He stands in the doorway of the room, watching as the Peacekeepers adjust her to her new settings. She's broken. He's decided that he will fix her.
"Hey Clove." His voice is soft and sweet. She is like a frightened rabbit he doesn't want to scare. She looks up at the sound of his voice, her eyes wide in fear. He crouches next to her and she tenses. Her hands grab at the corner of her shirt, where she would normally keep her knives. Cato realizes this and his jaw clenches. His Clove would have never done that to him. He wants his Clove back. He needs his Clove back. "It's okay, Clove." He reaches forward to stroke her cheek or to just calm her down.
But that doesn't happen. Clove's hand smacks his away roughly and she backs against the wall. "Get away from me." She snaps at him. She now is like a caged animal: dangerous. Her eyes are narrowed and her muscles are coiled. But Cato is just as dangerous as she is. His hands are curled into fists already. If she hits him, he will hit back.
He says her name again, reaching forward for the second time. "Get away!" Her voice pierces the tense air like the knives she once carried. Her hands swats his away, but this time his fingers wrap around her wrist. Her eyes show a feral glint as she tries to pull her hand away, yanking and pulling and twisting her small wrist back and forth. "Get away from me!" She screams at him, baring her teeth like a wild animal. He's sick of this, he hates this girl. This girl, this creature, is not his Clove. He hates this thing before him because it took away his smiling, goofy, sweet, little Clover. So he doesn't hesitate to hit it.
Clove recoils. Her hand slips from Cato's grasp and she scrambles away from him. Her fingers touch the red welt on her cheek. And she cries. And Cato sees her, his Clove. He sees his little Clover whimpering when she cut herself on her first set of knives. He sees his little Clover sobbing over boys when she was 12. And now Cato sees his little Clover curled in the corner of their room, crying because he hurt her. Her name forms on his lips and he moves forward to comfort her, but she shrinks away from him. She's scared of him. Terrified. Afraid. Frightened. Scared. So he stands up, holding his hands up in surrender. Cato's feet lead him away from the cowering girl and down the hall.
Cato sits on the couch, his head in his hands. He can hear her hiccup-sobs echoing from the room. He doesn't know what to do. He wants to help, but he can't. He can't help someone who doesn't want help. So he sits on the couch and fights back tears. He wants his Clove back. He wants his Clove that sung lullabies while decapitating dummies. He wants his Clove that slipped on ice and dragged him down with her. He wants his Clove that loved pancakes no matter what time it was.
The sun is setting and tired shafts of light make their way through the window. He stands up and notices that his foot fell asleep. He sighs as he remembers hitting Clove. Cato decides to at least say sorry, even if she still hates him.
The girl is curled up in the corner when he walks in. Her head snaps upward to stare at him with scared eyes. "Hey…" he murmurs to her, "I, uh, I'm sorry." Clove continues looking at him distrustfully. He can't take it. Her eyes are too harsh. Her silence is too loud. He turns to leave, but he can't.
"Clove, I love you." He tells her. He's expecting something from a fairy-tale to happen. He expects her to look up at him with her big, brown eyes and smile and stand up and be fine and kiss him. And he expects everything to be alright and perfect. But nothing happens.