Hey guys! So, The Hunger Games movie added humane attributes to Cato where few could be found in the book, and it really inspired me to write a fanfic from Cato's PoV. This is going to be a mixture from the movie and the book, along with a bit of surprise from me, and I hope you enjoy it! Any comments or suggestions are welcome!
Pain of a Prospective
Several minutes had passed since the ache had transformed into a fiercer, more insistent burn, and still the sword swept at Cato's head, shoulders, chest and legs, forcing him to raise his own weapon for one more block, one more barely avoided "death blow". As Brutus's dull blade slipped once again past his guard and slammed into his middle, forcing him backwards, the tall boy grunted in pain, stepping out of his trainer's range. Dead again. Cato continued his retreat, the hot sand beneath his bare feet shifting and treacherous, eyes never leaving Brutus' swarthy face.
A groan arose from the nine or ten people watching the training session as he stepped back, but Cato ignored them just as easily as he ignored other distractions. Spectators were like walls or roofs; they were convenient and useful, almost always present, but not interesting enough to actually pay attention to. Besides that, as Brutus had decided they would train in one of the larger, environment specific rooms, the small group of people was lost in the size of the area. A distraction. Unimportant.
Sweat poured down his bare chest and back, stinging as it came in contact with his numerous scrapes and scratches, and that same sweat trickled into his electric blue eyes, partially blinding him. Plastered to his skull with perspiration, the tips of Cato's flaxen blonde hair almost reached his arched eyebrows, yet another nuisance in the already distracting circumstances of the training arena.
The arena was made to mirror desert conditions, and in this instance Cato thought the engineers had been a little too brilliant. The heat coming from the ceiling was nothing short of scorching, and the large, waist high dunes that rose across the room were more irritating than useful to training. This being his third fight in as many hours on the terrain, he knew what to expect, but in the first and second sessions Cato had had his fair share of trips and painful slides as he tried to manoeuvre over and around the infuriating, unsteady mounds.
His shoulders ached and, as soon as he'd disengaged from Brutus, his legs and arms had begun to tremble. A dull flush was making its way up his thick neck to color his cheeks, and as Cato felt the solidness under his feet that indicated the sand pit had ended, he straightened from his wary half crouch. Brutus smiled and the flush deepened.
"Running away so soon, Prospective Cato?" the trainer asked as his thick eyebrows rose in mock surprise. "I didn't realize your mommy was calling you to supper. Or maybe you've decided to step down and become an Extra?"
Arrogant bastard. Cato's jaw tightened even as he gripped the sweaty hilt of his sword more tightly. For a moment he considered stepping back into the training arena, even began to raise his blade in threat. Who the hell does he think he is? And then the arm holding the sword dropped to his side as pain once again wracked his body and spasms in his calves made him widen his stance, almost afraid his legs were about to give out. Brutus wouldn't just smile then; he'd piss himself laughing.
The resentful thought sent heat in a flowing rush up to his head, and by now Cato knew his face would be bright red. The humiliation of that fact increased the heat, turned it into pressure that became dizziness behind his eyes and an ache in his jaw, and he violently flung his sword away, needing to react in some way that didn't involve spreading Brutus' nose across his face with a fist. As it barely missed the tight knot of onlookers who had come to watch, eliciting several shrieks, and clattered against the stone floor, the rage lessened and he forced his scowl into a tight grin.
You can do whatever the hell you want, Brutus, but I'm not going to be the guy who ruins his chances by attacking his mentor. Even if his mentor was an asshole. He was not going to lose his status as a Prospective Tribute and become an Extra because he punched his mentor. He wasn't.
Cato's eye twitched as Brutus' smile shortened to a smirk when he didn't reply. Before the fury could take hold of him again he turned his back on his mentor and stared edgily at the spectators clustered around the entrance to the training room. It was the best area to watch the fight, considering where they'd been duelling –there were no dunes to get in the way- but they were blocking him, and walls didn't do that unless they wanted to be torn down.
