter, but they will get longer and better, as I will try to not write at midnight, and also she will grow up so I will not have to attempt to write like an eight year old, which is hard. Please review! :) x

I hear a faint thud as the knife reaches the target. I'm getting good at this, I think to myself. And I have 4 years to get better.

Just like a lot of the rich children, I'm being trained early. Some of us get to start on their eighth birthdays here in District 2. Mine was 3 months ago, and I'm already better than most of the 9 year olds. I sometimes think it's because I don't care. I was never raised to.

Most children have families. They have a Mummy and a Daddy and a brother or sister who love them very much. It gets harder as we grow up, though, much harder. Even though I'm 8, apparently I still have a lot of growing up to do. I have to learn to work. I have to learn to fight. And I have to learn to play the game.

I don't have a proper family. I had a sister when I was little, but she went away. She went to play a game, apparently. A game in the Capitol. My Dad went to work as a peacekeeper in another district. He used to own this big weapon factory, but he did something bad and had to go for 8 whole years. There's only 1 more year left until he comes back, which doesn't sound like a lot, but it is. I can't remember what district he went to, though. I don't really know what a peacekeeper is, either, but they are important. That's why we have places that they train here. But it's not the same training as me. I'm training for a game, the same one as my sister. She didn't train properly, though, so she's still playing. My Mum is the only one left here in District 2. She doesn't look after me though, not like the rest on the mums in our village. She never said it was dangerous to play with knives, or that I shouldn't hurt other people. The only things she ever told me were to go to training every day, and to be strong.

"Okay everyone, tidy your equipment away and go home," says the training instructor. As I pull the knife out of the centre of the target, he looks at me, giving a small, satisfied nod. I guess I pleased him today.

"Hey there, want a hand with that?" a tall boy who looks a few years older than me asks. He looks strong. Really strong. He could probably put it away a lot faster than me. But I'm strong too, I remember.

"No, I'm fine," I reply. He shrugs and walks off, whilst I try to fold up the stand the target board was on. Needless to say, it's harder than it looks. I manage in the end, though, and but it into the cupboard, but slide the slender knife into the pocket of my trousers. I don't want to use it, of course, but I've become attached to this knife recently. I think it's pretty. The silver metal shines in the darkening winter night as I walk back home. There are pretty swirly engravings on the handle, and the blade is slim, coming to a sharp point at the end. I like the feel of it in my hand, I decide.

During this short walk home, my mind keeps wandering back to the boy who talked to me at the end of training. I recognise him from school, and I think his name begins with a 'c', like mine. It was strange having someone I don't really know talk to me. I don't really have friends. I don't need them. At school, I learn. I learn as much as I can so I can be as clever as possible. I sometimes talk to the girl who sits next to me though. Marietta, I think her name is. She's pretty, with curly blonde hair, and smiles a lot. I don't understand why people smile, sometimes, when it's obvious they're not happy. She's got quite a lot of friends, though. Maybe she smiles to be popular. The boy smiled, too. He smiled as he was turning away from me.

As the weeks pass, I get better and better at training. The instructor has told me to start training in other areas now, like running, not just knife throwing. I'm getting quite good at that, too, but not as good as the others, especially the older ones. The boy sometimes runs past me as I'm going round the circle. Apparently I'm going to be good in the game. I don't know what kind of game you need a knife for, but it sounds like a fun one. Maybe I'll get chosen for it, someday. But not for another 4 years at least. When we are 12 years old, our name goes on a piece of paper, and then, if we're lucky, someone reads it out, and we get to go to the capitol to play. A lot of the time though, other people, usually much, much older than me, choose to go instead of the person who got picked.

I reach the end of the 10 laps I was set to do, gasping and out of breath. The 9 year old I was racing finishes just after me, and as I'm receiving praise from my instructor, she gives me a scowl and walks away. I tie my dark hair back into a ponytail and walk off towards the targets. I take the knife - my knife - out of my pocket and throw it towards the nearest dummy, where it sinks deep into where its heart would be. As the weapon flew through the air, it collided with a sharp metal spear coming from the other direction, knocking the spear from its path. I spot the boy standing quite a few metres away, not bothering to retrieve his weapon from the ground, staring, looking at me with some sort of incredulity. The rest of the training class are looking at me like that, too.

Not knowing what else to do, I walk over to the dummy and retrieve my knife from it, then start dismantling some of the targets I put up at the start of the session. It is almost the end, after all. Everyone else seems to follow my lead when the instructor tells them to, and as I'm folding up the last one, the boy comes over.

"That was... impressive," he says, in a voice that seems a little too friendly for his size. I shrug indifferently, like Mum told me to. 'Don't show emotion to strangers', she said. Seeming to sense the fact I'm not going to say anything else, he breaks the silence. "I'm Cato." he offers his hand for me to shake. I take it.

"Clove."

And I find it hard to suppress my smile.