I never thought I'd venture far into the Hunger Games fandom- while it was a brilliant book, I didn't feel that drawn to its characters. Then the movie came out and, oh boy, did my perspective change. So here it is- my first Hunger Games fanfiction.

I think my writing already speaks for the fact that I am not Suzanne Collins, therefore hold no rights to the franchise. No copyright infringement is intended, but seriously, it's fanfiction. I'm not profiting from this.

This story is Foxclove friendship. As unlikely as it seems, in my mind it makes sense, so please tell me if it doesn't. Reviews are always appreciated.


So far, so good. If good is not dead. Which, in this case, not dead is very good. My mentor was right- avoid the bloodbath, get the essentials and I'll be fine. Despite the fact that there was a source of water nearby and I had adequate food for at least another day, I was shrouded in unease. It chilled me, from my temples through my chest down to my tailbone. I knew I was never safe. Not until the twenty-third cannon sounded would I be safe. Unless one of those twenty-three happened to be mine. The thought turned my cold- shower chill into full-on frostbite. It turned my stomach. And once it was set in motion, it didn't stop. The corners of my eyes stung and my mouth went dry. Oh no. Not now. Toughen up; you survived the reaping and all the Capitol's fanciful traditions without any tears. Now is not the time to break the streak. I swallowed the waxing sob, forcing it down. It didn't matter how much the Games scrambled my insides, I wouldn't let my anguish run free. That wouldn't get me anywhere but dead.


Cato's a jerk. Who the hell does he think he is, telling us to set up a camp while he mills about, whittling a stick with his oversized sword? The bigger weapon doesn't make you the bigger threat (though something tells me he's compensating, but it's not like I would say that out aloud). Honestly, if it would get me anywhere but dead, the entire Career posse would have blood gushing from their throats right about now. They're just all so irritating. Marvel's a smarmy derp with no strategy and less brain, Glimmer might be pretty but she's an absolute bitch. I don't know what Cato sees in her, besides blonde hair and curves. Cato doesn't see much, though. I'm the observant one, and he knows that full well. And that Peeta guy- again, what in the hell was Cato thinking? He's too nice. Plus he's got a thing for that chick from 12- the one with an 11 on her training score. What's her name again? It had something to do with a cat. She doesn't look it, but she must have been a crazy ass bitch to get an 11. Either way, I don't trust Lover Boy. Cato's too stupid not to, though, so I'm stuck with him. There's also this guy from District 3, but his fate is already sealed. Once we're done with him, he'll be disposed of. Easily. I imagined wringing his neck myself as I tied the last few knots in an intricate trap. Anyone who comes within ten feet of either north or east of camp gets decapitated. Messily.

"Clove, you done yet?"

You don't have the right to be impatient, Cato, not when you've done absolutely nothing to help. Probably wasn't the best thing to say aloud, so instead I made a final check of the knots and returned to his side, fingering the long, curved blade hidden in my belt.

Soon, my pretty. The corners of my mouth curved up at the promise of blood. Because, believe me, there will be blood. Cato's, Marvel's, Lover Boy's... I'll be the one coming out alive.