They fled from his intense blue glare, a few nearest to the door exiting while the rest hurriedly stepped to the side, expressions ranging from nervous to awestruck. His thin mouth twitched upwards into a sneer, and, mood markedly improved by the fear they showed, Cato paused just before the exit. He glanced over his shoulder at Brutus, who stood with his arms folded across his thick chest, the picture of nonchalance.
"You know I'm not running anywhere, right? I just wanted to give you a break,Brutus. I mean, you're kinda getting on in years, and it'd suck if my mentor dropped dead of a heart attack just a month before the Reaping."
The four spectators still left gasped, and Cato threw a look their way, his eyebrows drawing down. He'd expected laughter, not surprise bordering on horror. Then he caught the uneasy way one of them glanced between him and Brutus, and abruptly understood the reason for their shock. He's still a hero to them, and they can't bear to see their darling victor called old. Why the hell can't they see that he is old, a deadbeat? Why don't they look at me like they look at him?
Though Brutus' mouth had thinned to a hard line, which could usually be considered a victory against the stolid man, Cato left with a sour taste in his mouth. He hadn't won the Hunger Games yet, but it was obviously only a matter of time. After all, he was great when it came to hand to hand fighting, he was bigger than almost every teen in District Two and no one was his equal when it came to sword fighting.
Well, no one except… And it was best not to go there. That person wasn't even his competition, so they didn't really matter. Not to him, anyways.
He passed through the halls of Thornton School, bare feet slapping quietly against the stone floor. Classroom doors littered the hallways on both sides, and because classes were still in session, he only saw a couple Prospectives and a few Extras. The Prospectives swaggered by Cato with thin, secure smiles that didn't hide the way their eyes flicked up and down his muscular body, judging, weighing. He didn't smile back, and the scowls he threw at the Extras got them to scurry away as quickly as they could manage. With no teachers or trainers or mentors around, technically he could spend as much time as he wanted wandering around, and in his current turbulent mood it was a pleasant thought.
Still shirt and shoeless, occasionally shaking out his arms or pausing to stretch in an attempt to get rid of the pain his body still harboured, Cato entered the Preliminaries' area without paying much attention to where he heading. At one point he stopped next to an actual classroom and looked in, leaning against the open doorway and relishing the cold of it against his flushed skin. A bunch of younger kids, maybe ten years old, were seated in a circle in the middle of the room, the desks pushed to one side. They were playing some sort of cooperation game that involved throwing a ball back and forth in a pattern Cato couldn't discern in so brief a period of time.
It's probably stupid anyway. He pushed away from the doorframe, ignoring the whispers as some of the kids finally noticed him, and walked away. When he'd turned twelve the cooperation games had stopped. After all, you didn't need to learn how to work with a person you might kill in the next six years. At the age of twelve, all students at Thornton switched their focus; suddenly, addition and handwriting became unimportant and what really mattered was whether or not you could stab someone with a spear. By the end of the six years of Hunger Games training, the weaklings had been kicked out to attend a normal school and only the best remained. It was a good system.
"Better than having to sit in a classroom all day and learn about mining stone," Cato mused aloud, and smirked as a dark haired Extra passing him froze, obviously thinking Cato was talking to him. There was a definite hierarchy at the school, and when someone better than you spoke, you listened, or there'd be consequences, bloody ones that the teachers pretended not to see.
"Are you trying to eavesdrop, Arden?" All the frustration he'd been feeling about the failure in the training session funnelled into this moment, and Cato stepped forward to tower over the significantly smaller fourteen year old. The only reason Cato even knew his name was because he'd received rather remarkable scores with a bow… but there wasn't any bow nearby.
The boy paled, took a step backwards. "I… I… No! No, of course not!"
Cato followed him, the scene reminding him of the one that had just been played out in the desert arena. Only this time, he wouldn't be the one running away. Quickly, faster than Arden could react, he smacked his palm against the slighter boy's chest and shoved him against the wall he'd conveniently backed closer to. The one or two kids who'd been in the hall vanished.
