Maybe Foxface Is The Real Opponent Here~

9-It's not what it looks like.

 'We need to talk.' Cato says to me after the interviews. I stiffen up, expecting the worst. Glimmer.? Clove.?!

'I mumble 'Oh god.'

'We need to figure out what we're doing about tomorrow and after that.'

Tomorrow? Of course! I almost forgot about the Hunger Games.  

We walk onto my balcony, and Cato cups my face in his hands.

'You won't last three seconds with the careers, even if I do persuade them to let you in. But on the other hand, I can't-' Cato says, pausing.

'I can't leave you.' He continues, releasing my face from his hands. There is an awkward silence before I speak.

'Then I'll leave and spare you the trouble.' I know this sounds cold-hearted, but it's the only real option and I know Cato is stubborn enough to risk both our lives by not leaving me.

'But-' He starts

'No. Everyone expects you to form an alliance with the careers, and you will. All you have to do is out-live them and then..' I state, the end of my statement fading. Then what? As if I'd been thinking aloud, Cato finishes for me.

'Then we'll find a way.' We both know what he means. Find a way for both of us to live.

'Then we'll find a way.' I repeat, positioning myself against his muscular front, just leaning, as we stare out from the balcony into the mass that is the Capitol.

Cato could easily out-live the other careers. It's me that's going to be the burden. I'm pretty sure no-one wants an alliance with me, so how the hell am I going to survive when genuinely skilled people will be dropping like flies.

Then it popped into my head. You never see a ninja get caught. Apart from the silly example, the principle is still the same. They hardly ever have to fight. So if I'm sneaky enough, neither should I. 

I notice Cato is staring at me confusedly. I've been daydreaming, and I think he asked me a question. 'Hm?' I say shyly.

'I said, I could even help you a bit on the way.' Oh. So that's what he said. 

'Oh! How?' I ask curiously, furrowing my brows.

'Well, I could avoid any areas you might be, and leave stuff if I know where you are.' 

'Oh, don't worry, you have fun just trying to find me!' I laugh, and cato flicks me teasingly.

'Or, alternately, we'll probably have somewhere we keep all our supplies, and if you can, steal some.' He says, seriously. 

I smile, but can't be bothered to listen. I just stare into the colourful buildings that surround us, noticing our height. I begin to ponder what would happen if a tribute fell over the edge before the Games had started. 

'I guess there's a force field or something.' Cato says, as I realise I've been thinking out loud again.

I stick my hand out to touch something resembling a force-field. But all in one go, my hand is surged with an electric shock as my arm reaches far over the balcony edge, causing me to crumble as I pull my hand back. Cato catches me, and pulls me into a sympathizing hug. 'Are you alright?' He asks worriedly, as I tremble from pure shock.

I manage to squeak out a 'yes'.

But apart from the pain surging through my arm, more thoughts pop up inside my dizzy head. If a touch that light gave me such a powerful shock, what would a headbutt do? Or even a stampede? I remember a previous tribute boy from District Twelve who threw an axe into the field and made it rebound into someone. Lesson of the day is the force field is my deadly enemy, like the tributes, but an alliance with the field could cause catastrophic results on a grand scale.

'I'm fine.' I mumble to Cato. 'I'm good.'

**

Cato's P.O.V

It doesn't take a genius to know that as I slip into my bed, I can't sleep. Fatigue in the arena will be my enemy, and I violently press on my eyelids, wishinh, and longing for the sleep I so sorely need.

But to no avail. One, two, three hours pass me by, and my eyelids refuse to get heavy. I can’t stop trying to imagine exactly what terrain I’ll be thrown into. Desert? Arctic temperatures? Marshland? Forests? Whatever is most interesting, I suppose. Desert would be impossible since there'd be no hiding, just deaths, which I could deal with, but perhaps not Finch. I've seen her weapon skills. Arctic temperatures would kill us all off naturally, and Marshland also. But the forests are unpredictable. You can hide for as long as you want, but there's always entertainment. Cold enough to set fires, warm enough to run around in the dead of night. Both will get you killed, but it's the thought that counts. Plus, that's always a good thing when you're the predator.

Not being able to even stand the thought of the arena, I get out of bed and sneak to the door, which leads to our luxurious living room. There's still some food out, and the room is empty, so what harm is there in having a bedtime snack? I nibble at a piece of chicken, smearing barbecue sauce along my cheeks and fingers, not bothering to eat politely due to my lack of company. However, seconds later, I hear a slight creak of floorboards coming from Clove's room. 

Grabbing a handful of fragranced tissues, I attempt to wipe off my barbecue blood grin. It fails, and the tissues cling to my fingertips, stuck to the sauce that covers me. I violently shuffle more, knocking over a glass of red wine in my struggle, and as if on cue, Clove's head popped out, questioning the racket. I attempt a smile, which causes her to shudder.

I'm covered in a sticky red-brown sauce, with tisses stuck to my hands and parts of my face, and a lap full of a red substance. I don't blame her judging glances. I muffle out 'It's not what it looks like.' 

She frowns, and walks slowly and carefully to my aid. 'I won't ask.' She says, first mopping up the wine from my body. I don't want her help, but I've got not much choice. I stare at her helplessly. She looks so motherly, tutting as she attends to me. It's hard to believe that Clove was once my childhood best friend.

My other half.

My girlfriend. 

Don't judge me! She was once nice, you know. We got together in secondary school. That was when the girl in Clove came out, rather than the play-friend. But obviously, as soon as the violent nature in Clove revealed itself, it didn't work out. Well, soon enough.

As she wipes barbacue sauce off my face, I pull away. Clove's touch feels strange, alien to me, and I mutter curses, avoiding her caring intentions. They're the only caring intentions i've seen from her in a while. 'Stop squirming!' She growls.

'Get off me then!' I hiss back, getting off the couch and away from her. She looks offended, but I keep my hating glare, and pick up a goblet of champagne, bringing it into my room looking rather suspicious.

**