Chapter 3

"Find what you love and let it kill you" –Charles Bukowski


I spend the first day of training at all of the different weaponry stations with the rest of the career pack as we nonchalantly show off our skills to the Gamemakers and successfully manage to intimidate every tribute in the room. We start off at the knives station, where I complete the most advanced test with ease. That catches everyone's attention, and I respond with a smirk, folding my arms across my chest arrogantly.

"She never misses," I hear Cato whisper to Marvel and Glimmer. And it's true. I haven't missed a target in nearly two years.

From there, we head over to the sword station, where Cato successfully scares the crap out of every living person in the room, myself included. He handles swords similar to how he handles girls: sexily and with extreme skill.

After that, Marvel impresses everyone with his skills in the spear department. He'll definitely be an asset to the career pack, but I still don't see him as too big a threat. With any luck, he'll get himself killed before I even have to think about eliminating him myself.

"What are you good at, Glimmer?" Cato asks.

"I'm pretty decent with a bow and arrow."

And come to find out, she's just that. Pretty decent. She hits a few bull's-eyes, but for the most part, she misses the target, whether it be by a centimeter or by a few feet. I almost scoff. What a lame excuse for a career. I won't be surprised if she ends up dying during the bloodbath, to be completely honest.

Cato and I spend the rest of the day mainly just standing around and judging the other tributes. We've made enough of an impact on these guys for today, and it's time for us to get to know the competition a little better. But we don't mingle with the other tributes so much as we observe them.

So far, I've figured out that the girl from Five is mega smart but also useless with any kind of weapon. The guy from Eleven is a definite threat; he's competent with most weapons and his strength gives him an added bonus that most of the other tributes, including me, just don't have. And the sewer rats from Twelve are simply lacking adequate skill to make it past the first few days in the arena. Hell, they don't even bother to try with the weapons, instead spending most of their time at the survival stations. I almost feel sorry for them, but then I remember that they stole my thunder at the Tribute Parade last night and for that they deserve to die. Too harsh? Oh, well.


Later that night, I find myself sitting cross-legged on Cato's bed while he stares into his closet, trying to decide what to wear to bed. His hair is damp from his shower, and there is nothing but a thin towel wrapped around his waist. I'm not exactly sure why I felt compelled to return to his room tonight. Perhaps he reminds me of home, which I'm really starting to miss. Sure, my parents kind of sucked, but that doesn't stop me from missing my bed, my clothes, my friends.

"What's on your mind?" he asks, still flipping through the clothes in his closet.

We've become something like friends over the last few days, but I still hesitate to open up to him. "Just thinking about the Games."

He plucks a pair of 100% cotton sweatpants from the rack before turning around to face me. "Seriously?"

"No," I admit.

He walks into the bathroom and returns a few seconds later wearing the sweatpants. With a curious look, he plops down next to me on the bed. There is an expectant look on his face, like he's just waiting for me to share how I'm feeling. I'm hesitant, mainly because sharing my feelings and opening up to people isn't exactly my specialty.

"I guess I'm kind of, like, nervous."

"About what?" he asks. I'm surprised not to hear any judgment in his tone of voice. After all, successful Careers don't get scared. Yet here I am, just slightly terrified now that I am standing in the face of death, up close and personal.

"That I won't make it home. I never really considered the possibility of not winning. But what if I don't win, Cato? I didn't even tell anyone goodbye."

"Technically speaking," he starts, and I already want to slap him, "you're going home whether you win or lose. But if you lose, you're going home in a cold wooden coffin, whereas if you win-"

"Not helping," I interrupt him.

"Sorry. I'm new to this whole comforting thing," he confesses.

"Really?" I snort. "I never would have guessed."

He rolls his eyes, chuckling. "Want to make a deal?"

I raise a perfectly plucked eyebrow at him.

"Final two," he offers, and I look at him skeptically.

"What are the terms and conditions of this 'final two' deal?" I ask.

"I protect you and you protect me until there is no one else left to kill us but each other," he states.

I pause, considering this. There is always the possibility that he's just using me to his advantage and will actually try to kill me as soon as he feels fit. I decide to risk it.