Stepping forward and putting a bit more pressure on the towheaded Extra as he tried to move away, Cato leaned down so he was at eye level with his victim. "Of course? Are you trying to say that what I have to say wouldn't be worth eavesdropping on?"
"I…" Arden trailed off, obviously at a loss for what to say. It was the wrong response.
With a tolerant smile, the seventeen year old pushed hard against his chest, hard enough that Arden cried out; his hands rose in an instinctive effort to shove Cato's weight away, to no avail. There was a reason Cato had obtained one of the highest scores in training this year, after all. Arden's hands fumbled against his own, and the Prospective's smile became wider, more genuine.
"When I ask you a question, you answer me. Got it, Extra?" Even as he spoke, Cato grabbed one of Arden's fingers in his free hand and twisted. There was a sharp snap, but to his credit the Extra didn't scream; Cato supposed that was logical, considering he'd made it this far in training. A strangled gasp was flung from his lips as if attempting to escape the pain, and he snatched back his hand, cradling it to his chest like a precious object.
Allowing the movement, and then Arden's desperate sidestep away, Cato let his hands fall to his sides as the crooked smile faded. The Extra would tell people what had happened, and it would be all over the school by tomorrow, all over District Two by the end of the week. And that was a good thing. It would reach the Volunteer Committee's ears, and they'd add points to his score; another step towards being allowed to volunteer. It was a good thing.
Arden had sunk to the ground, back against the wall, and was trying to straighten his finger, uttering whimpers and moans wet with tears at each attempt. Cato pushed his blonde hair out of his face as he looked down, a sneer beginning to form that was cut off as he took in the Extra's ashen, still face. Arden looked at him with a pale, flickering gaze that never focused on anything before moving away again.
In a strangely flat voice, Arden said, "You know, just because Briar went off and died doesn't mean you have to turn into an asshole."
Cato stiffened, a militant gleam beginning to show in eyes that had been dimming with disinterest. He had made it clear –perfectly clear- that he didn't want to ever hear mention of Briar again, not from the teachers, not from his parents, and certainly not from a weakling like Arden. He didn't have to put up with crap like that from an Extra.
Sudden pain in his right palm made him glance down in furious bewilderment; his hands had clenched into fists, and his nails had sliced through the skin in a superficial cut. Blood trickled between his fingers like a warning flag, and Cato forced his blue eyes closed and went through the exercises Lyme had taught him. Deep breaths lifted his broad shoulders even as his arms, corded with tense muscles, relaxed. The Committee might approve of roughhousing, but they wouldn't forgive murder, and at the mention of Briar that was exactly where Cato's thoughts were heading.
Without opening his eyes, the Prospective spat, "Get out of my sight. Don't let me catch you anywhere near me again, or I'm going to be breaking something a lot more important than a finger." He heard rather than saw Arden scramble to his feet and take off at a run, probably heading to the medic room with a story about an unfortunate fall.
The anger was still inside him, not lessened in the least by the deep breathing, but he hadn't killed Arden, so there was a bright side to the encounter. Just don't think about it. It doesn't matter anymore, there's nothing you can do. Stop thinking about it!
That line of thought did absolutely nothing to calm him down; if anything, his breath was beginning to speed up again, his back stiffening against the fury raging in his chest. Briar. Briar. It always comes back to Briar. I can't-
Whatever he couldn't do, it became lost as his self control vanished. With a low grunt of rage Cato hammered his fist against the wall, channelling as much of his anger as he could into the blow. It was barely enough, and at the same time, too much. A pointed crack, a mocking echo from minutes ago, and he was staring numbly at the bone poking out from close to the knuckle of his middle finger.
"You've got to be kidding me." If this had happened in training or just a short period of time before, he would have been flipping his shit, but punching the wall had at least done one thing right. He was too drained to get angry. In fact, as the pain pierced his disbelief, Cato couldn't help but laugh a brief, jagged sound that cut off too quickly to be real humour. His hand was broken, after all, and that was no laughing matter. It hurt like hell.
