A/N: OH MY GOD. It has literally been 430 days since I've updated. I'm super super super sorry gjvogerhg4aeo, I never thought it would be this long! I'll try to update faster from now on but idk. Also, this chapter is somewhat new. Like, better-new. I was like twelve or something when I first started writing this story, so obviously I wasn't the best writer back then, but I've gotten better. I've only replaced the first chapter so far, but I'll be doing the same for the rest of the chapters as well. The storyline will basically be the same, but I'm gonna add more detail and that shit, and there'll be more about her life before the Games. So, with that said, you're free to start reading c:

I settle down into the flowers, cross my arms behind my head, and gaze up at the sunlit sky. Pink, blue, and green decorate the area and easily lift my dampened spirits. A cool breeze tugs at my long brown hair, pulling strands into my face and into the sharp grass. Autumn, having just begun to replace the sublime summer weather, is just around the corner. I suppose I look forward to it, since it marks the beginning of my second year at the Academy.

About ten yards to my left is a dense forest. Through blurry eyes I can barely make out the crisp brown leaves and pine straw that litter the ground. This is one of my rare moments of peace; I open my mouth and drink in the warm air, basking in the sun's soft rays and forgetting all of my troubles.

After reveling in those few minutes of pleasure, I hear a soft thud beside me, and immediately I'm sitting up again. Snickers erupt from the left side of the meadow. I turn my head sharply to see that a bright, glistening silver sword has plunged into the soft earth, crushing a small part of the picturesque flowerbed. Typically I would have been more aware of my surroundings, but I thought that I could finally let down my guard for just a few minutes. Looks like I thought wrong.

It is not until I have grabbed the worn-out sword handle with both hands and yanked it out of the ground that I notice a few boys about my age sneering at me from the edge of the forest. I should have known this was too good to be true. The peace never lasts for long.

I stamp over to them, sword in hand, and put my hands on my hips. "Just what do you think you're doing?" I spit. My arms shake in anger. "Killing innocent ten-year-old girls?"

One of the boys, the largest, bulkiest of the three, steps forward. With an annoying,fake-friendly smile, he says, "We were only having fun, doll. Besides, you're not dead, are you?"

"No, of course I'm not dead!" I snap. "But I could be, because of your awful sword skills." I wave my hands above my head and glower at these three idiots to get my point across. It doesn't seem to be helping.

"Whatever." The boy folds his arms across his chest, towering menacingly above me. At 4'5" I'm probably a whole foot shorter than him, and he appears quite belligerent. Giant or not, however, I refuse to bow down to him. "I don't really care if you're alive or not. You're no use to me."

"Don't be so sure." In one quick motion, I raise the sword above my head with both hands, glare at the boy, and pull my weapon down, striking his arm. Although it induces only a shallow cut - he moved just in time - my bravery must have impressed him; the unexpected act leaves him mystified, gaping after me as I march back onto field; I suppose he is the type that no one dares to stand up to, seeing as he reacted with such shock.

I whirl around to face him again. "Don't stare," I snap. "It's really rude, in case you didn't know, you stupid freak." Once more I stalk off in the other direction, secretly grinning at the irony of my comment. If he can be mean, socanI.

"Wait!" the boy gasps. His companions have left, leaving the two of us alone in the middle of the field. "What's your name?"

I spin around, thrusting my face up to his. "Clove," I breathe coldly, sticking out my arm in an almost robotic manner. "And you are?"

"The name's Cato," he replies contemptuously as he roughly shakes my hand, head high. I can't restrain the shaded half-smile that forces my lips to twitch up at my realisation: Cato is not going to go easy on me. In his eyes I am one of the boys and definitely a force to be reckoned with. Could he have known this when he threw that sword?

"Well, Cato, I think we should be friends," I say matter-of-factly. My gaze flickers across his body as I take in his appearance: broad, ox-like shoulders, rumpled dirty-blonde hair, dark blue eyes, sinewy limbs. He's lean, but I can tell he has a lot of power stored inside him, waiting to be unleashed.

Cato shrugs. "Alright. But you should know that I'm deadly. I could kill you right now if I wanted to."

I smirk. "Yeah, if you wanted to. But I know you don't, so I won't bother worrying about that."

