Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.

Clove had never much minded the steepness of the hill, nor the challenge of its climb. Sitting on its tip, with her knees to her chest, she's even glad of it - the solitude offered by the hilltop as a result, the privacy.

But, then again, its vacant state might have more to do with the fact that the hour hand of her watch has barely ticked to five o'clock in the morning than with the mount's rocky slope.

The sun, still shy, has yet to illuminate much of the landscape beneath her, the features of District Two rendered miniscule by her near bird's eye view. Clove narrows her eyes at the toy houses, the few - no doubt sleepy-eyed - dollish figures who have risen. Even the quarry, for all its noise and size, all of the lives that depend upon it, looks inconsequential from her present position.

Objects that she can manipulate. That's how they've always struck her from here, what has always added to her hill's appeal.

With a sigh, Clove lowers herself further into the unkempt grass until her body is flat against the ground and the crisp green blades that had been behind her are flattened as well, by the weight of her back. She'd woken up early that morning, at three o'clock. An irritating irregularity that had left her grounding her eyelids shut in an attempt to grab hold of sleep once again; the last thing she needed was to find it creeping back into her system earlier than usual, before she had wound up her day at the Academy. Exhaustion and knife-throwing did not happen to be the best of combinations. Sword-fighting and sleepiness, she refused to even contemplate.

It took her almost an hour to accept the fact that, no matter how tightly she clenched her eyes closed, how still she lay, how slow she brought her breathing, this was simply going to be one of those strange, greedy dawns that stole sleep away from her. Once she'd come to that realization, there hadn't seemed to be much of a point to wasting her time by lazing restlessly in bed.

Hence the early morning field trip.

Cato had factored into her decision as well, of course. The relish of the thought of his inevitable irritation if she were to have left before he arrived at her house this morning - as he still, to her severe annoyance, seemed intent on persisting - had been the selling point that had finally torn her away from her mattress.

Clove pulls her dagger out from its sheath, revolving it in her fingers for a while as she bides her time before sparing her watch another glance.

5:30 AM.

A smirk kindles on her lips. Cato will likely be approaching her porch soon, to lounge about while he waits for her. And then, likely, to stomp about once its dawns upon his caveman brain that she is not actually there to wait for.

Stowing her dagger away again, Clove slowly raises herself into a standing position before beginning the trek down her hill. It's a pity that she won't be there to see his rage. She imagines it will be an entertaining sight.

It's only 5:45 AM, still fifteen minutes before training officially starts, when Clove enters the near empty gym. Ignoring the few figures scattered around the room, her pale blue eyes shift automatically over to the case of knives, as though directed there by gravity. Untouched. Every blade still in place. She embraces the handle of one that she's named "Ismene" with her fingers before claiming her in a firm grasp. Not that anyone would dare to take one of hers.

She never arrives at the Academy late, exactly, but it's still been a while since found herself within its walls this early. Or maybe just this solitarily. The entire training partner nightmare had made Cato a more or less permanent fixture at her side during the training day. Not now, though. Not while he's undoubtedly emitting a spat stream of curses under his breath as he notices her absence. The idea is almost enough to leave her in a good mood, to make up for her unwelcome early rising. Exacerbating Cato's anger, admittedly, might not be the wisest of hobbies, but it's proven to be a fairly enjoyable one so far.

A smile curves onto her face as she moves over to the knife station and thoughts of Cato's ire fall away into the spaces under the floorboards of her mind. Entirely empty. Entirely hers. As it should be.

The correct stance comes easily to her, thoughtlessly, requiring no more effort than an inhaled or exhaled breath. Eyes narrowing in delight, she begins. Her knife hits the target again and again as she warms up, then again and again once she backs further away. She loses track of how many times the blade flies in a controlled gait from her grip, loses everything - until someone walks in front of her.

Clove regards the intruder with no small amount of resentment, her scowl blatant and her arms crossing themselves. She almost regrets that he was circumspect enough to minutely avoid her knife's path. It's never been attempted, to her knowledge, but she suspects that she couldn't be censured for stabbing someone in the face if the victim in question could be proven to have been enough of an idiot to step in front of her knife.

The Academy has never had much more of a tolerance for utter moronity than she does.

"I suggest you move," she says flatly. "Unless you're looking to investigate a future as a target board."

Gregoric grins at her, ignoring the blunt hostility emanating from her petite form. "You're pretty good with those knives."

Clove stares at him. "I know." It's a fairly obvious fact. She's made more than a dozen perfect shots in a row.

She tenses as he increases their proximity in the same irritating manner that Cato often likes to. An attempt to intimidate her, she suspects. Or at least discomfort her. Setting her chin higher in the air, she meets his gaze steadily.

