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There was smoke, garish orange light, and darkness – the type of room someone could vanish into, where the shadows were long and the memories short. The perfect place to steal a few moments of anonymity. Cato headed towards his usual booth, back in the corner, as far away as he could get from the windows. He didn't come here frequently, but just enough that the bartenders considered him a regular.

"Rough day?" asked the waitress as he passed her by. She was clearing a table, and though it was only early evening, she already looked tired.

"I'm fine, Mara," said Cato. He tried to edge by her, but she didn't budge.

"You don't look fine."

He sighed. Mara Adeane was nice enough, he supposed, but he really wasn't in the mood to chat about his problems. Unfortunately, she was one of the few people whom he couldn't intimidate. Maybe that was why he kept coming back here. She tried a different tack. "Want something to eat?"

"From this place?" He shook his head. "No thanks."

She grinned. "I'd make sure Hoot washes his hands before he starts cooking."

"I just want to relax."

Mara shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Cato winced when he glanced at the reflective mirror on the wall. His blond hair lay matted against his head, his blue eyes were sunken from exhaustion, his lip was split, and the skin around his left eye was bruised. Today had been an especially brutal day, for both him and his cadets. He continued to weave his way through the tables to the back. It was rare when he had the opportunity to kick back like this. He was simply "on" most of the time. As a civilian hand to hand combat instructor at Stoneville Military Academy, he had to be.

That was why it took him a few moments to notice her. She was slouched at the bar, her demeanor and attitude one of lazy patience. Cato changed direction and headed towards her. Slipping onto the stool beside her, he looked up at the bartender. "I'll have what she's having," he said as he indicated her glass of dazzling green liquid.

"Absinthe it is," said the bartender obligingly. After he left to fulfill the order, Cato turned to the woman at his side.

"Hello, Clove."

Her eyes flicked over him. "Cato," she offered.

"I didn't know you drank here." He discreetly examined her. The petite, dark haired woman was dressed in the same form-fitting black uniform as him. "Do you come here often?"

"Not really," she admitted. "I happened to come by it today."

Cato raised his eyebrows. "This isn't the kind of place people 'come by'." This much was true – he himself had found this joint last year by accident. His vehicle had malfunctioned a short distance away, and while looking for a repair shop, he had stopped here for a drink and had ended up coming back several times since. "Anyway, you really shouldn't carry those knives around open," he said, indicated the nasty looking twin knives dangling from her belt. "Peacekeepers don't like that, even from loyalists."

Clove tapped her fingers against the glass of her drink. "I'm not afraid."

"If you ate here, you would be." Cato glanced over at Hoot, who was wiping his hands against a grimy apron.

"I didn't plan on eating." Her lips curled. "And I'm hardly a loyalist."

No, he didn't suppose Clove considered herself loyal to anyone except perhaps him. Like him, she served as a civilian instructor at the Academy, but Cato knew that she would be quick to leave if she felt so inclined. She faced the future with no expectations, just a desire to make it through each day and see what tomorrow would entail. Cato was sure that if he asked her where she saw herself in a year, she wouldn't be able to answer. For now, Clove was content to wear the Academy's black uniform only because Cato did.

As long as he lived, he would never forget the day they had met. He had been twelve, and she ten. One afternoon, on his way home from school, he had taken a shortcut through several backend streets near the Rylls, where the illegal fighting pits were located. There, men fought each other – sometimes to the death – while others bet on them, with the fighter entitled to a share of the winnings if he won. Cato loved watching the fights, and sometimes he'd get paid for running the bet slips back and forth.

But that day, he had walked by an abandoned alley where an older man was standing over a small, forlorn figure on the ground. Cato hadn't understood at first what was happening, and the man – a drunken quarryman who had close to a 100 pounds on Cato – hardly spared him a glance. "Beat it, kid. This ain't your business." Cato had almost turned to leave, but the girl's gaze had met his. Her eyes had been dark and full of hope, and it had stopped the breath in his chest. When he heard the awful sound of the man unzipping his pants, Cato had unthinkingly grabbed a rusted pipe lying nearby and hit him on the knees. Taken by surprise, the man had howled in pain as he fell forward on his shattered kneecaps.

What Cato should have done next was take the little girl's hand and run to the nearest Peacekeeper. Or just run away, period. But the man's scream had awoken something dark and vicious inside him. He had felt it before, usually when he'd gotten angry, but this was the first time that he had wanted to do something about it. So Cato had swung the pipe down once more, this time aiming for the man's head. He had watched as his skull cracked open, and bits of blood and brain splattered over his clothing. The man had kept thrashing and whimpering, so Cato hit him once more, just to be sure the man was dead.

The entire time, the little girl had remained still, watching him calmly. And when Cato was finished, she held out a small white hand. "Can I have a turn?" She had three turns of her own before she finally dropped the pipe. "I'm Clove," she said with as much childish dignity as she was able. The hand she had offered to him was as bloody as his.

There had been an instantaneous sense of rapport between them, the inexplicable thing that happened only rarely when two people met. It had nothing to do with their common origins or the circumstances in which they had met. Neither had it anything to do with attraction. It was simply there, some compelling invitation coursing between their clasped hands. Here, it seemed to say, is someone I feel good with.

Thirteen years later, nothing had changed.

"Here you go." The bartender placed Cato's drink in front of him. He lifted the absinthe to his lips, and at first sip, his eyes crinkled at the taste. He had tried absinthe before, at the retirement ceremony of the Academy's previous commandant. And though he had a high tolerance for alcohol, a few sips of absinthe were enough to affect even a man his size. It was a dangerous drink because it was so easy to get lost in its green depths. Many people had sought oblivion in absinthe and had found it too well.