"If I'm going to die in there, it may as well be at your hand," I say, shaking his outstretched hand.

He smirks. "Ditto."


Early the next morning, I'm awoken by hushed voices that could be coming from anywhere between five yards and a few inches away from me. I decide to leave my eyes closed, but before I can listen in on the conversation, my comforter is ripped off of me.

"Oh, thank God," I hear Enobaria mumble, "they're clothed."

I freeze, suddenly very aware of the lightly snoring body beside me. Cato. I must've fallen asleep in his room last night. And now our mentors found us in bed together.

"You can open your eyes, Clove. I know you're not asleep."

I glance up at Brutus and Enobaria guiltily. They have their arms folded across their chests, expectant looks on their faces. "It's not what it looks like," I immediately say. "We were just up late talking and I suppose I nodded off and-"

"It's fine," Enobaria interrupts. "There's no rule that says you can't sleep with your opponents."

I protest, very aware of the double meaning in her words. "We weren't-"

"Just don't get attached," she finishes, and in an instant, both she and Brutus are gone from the room.

I look over at Cato, who has now stopped snoring but still appears to be sleeping. I smack him.

"Ow," he mumbles, rolling over so that he's face to face with me. "What the fuck?"

"Why didn't you wake me up and tell me to get in my own bed?" I demand.

He shrugs. "You looked comfortable."

I roll my eyes. "Now our mentors think we're fuck buddies."

For whatever reason, Cato finds this hilarious, and he starts laughing uncontrollably. I smack him again.

"Okay, okay, sorry. What's the big deal? We kind of are fuck buddies."

"We are not," I reply. "That was one time, Cato."

His lips turn upward in an amused grin, and I roll my eyes. "Stop thinking about it."

"We only have a few days left before one of us is going to die," he starts, smirking. "I'm all for, well, reenacting that night if you'd be down with it."

"I was under the impression that we were never going to speak of that again. Never, as in not ever," I remind him.

At the time, fucking each other in the Academy showers had hardly seemed like a big deal. The two of us were the top trainees in our level (the most advanced level, of course), and with the Reaping near weeks away, stress and exhaustion levels were through the roof. So Cato forgot his girlfriend and I forgot my sense of self-respect, and we had meaningless, shameless, stress-relieving sex that would have been much easier to forget if the trainers hadn't chosen the two of us to volunteer for the Games this year.

Before Cato can formulate a sarcastic response, I walk out of his room to go prepare myself for the second day of training, slamming the door behind me. Somehow I know that he is smirking.


As I stand by the knife throwing station in training that day, studying the unprepared tributes from the other districts, the boy from 12 – Peeta, I think, is his name – casually strolls over to me. I glare at him as he picks up a knife. "You throw?" I ask skeptically.

"No," he admits, shrugging. "Just feebly attempting to uncover some kind of hidden talent within the next few days."

I almost chuckle, taken aback by his charisma. Most of the tributes just scurry away in fear when they get within a few feet of me. "It's Peeta, right?"

He nods.

"Well, Peeta, good luck with uncovering that hidden talent," I say with a vicious smirk before walking over to Cato, who is having a blast decapitating the dummies at the sword fighting station.

"Having fun?" I ask, chuckling at the gleeful look in his eyes.

"Fuck yeah," he replies, slashing a dummy in half with one smooth swing.

Marvel is also there, slicing up dummies left and right, and I can't help but wonder if they could actually do these things to living, breathing people. It's one thing to tear apart a dummy limb by limb, but it's another thing entirely to hear the victim scream, to see the desperation in their helpless eyes. Something deep inside of me, underneath the layers of Career that have been ingrained into me, knows that I could not, would not be able to do that to an innocent person.

When I was six years old and they asked me what I wanted to specialize in, I chose knives, not because I enjoyed running my tiny little fingers along the blades, like I told them, but because I knew it would allow me to kill from a distance. I would never have to look into my victims' eyes, feel their heartbeats against my chest, hear their desperate pleas with me to spare them, unless absolutely necessary. It was the perfect weapon for someone without an inherent desire to kill.