"Maybe you could give me some private lessons sometime," Gregoric says to her, still grinning as he runs a hand through his black coffee curls. It's not a kind grin, which is no surprise, really, since smiles of that sort are rarely seen in the Academy, would probably not be tolerated if they were. It's not bloodthirsty, though, either, not like the ones that she and Cato wear at times (usually not at the same time, of course, given that they're usually cast at the other's expense). This is almost flirtatious. Or an attempt at it, at least.

Any attempt at levelness slips from her features as she considers the fact that this boy may actually be even more of an idiot than Cato. Which, really, is somewhat inspiring, considering that she hadn't even known that such a feat was possible. "Why would I do that?"

His cocky demeanor falters slightly at her clear disgusted bewilderment, but he regains it quickly as he moves a hand to stroke her arm. "I'd make it worth your-"

This time she does shift away from him, although she doesn't drop her glare. "I don't want you as a training partner." It's a direct statement, she'll admit, but subtly holds no allure whatsoever to her at the moment. What does is a return to uninterrupted quality time with her knives.

He blinks, this time failing to maintain his confident composure. "I-"

"Really. I would rather have that District Six tribute Titus. And he's not only a cannibal, but also happens to be dead."

Grin completely gone now, Gregoric's lips pinch together. Clove rolls her eyes. She seems to have angered him. Whether it has to do with her apparent habit of cutting him off or her less than complimentary words, she's unsure, but she hopes that he realizes that there is a solution. It centers around him walking away so that she can return to throwing her knives.

Finally regaining coherency, he tilts his head at her. "And here I thought you were different." If this is his attempt at engaging her in the conversation, she can't help but think that it's a slightly pathetic one. He doesn't, however, seem to expect a reply from her. "But I guess you're nothing but another one of Cato's lovesick stalkers."

Ice cold fury infects her blood, prompting her to pose her knife against his neck in the quickest snap of a motion. Still, she manages to don a sweet smile. "No. Just not one of yours."

The muscles of his throat are tense as she remains still, keeping her knife's edge held hard against his jugular in an unnecessary linger. Finally, Clove lowers her arm in the most controlled of motions. "Now, leave."

He tells her that he'll talk to her later. She truly hopes not.

By the time that Cato approaches her, looking distinctly aggravated with his jaw clenched and his fists rigid, Clove has just managed to reenter her zone of violent, bloody-minded meditation. She pauses at his arrival, slightly disappointed that he didn't come as close to her knife's trajectory as Gregoric did, to interrupting its flight with his forehead or cheek or maybe one of his bright blue eyes.

Then again, she reconsiders, his face might be scratched up enough as it is.

The ghosts of her nails haunt his right cheek. Faint white marks left behind by her fury. They're barely noticeable at this point, gone, really, and yet Clove can't spare Cato a glance without narrowing her eyes at their near invisible jaggedness, without allowing their shades to possess her with an irritation-marred satisfaction. She's always appreciated the element of surprise. Somehow, however, it feels like less of a victory when the attack manages to shock her just as fully as it does her victim. Since that afternoon, she's vowed that the next time she tries to slice up his face, the attack will be planned and, preferably, conducted with a knife. The next time, she'll make it slow.

So maybe it's a good thing that he stays a reasonable distance away her until Ismene hits her target. Although amusing, the pleasure would have been fairly short lived.

Clove looks over at him with an expression of faux innocence as she goes to retrieve her knife. "Running late?" she asks, repeating his words from the other day mockingly.

The coldness in his grin is staggering. "Got held up."

"That must have been terribly inconvenient." She cocks her head to the side, fighting to keep her smile sympathetic. "I hope you didn't get in too much trouble when you came in." Idly, the question of how many tender red whip marks Julius had inflicted on his back for the transgression tugs at her mind. At least three, she supposes.

He snaps Ismene away from the target board before she can reach it. "I wouldn't worry about me." The statement itself is innocuous itself, but Clove gets the impression that she's supposed to infer from it a suggestion that she begin worrying more about herself. Her eyes narrow at him. Not likely.

"What a relief." She holds her hand out. "My knife?"

Its return leaves her glaring at a suddenly smug Cato, a part of her furious, another fascinated. Edged back into her grasp, Ismene, clad in Clove's own blood, glints slickly up at her.

She's never been cut by her own knife before.

That seems to put him in a better mood for the rest of the day, cutting her. She has to admit, as she walks over to Calliope's beckoning figure, that she's a bit surprised. Cato usually seems prone to go for the more blunt attacks, the ones that would not be completely surprising were they to come from a savage. This one was more subtle, something that she might do - actually, she's fairly certain that it's something she has done before.

