Disclaimer: The Hunger Games isn't mine.

AN: See the bottom for the description of "the Phonet."

The urge is bred into them from a young age. The urge to kill, that is. It only ends the day of their funerals. It is pouring rain, although no one cries. No one but the babies, minds set only on getting out of the pelting rain that stings, sharp as the knives she throws-threw-or the sword he wielded, not wields. They are a disgrace to their district, from the time she fell, screaming for the boy who couldn't run, and from the time he toppled over, down to the bloodthirsty Capitol mutts.

Her father remembers the day when she first asked for a knife, over a decade ago. Eyes sparkling as she entered the dusty weapon shop, her ivy orbs locked on a gleaming blade. "Daddy," she whispered, eyes alight, "can I have that?" With a nod, he smirked, asking the store employee for the silver blade on which the five year old girl's eyes were gleaming because of. That is her first knife, he remembers, in which a sharp pang echoes in the hollow place between his ribs where his heart should be.

His mother remembers the day he enters the Phonet. As she had come upstairs to gather him and prepare him for the day ahead, he is already dressed. "Darling, how long have you been awake?" He checks the clock, replying proudly, "Since five o'clock, mother." Her jaw drops with a laugh and she picks him up, kissing his cheek. "My, my, my. Someone's excited, hmm?" He nods eagerly, squirming out of her grasp and racing downstairs with an over-the-shoulder call of," Pancakes!" Sighing, she heads downstairs, laughing at her shining example of a son.

Gathering, he meets her with a whisper of, "He could've won, your boy." She nods, eyes sparkling. "Yes, he could've." His eyes began to gleam and he laughs softly. "She destroyed that as soon as she hit the ground, though." His mother nods, a laugh coming forth out of her mouth that sounds slightly like a choked back sob. "I remember the day he came home after his first day at the Phonet." Her father picks his head up slightly, raising an eyebrow as the tears began to fall. "Yes?"

She smiles, then continues. "He told me, 'Momma, I've met a girl!'And I say, 'well, darling, what's her name?'" She takes a deep breath, chest constricting. "And he goes, 'Clove! And she can throw knives, too!'" Tears fall. "And then, 'Momma, I gotta tell you a secret.' 'What is it, Cato?''"I think she's pretty, momma!' And I swear, his grin was as big as Panem." Her father grins through the tears just as she walks away.

They are the only two people that remember them-the real them-after that day.

AN: I've wanted to do a Cato and Clove funeral fic for a while now. And just now, while in my room, I got the Clove's first knife idea. And then, this all unraveled. Notes: Academy (English) - ακαδημία /Phonetically akadimía/ (Greek) That's where I got the Phonet from, just shortened down the greek word of academy. :)