I push these thoughts out of my head. Maybe if I was back in District 2, I could afford to think like this. But alas, I am not in District 2; I am in the Capitol, mere days away from the Games for which I have trained my entire life. I must not think of the victims. I need to think of myself.


That night I sleep in my own bed, which feels unusually cold and alone and empty – as do I.

I don't sleep much, kept awake by thoughts of the arena and the horrors it undoubtedly holds. I think about how one simple mistake on my part could have fatal results.

I refuse to admit that I am terrified.

I hope that this fear is just a normal part of the process, that all tributes – even Careers – have thoughts like these. I hope that tonight is my dark night of the soul and that I will be the same vicious Clove that I have always been come tomorrow morning. I need to be vicious Clove, the Clove that everyone at the Academy in District 2 admired and feared. I cannot be anything less.

It is with that thought that I am able to drift slowly into nothingness.

When the first rays of sunlight stream through the window that morning, my eyes flutter open involuntarily. I find that all of my fear from the previous night has vanished. What is the point, after all, of fearing the inevitable?


I look like shit. Better than most of the other tributes here, but still like shit. There are noticeable bags under my eyes, my hair is knotty beyond control, and I have yet to brush my teeth. I am sitting at the dining table with a mere two strips of bacon on my plate, feeling unusually full. Even Brutus notices that something is off.

"Rough night?" he asks, emotionless as ever.

"You could say that," I shrug.

I may be back into fearless Career mode, but there is no denying that I lost a night of precious sleep in the process. A loud yawn escapes from my mouth, and I stretch my arms above my head in a futile effort to wake myself up.

I catch Cato staring at the exposed part of my stomach where my shirt rode up and flip him the bird when no one is looking. He smirks.

"Cato, Clove, Brutus," Rhiannon says, clad in a bright red dress with a giant white bow on the chest. I stifle a laugh, and she glares daggers at me. "We have a long day ahead of us. It's the last day of training before the individual sessions with the Gamemakers tomorrow, so be sure to put your best foot forward. Be fierce, be intimidating, be lethal."

"That's enough," Brutus interrupts her. He turns his attention to us. "Practice what you're good at, but save something special for the individual sessions."

We nod obediently.

Rhiannon sulks off to the living room – probably to admire herself in the mirror – and Brutus gives us a tense look. "I know this part is tough, physically and emotionally, but try to enjoy it. Keep your eye on the prize. I really do want to see one of you make it to the end of this thing. I can tell that you're both pretty good kids – maybe a little fucked up in the head, but that's to be expected from Two."

I'm taken aback by the sentiment in his voice. Is stone cold Brutus giving us a pep talk? I blink a few times to make sure I'm not dreaming. "Thanks."

In an instant, he is back to the detached mentor that I'm accustomed to. "Don't thank me yet."

"Chop chop!" Rhiannon says, returning with white lips to match the bow on her dress. "Training for the day starts in ten minutes."

"Already on our way," Cato responds.

We stand up from the table and walk to the elevator, pressing the down button. On cue, there is a ding and the doors slide open, revealing the tributes from 12 standing there looking anxious.

"Peeta," I greet with dangerous smirk when the doors close, partially to make the girl uncomfortable and also to confuse Cato. I quite enjoy confusing Cato, always have really.

"Hey, Clove," Peeta responds charismatically with a nod.

I notice Cato narrowing his eyes ever so slightly and feel a hand brushing up against my rear end subsequently. A smirk plays on my lips, and I casually smack his hand away, making sure to dig my fingernails into his skin in the process.

The elevator doors open once more, this time to the floor where the training center is. Katniss and Peeta scurry out quickly, but Cato and I linger.

"Were you enjoying feeling me up right in front of the fucking enemy?" I snap.

"They were too busy pissing their pants to notice," he responds casually. "We tend to have that effect on the people here, in case you haven't noticed."

On his way out of the elevator, he grabs my ass again. I don't swat away his hand this time, and I certainly don't mention his girlfriend.


As I sink knife after knife into an endless supply of dummies during training, Brutus' words from that morning ring through my head.

"I can tell that you're both pretty good kids."