If it wasn't for the fact that her dominant hand, although only briefly, lightly, scratched by the blade, still hasn't recovered the rhythm that it found throwing knives earlier that morning, she might be somewhat impressed.

Making her way over to her trainer, she stares at the hard-looking, cropped haired woman, not bothering to hide her annoyance at being pulled away from practice. Even if it means finding herself with a temporary reprieve from Cato.

If Calliope notices her barefaced impatience - and Clove assumes that she does, considering that even the one-eyed stray dog that wanders around town could probably manage to do so - she doesn't bother to acknowledge it. "Clove," she greets her. "Good. I have something to discuss with you."

It takes actual physical effort to keep her countenance neutral, to restrain herself from rolling her eyes, to bite back the urge to point out the obviousness of that observation. She's actually fairly curious as to what this might be about, and doesn't feel particularly inclined to suffer her way through a pointless censure before finding out. "Yes?" Judging by the way that Cato's eyes have attached themselves to her back, she guesses that she's not the only one intrigued.

At least she can trust that Calliope will go straight for the point; her trainer has, thankfully, never been one to file away time with unnecessary civilities. It may be her only redeeming quality.

"I recently received a request for you as a training partner."

If she's expected to show shock at the news, Clove fails utterly. She crosses her arms. "I'm not working with Gregoric Aldrin."

Calliope, on the other hand, succeeds quite well in conveying some surprise. "The boy already approached you?"

Clove shrugs. "I'm not interested." She'd thought about it momentarily, of course, given the matter more consideration that she's currently willing to expose. Cato, after all, had seemed absolutely furious at the idea of her requesting a transfer. That alone would give at least partial merit to any idea.

But, ultimately, the only time that she had seen Gregoric and Cato fight, Cato had won. Which meant that, if she were to leave him for his defeated opponent, she'd be choosing the apparent weaker of the two. That she was weaker. An unacceptable notion.

Calliope regards her bemusedly. "And I was under the impression that you were displeased by your current training partner."

Clove's eyes flash over to Cato and his striking size, palpable brutality. "Oh, I am."

By the time that Calliope releases her, the gym is clearing and trainees are departing for the day. It comes as somewhat of a relief to Clove, that, despite her early rise that morning, she feels no more weary than usual. She won't be able to afford to let such trivial matters as exhaustion affect her once she's selected to be a tribute for the hunger games. Her fist clenches around Ismene. And she will be selected. Maybe not this year, much to her chagrin, since fifteen year olds rarely seem to receive such an honor, but soon. She's stabbed, hit, kicked, sliced, scratched, performed any number of very violent actions, but never killed before. Clove thinks that she'll be good at it. A feral smile pulls at her lips. She thinks that she'll enjoy it.

"This can't be good." Her mouth goes limp at Cato's arrival. Down-turned at the sight of her hostage bag on his shoulders.

"I agree. Nothing good can possibly come of the fact that you've stolen my bag again."

A smirk. "I was actually talking about the way that you're smiling."

Clove considers this. Surprisingly perceptive. "I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but people smile for completely inane reasons all the time." They've departed the austere walls of the Academy at this point, and begun walking towards Clove's house, in a manner almost too routine for either to take much notice of.

He snorts. "You're not people."

"True." For some reason, she finds that comment strangely gratifying.

"So, you're either suffering from some disease that causes you to lose control of your facial muscles or you were just given permission to kill." He pauses before, suddenly intent, asking, "You weren't, were you?"

She, admittedly, can understand his tension. It does happen, after all, each year. Several of the most talented trainees do get pulled aside, told that they'll be undergoing a special exercise. The entire matter is naturally rather clandestine, but the trainers can't keep them from noticing the shipment of criminals sentenced to death by the Capitol who arrive almost simultaneously and don't appear to ever leave.

Just the thought leaves her breathless.

Deciding to play with him, though, she ignores his actual question. "If I was worried about my health, I really don't think that Calliope would be the best choice of physicians."

"Given permission to kill."

"Oh, that. No. Unfortunately."

The relief on his features is almost tangible. Again understandably. She imagines he must be counting on getting that permission himself this year. Two years older than her, his time at the Academy has deteriorated significantly. And most of the chosen are seventeen or eighteen. Clove vaguely recalls hearing that he's accumulated the former amount of years.

The knowledge that he'll likely get to experience a kill before her brings the most bitter of grimaces to her face, the most fervent of desires to see him stripped of his relief.

And so Clove doesn't alter her pace or tone when she speaks, opting instead to maintain the most casual of appearances. "Calliope just wanted to tell me that Gregoric officially requested me as his training partner." She pretends not to notice the way that just the name of his rival is enough to render Cato uncharacteristically stiff, and continues on with a façade of obliviousness. "Must have been before this morning."