"It's bitter, isn't it?" Clove took a sip of her own drink. She nodded at the bartender. "He makes it stronger than I prefer."

"It's not what you usually get," he commented. "Most times you get those fruity things, with the umbrella in it."

"I do not." But she said it half-heartedly, for once not snapping back at his teasing. They sat together quietly for awhile until she broke the silence with, "So what's a nice boy like you doing in a joint like this?"

"I could say the same for you."

"Not really," she replied with a small, mysterious smile. "What really brings you down to these parts? This isn't exactly a hotspot for hotshots."

Cato gazed at his drink, suddenly losing all desire for it. He had been so wrapped up in trying to figure out why Clove was here that for a few brief moments, he had forgotten why he himself was here. "I had my annual review today. Guess how it went."

Her dark eyes flashed knowingly. "They passed you up again, didn't they? Let me guess, they gave it to some townie who doesn't know one end of a sword from another."

He pushed his drink away, and resting his weight on his forearms, he leaned forward on the bar. "They gave it to Gawain."

"You want me to take care of him for you? He can't be in the field if he's disabled. Or dead." Clove wasn't joking.

"Doesn't matter. They'll never let me enlist." The Academy's official reason had been that he had anger control issues. Which was true – the smallest incidents could push Cato into a rage. But there had been far more brutal and ruthless officers at the Academy. A few years ago, one of the captains had paralyzed a cadet during a sparring session, and it hadn't even been a blip on his career. The underlying reason that the Academy review board kept passing him over was because of his medical condition.

District 2 prided itself on its martial culture, and as such, most boys grew up dreaming to be a Peacekeeper. Many of the people here were ardent supporters of the Capitol, and thus the 20 year commitment period was considered not a punishment but an honor. Men who returned after the competition of their obligation received a generous pension and had their pick of women. Additionally, if a man was chosen to enlist, the Capitol would make sure his family received adequate compensation for the wages he would have earned otherwise. Because of the benefits, many young men clamored to become Peacekeepers. But there was more supply than demand, so only one in a dozen would be chosen. And more often than not, the Academy chose its District 2 recruits from the wealthier townspeople. They only looked to the quarry when the yearly recruiting quota was not met.

Cato had grown up as the son of Vorian, a master stone mason. Vorian had been a simple man, and he had expected simple things of his only child. Though life was hard, his parents had been happy. They lived in a small, ramshackle house in the area known as the Tor, where the quarrymen and their families lived on the outskirts of Stoneville. And had things gone according to his father's wishes, Cato would be at the quarry right now, preparing to go home to a house and family of his own. But Cato had wanted more from his life. He wanted to be a soldier, wanted to wear a white uniform and command other men. Cato wanted to be somebody.

Things had looked promising. He'd grown faster than other children his age. He was strong and agile, and he was a quick learner. He had practiced with whatever weapons he could find in the Tor, mostly sticks and pipes, but when he was older, knives and a blunt sword. The adults feared him. So did his parents. The day of his sixteenth birthday, he had gone to the Academy's recruiting office against his father's wishes, proud and ready. The recruiters had taken one look at his large frame and hungry eyes and had moved his application to the top of the pile. Cato had passed the physical portions of the exam with ease, and despite his spotty schooling, he'd scored fairly well in the academic portion as well. His psych test had gone as expected – he was a brutal boy, and he was proud of it.

But then came his medical exam. The doctors said he had heart valve disease, and while it wasn't fatal, it was enough to prevent him for enlisting. Though there were treatments – the Capitol had the technology to fix far worse problems – Cato's family would never be able to afford the procedure. The Academy could have footed the bill, but with so many other healthy recruits to choose from, they had opted not to. And that had been the end of Cato's boyhood dream. He would never wear the white Peacekeeper uniform. Though he had kept trying, the Academy's position hadn't changed. He was good enough to teach but not good enough to wear the uniform.

"So why are you here?" he asked, wanting to change the subject.

Clove was silent as she drank some more. For such a small person, she handled the absinthe amazingly well. "It's the two year anniversary of Jarl's death," she said finally.

"I'm sorry," he offered awkwardly, cursing himself for not remembering. A rangy dark-haired boy from the Tor, Jarl had been Clove's lover. He'd been executed for distributing anti-Capitol materials to the quarrymen.

She blinked, not shutting away tears, since Clove did not cry, but perhaps a possibility, a memory, of tears. "Jarl was a traitor and deserved what he got." She tossed back the rest of the drink. "Listen, I'm heading over to the Rylls. Wanna come with? You know, for old time's sake?"

As children, he and Clove had loved going to the fighting pits. After his rejection by the Academy, he had found solace in the pits themselves, taking out his anger on his opponents. It was how Brutus, the current commandant of the Academy, had found him and Clove. "Last time I went, the fighters were so weak that I could have knocked them over with a single breath." Cato slid over his ID card to the bartender. "Just put everything on mine."

"Thanks." Clove slid off her stool. "You haven't seen the recent batch. There's this one guy from the quarry. He's huge, almost as big as you. And I bet he's just as vicious."

His interest peaked, Cato followed her out of the bar. Clove wasn't prone to exaggeration, so clearly this man had made an impression on her. "How come I've never seen him before? Men my size usually stand out, sweetheart."

"He was brought over from District 11 because of the worker shortage. I think his name is Thresh." She grinned at him, her expression wolfish. "So how about it?"

It had been a long time since he'd been in a fight with someone who could challenge him. And the prospect of hitting flesh and spilling blood never failed to excite him. "Let's not keep him waiting."