He grunts and reluctantly asks, "You want to train for the Games with me? We could be even stronger if we worked together."

"Oh, Cato. That's what I'm made for." I laugh humourlessly as I turn away. "I was born a victor," I whisper.

(a few years later)

My knife sails through the air and strikes the tree, right on target. I never miss. That's what makes me special, what makes me dangerous and apprehended. Nearly anyone that has seen me throw a knife - and anyone that has heard of my acute talent - knows better than to mess with me. But sometimes an idiot comes along and decides to mix things up a bit. They don't bother me; everyone needs a little turmoil thrown into their day. It makes for great entertainment, if I do say so myself.

"Bravo," Cato deadpans. Excitement isn't exactly Cato's thing. He saves it for special occasions, such aswhen he kills something (which is a surprisingly uncommon event) or receives a high score for his sword skills during training sessions and evaluations.

After a few more minutes of practicing with my knives, I collect them from various fake tree trunks and dummies and drop them onto a table. They clatter loudly as they bump against each other. I make my way back over to one of the dummies and stand still for a moment.

I bring my hands up, bend my knees slightly, and aim. Squinting one eye, my tightly clenched fists rise to about the level of my nose. Then I punch. A blatant booming noise echoes around the room as my knuckles, raw and red, meet their target. I continue pounding my fists onto the dummy, kicking it and stabbing it with a knife I found in my pocket.

"That's enough, Clove!" The sound of an annoying, choleric voice instantly brings me to my feet. My hands drop swiftly to my sides and I snap my head around to face the speaker. "You'll burn all your energy, and we still have several hours to go," warns Acacia, my trainer.

"Fine," I mutter, looking down at my feet. My orange T-shirt is covered in dust. Blood oozes out of a cut on my knee and trickles down my leg. Wiping it with my hands will only make my leg dirtier, so I just stand there awkwardly with my arms swaying at my sides, not knowing where to put them.

Acacia nods and continues to spew out information. "In five minutes, you'll need to be ready for the sword show. After that you'll be sent back here instead of going to your Panem history class, due to the unusual schedule and the absence of your teacher. Understood?"

"Of course." I barely contain the grin that threatens to burst across my face. Everyone has been looking forward to the sword show since last summer. Each year, two boys and two girls from the group of eighteen-year-olds are voted into a contest in which you fight to the death. It's sort of like the Hunger Games, though there are only four contestants, the "arena" is one of the training rooms, and only two players fight at a time. Girls against girls, boys against boys, until the third round, where the two winners are put against each other.

Since I'm only eleven, this will be the first year I get to watch. Cato, being twelve, has witnessed only one of these mini-Games, and all the praise he and many other District Two residents have put out are really inducing my excitement.

As quickly as possible, I shove open the heavy bathroom door and fumble to change into a knee-length black dress with red swirls spiraling up the sides. I admire myself in the mirror above the sinks, twirling around and redoing my dark ponytail. This is my first experience with real-life fighting – besides the Hunger Games – so I have to look pretty.

Little Miss Perfect strides into the bathroom just as I'm about to leave. Without acknowledging my unmistakable presence, she pats her hair down and reapplies her lip gloss. Blonde curls cascade in loose ringlets over her high-held shoulders.

Finn, aka Little Miss Perfect, is my cousin Orove's new girlfriend, and she hates me nearly as much as I hate her. Perfect blonde hair, perfect crystal eyes, all A's in every class except Weapons (our training class). She just can't bear to get her to get her pretty little hands dirty. Obviously, she only signed up for Weapons to be with Orove and her best friend.

My hand twitches. I would stab her if it weren't for the reputation I'm required to retain. Murder under the age of sixteen is frowned upon, so killing her would only lessen my chances of getting into the advanced training class when I'm older. I settle for slapping her as I walk past.

Hastily exiting the restroom, I laugh quietly to myself. However, my laughter is cut short when my face collides with a wall. A soft, moving wall – Cato.

"Finally," he mumbles, stepping away. "I was beginning to think you had decided to live in there and never come out." I roll my eyes. Cato dives right into diva mode whenever he's forced to wear a suit, and he's already impatient enough as it is, without the added nuisance. "We need to hurry so we'll get good seats."

He takes off at an awkward half-run, half-walk, hands swinging at his sides, and I hurry to catch up.