Cato's voice resounds as tautly as she has ever heard it before when he responds, his words quick and tight with anger. "This morning?"

"When Gregoric and I were settling everything," she clarifies flippantly. "I really wasn't aware that the matter required much negotiation afterwards. We figured everything out." Well, she figured everything out. He didn't actually have much input.

She's pleased to observe that his halted form looks about ready to snap. "You were with Gregoric this morning," he grounds out, undoubtedly more keenly aware of the aching marks on his back than ever.

She shrugs. "I couldn't sleep. He was there."

Rigid bark suddenly finds itself strangled against her back when Cato's hulking body corners her against a tree. "Where did you say he was, little girl?"

The nickname discomforts her more than the tree's roughness. So she continues. "Well, he told me that he thought that we should spend some time together in private."

She hates herself for her the slight gasp that slips free from her lips when his hands, still as annoyingly large as ever, maneuver her bare shoulders into the bark, forcefully enough, deeply enough, to line her skin with splinters.

Bright eyes. Protruding veins. Snarl-claimed mouth. Clove decides that she's made him angry enough. "I told him to leave me alone, of course."

"Was that before or after you fucked him?" His grip on her doesn't loosen.

Clove pauses in consideration. "Technically before. Although, neither really apply since I didn't sleep with him. Strangely, I've never felt particularly inclined to make myself a subject of voyeurism."

She's unsure of whether it's will or confusion that loosens his hold upon her upper body, but takes the opportunity to move away from him regardless. When several moments of silence span between them, Clove opens her mouth again. "Voyeurism. It's when people watch while-"

Anger, with Cato, always manages to beat bewilderment. "I know what fucking voyeurism is."

"Right. You would."

He glares at her in a silent demand for an explanation. Clove obliges him only because exhaustion has finally managed to make a gain on her in the short time since they've left the Academy and she doesn't feel like prolonging this game. "By 'there,' I meant that he was in the gym when I showed up this morning."

"The gym," he repeats flatly.

"Yes. Also, you're an idiot if you think, after my fit from the other day, that I'd request a transfer. Honestly."

They've begun drifting towards her house again before he replies. Judging by the way that his face keeps contorting into somewhat amusing spasm, she'd guess that he's warring between severe annoyance and satisfaction. When Cato chuckles, it becomes clear that he chose the latter.

"And how did Gregoric take that news?"

Clove frowns at the memory. "He accused me of being in love with you."

The idea seems to strike the blonde as much more amusing than it does her. "Badly then." And the smirk has returned.

"You have no idea."

They walk in silence for a while from there, a quiet for which her suddenly wearied mind is thankful. It's not until they arrive at her house that he speaks again. "And are you?"

She blinks at him. "I don't think that counts as an actual question. I'll need more to go off than that."

Leaning against one of her windows, he grins, providing yet more evidence of his already amply apparent bipolar condition. "In love with me. Most girls are."

A shrug seizes her shoulders. "Blonde hair is overrated. I prefer brunettes." It's a lie, of course, as Clove has never actually considered what hair color she finds particularly attractive. Out of all the factors there are to weight in a person, it strikes her as a laughably inconsequential bit, given that it has no impact whatsoever on a person's prowess in combat. Still, she half expects the statement to set Cato off. Everything seems to.

Possibly, though, having realized the foolishness of taking her every word seriously, he's moved onto peering through the window currently serving as home to his mass, and inspecting her once again empty house. Raising an eyebrow, he asks, "Are your parents invisible or just gone?"

Clove's eyes narrow. "Both," she says in a clipped manner that speaks for itself in turning away further comments. One dead, the other districts away. They're as good as. Her lips cinch shut though as she twists her key into the lock of her door. Cato doesn't get to hear about that, though. He doesn't get to hear the story of the man who lost his wife to the birth of a child of the wrong gender, or the unusual circumstances that stripped him from her life. Not many peacekeepers are allowed to continue working through marriage. He became, after her mother's death, a rare exception. And she's glad of it.

She's almost through the door when she remembers that her bag is still slung over his shoulder. Turning around to retrieve it, she finds herself greeted by the sight of her training partner standing before her with amused expectancy. He traps her hand when she moves to reclaim her fitness bag's strap. "Touch Gregoric," he murmurs through a low voice, "and you won't be able to throw knives again for a long time."

Clove tears herself, as well as the sack, away before resuming her trip into the front hall.

He should know better than to challenge her.

Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading this so far! Especially to my amazing reviewers: too lazy to log in, ff, gryffindorforever, baristababy, Marina, luvxas37, and Orange Pudding. I really appreciate the time that you took to comment :)