Needing the Impossible (A Clato Fanfic)

Chapter 1

This is my first ever publicized Fan Fiction, and I'm going out on a limb and submitting it for the Watty Awards. Please comment your thoughts, both good and bad, and let me know what you think. And of course, all votes are highly appreciated :)

Disclaimer: All characters are the creation of Suzzane Colins except for Clove's parents, Cato's parents, Fabrizio, and a few other characters of my creation.

Chapter One:

I find myself suppressing a scream of frustration. I had worked so hard, fought against all the odds that weren't in my favor and all the obstacles forced in my path. And I had won. At age twelve, standing at 5', I had been one of the smallest girls seeking training for the Hunger Games. The other girls, aside from having a size advantage, had also come from wealthier families. They could afford private training sessions. I had to earn them with pure talent. And I had. Now, at age fifteen, I'm already lethal. Though I'm still smaller than most of the other girls, only 5' 6”, I'm just as strong and almost twice as fast. And I'm deadly with knives. In fact, I've taken to them so well that after seeing me practicing in a large class, my current trainer, Fabrizio, had simply walked up to me and offered me private training. That was a year ago.

But all that is falling apart now, as a tall, sandy-blond boy saunters up next to me and begins throwing knives – my knives – at the practice dummy. This is the biggest problem with earning private lessons. You get a discounted price, one that practically has the trainer paying you to learn, but the trainers have to earn money somehow. So, if someone else has enough talent, you may have to double or triple up to allow trainers more time for paying students. It's incredibly unfair, and I hate it. I have way more right to private lessons than some prat whose daddy pays for everything. I have worked hard to be here, and this boy – Cato, I think his father had called him – has clearly paid his way here. His father wears the nicer close of the upper class, clearly a lapdog of the Capitol. And his son, the boy standing beside me, seems to lack skill. He throws the knives all wrong! So what if he hits the target? His form is horrible.

“Can I help you?” I snarl at the offensive boy, who is grinning arrogantly, and rather stupidly, at the dummy, which now has three knives embedded into its head. His smile vanishes as he turns to face me.

“Yeah, leave me alone,” he orders in a deep voice.

I laugh, not from humor, but because I tend to become somewhat sadistic, and even insane, when enraged. “Leave you alone?” I retort. “This is my training time. Who do you think you are anyway?”

He looks at me with cold, blue eyes. “It doesn't really matter who I think I am, does it?” he snarls, “What matters is who you think I am.”

I look at him stupidly, what the hell is he talking about? If he's trying to be clever, it's not working. Cato picks up a knife and begins twirling it through his fingers. “And right now, Clover, I'm the difference between life and death.”

What on earth does he mean? And how does he know my name? I open my mouth to protest the purposeful mispronunciation, and suddenly, I'm on the ground. I struggle, trying to push him off me, but there's no freeing myself. He's cleared six foot and easily weighs two hundred pounds.

“So, Clover,” he purrs. “Life or death?” he asks, running the knife around my hairline and across my face, toying with me.

“It's Clove,” I hiss defiantly.

“Is it?” he muses. “How sweet,” he adds, and the knife breaks skin. I wince in pain. It isn't a particularly deep cut, but I can feel the warm blood trickling down form my forehead. I glare up at him defiantly, refusing to give him any satisfaction, already embarrassed by the slight wince.