I laugh to myself, viciously hurling another knife into a dummy's heart. Maybe I look a little insane to the other tributes, but Brutus could not have been more wrong about me and Cato being "pretty good kids." Hell, we're the farthest things from it.

We had volunteered to participate in a game that involved the slaughter of twenty-three other children. I could go on, but that pretty much summed up how screwed up we both were.

"What on earth are you laughing at?" Cato asks as he strolls up to the knife station, Marvel and Glimmer trailing behind him. Those two are such lap dogs that it's genuinely entertaining for me to watch sometimes. Vicious lap dogs that constantly look like they want to cut your heart out, but lap dogs nevertheless.

"Brutus thinking that we're pretty good kids," I reply, not bothering to look up from my knife throwing.

Cato chuckles. "I almost forgot about that."

"We're fucking Careers," I say as I send a knife pummeling through the air and into the heart of a dummy. "We've spent the majority of our lives training to kill people. I'm no genius, but I'm fairly certain that those aren't the typical credentials of good kids."

A thin layer of sweat has formed on my forehead, and my face is flushed. I hear the trainers calling us to go have lunch, and I effortlessly toss one final knife at a moving dummy for good luck.

The knife lodges itself right in the center of the dummy's heart.


The individual sessions with the Gamemakers come and go, and when the bitch from Twelve somehow manages to score an 11, a crystal plate goes flying across the room, almost taking off an avox's head.

Rhiannon bitches at Cato for nearly decapitating the help, to which he responds by throwing a floral vase at her. She ducks just in time before the vase flies over her head, narrowly missing her obnoxious yellow hat.

"A fucking eleven?" Cato fumes. "Caesar Flickerman must be seeing double because there is no fucking way that some sewer rat from District Twelve outscored me. A one, I could understand, but an eleven? No fucking way."

He shatters a porcelain lamp on the way to his room, and once again, I get stuck with the responsibility of babysitting a fuming Cato. I am not sure whose brilliant idea this is, seeing as I am just as pissed off as he is, if not more. If they expect me to calm him down, they're kidding themselves.

Katniss fucking Everdeen has humiliated us in front of our whole entire District, not to mention all of Panem. She just outright robbed us of about half of our sponsors, and there's no telling what the bitch is going to pull at the final interviews tomorrow. My desire to see her dead has transformed into flat out need, and I don't know if I can wait until the Games to satiate that demand.

I slip into Cato's room, closing the door behind me. He is too busy throwing glass objects at the wall to notice me, so I do what any rational person would do in that situation – I join him.

When we run out of things to smash against the wall, we settle with smashing each other. He slams me roughly against the wall, and I respond by digging my nails into his shoulder blades, leaving trails of crimson down the tan, toned skin of his back. "I fucking hate you," he groans as he slams his mouth onto mine, pulling my hair so roughly that my skull goes numb.

"I bet you hate fire girl more," I whisper tauntingly in his ear.

"Don't," he threatens, pulling back to look me square in the eye. Our foreheads are pressed together, our lips nearly touching. My inhales are his exhales. "Don't you ever say her fucking name again."

"I'll do whatever the hell I want," I respond before closing the space between our lips hastily.

He groans in response, biting my lip roughly until the unmistakable taste of blood fills my mouth.

And I smile, sickeningly sweet, because we wouldn't have it any other way.


AN:

Huge shout out to anyone who is reading this right now, whether you just came across this story or if it's been on your alerts for months. I apologize again for my sporadic updates, but I can't promise that they are going to be any less sporadic in the future. Maybe leave me a review for inspiration? :P (Speaking of reviews, thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed so far!)

Also, I'm trying really hard not to make Clove OOC. I figure that since she's pregnant (spoiler alert if you are like Clove and haven't figured it out yet), her emotions might be slightly heightened, so there's kind of this inner battle between her heartless Career side and her less-heartless maternal side.

I just realized that I started this story in 2013 and I'm only just updating the third chapter in 2015. At this rate, that's a chapter a year. I am so beyond sorry. But nevertheless, please favorite, follow, and review this story! You guys' support means the world to me :)

xox