"Looks like I had a bad fall down the stairs," he muttered, and began a swearing tirade that would have made the fisherman of District 4 wince. Fuck. Fuck. All of this in an undertone, because as much it hurt, the pain was nothing compared to the humiliation of any kid learning he'd broken his hand by punching a wall. Cato couldn't imagine what the Committee would have to say about it. That was a rather funny thought, and he laughed again.
Man I feel weird. That always happened when he channelled his anger in a violent way; afterwards he felt strangely light and tingly, as if he could do anything. It was an empowering feeling, yet at the same time a bit unnerving, and the plunge into trembling and shock was bound to happen shortly. It always occurred after the initial euphoria, and it was definitely not worth this kind of pain.
Hand clutched to his chest in a manner similar to Arden –except less pathetic- Cato turned on his heel and went back the way he'd come, turning down a hallway he normally had several good reasons to disdain. The further he got, past several forbiddingly closed doors that lacked windows, the stronger the smell of sterile disinfectant became, an unpleasant scent that invaded his nose with the steel inflexibility of a sword. It always felt like it was trying to clean his very presence from the air, and he resented that, hated the way it tried to erase him.
He didn't go to the medics very often.
The reception hall came into view, a small circular bay with several plush chairs arranged neatly around the receptionist's desk. The person on duty, a blonde woman of small stature, looked up at the sound of his footsteps and raised what he thought was probably an appreciative eyebrow, albeit also inquisitive. She had a valid reason to wonder why he was there. His lightly tanned skin didn't show the scrapes all that well, and besides, no Prospective would come crying just because of some scrapes.
Raising his hand between them with a flourish, Cato let her get a good look at the joint, which was swollen and puffy and bled a little, before he drawled lazily, "Just a little accident. A wall forgot to get out of my way."
The second eyebrow joined the first, but this time in shock. He wasn't the only one who called the spectators who regularly visited the school "walls"; it was a running Thornton joke among the older kids. The only thing was that Prospectives didn't usually –ever- assault the visitors, no matter how annoying they got. After all, they were the ones who sponsored the "Special Ed" classes; without them, the school wouldn't exist. At least, it wouldn't exist as training ground for Tributes.
Waving away her surprise, he grinned. "I meant that as literally as possible. Stupid thing thought it'd be funny to get in the way of my fist." Cato paused, examined his knuckle area and grimaced slightly. It was so puffed up the skin was beginning to split open even further, and as the tingling faded it was replaced by a throbbing pain. "I can't say I was a victor in that particular fight. I think you should probably go get a medic or something. Preferably before the Reaping, you know?"
The Prospective didn't bother to hide the annoyance in his voice; after all, it was her job to get him help as soon as possible. I can't say that I'm surprised about her being a blonde.
"I… yes, I'll be right back." She gave his injured appendage one last look before rising and pushing through one of the many doors that lead away from the reception room.
Free from the need to seem uncaring with the woman gone, Cato drew his hand back to his chest and sank into the closest chair, happy to take weight off legs that had begun to shake. The pain was travelling in successive waves from his knuckle to about his elbow, and moving increased the problem tenfold. His eyes narrowed as he observed that the swelling was spreading from the finger, and he wondered if he'd broken a lot of bones. Shit. I am such a stupid ass some times. To hell with Arden; if that stupid Extra hadn't said anything I wouldn't even be here.
Yet there wasn't much vehemence in the thought. It was mainly Arden's fault, but he'd already been punished for it. If I had just kept a hold on my emotions… How many times have Brutus and Lyme told me my temper's gonna get me killed in the Arena?
Cato reflected on that for a few minutes, trying not to move very much, before a real medic appeared, the receptionist trailing behind him. He was taller than Cato –which was saying something- and the Prospective recognized him as Baric, one of the few District Two victors who'd actually re-entered school and got a job after graduating.
"Hello, Cato," the medic said as he came forward, eyes already glued to the injured hand. "Fancy seeing you here, with a broken hand it looks like. Strangely enough, another boy came in with a fairly similar injury." Baric grabbed Cato's hand in his own large ones, and the seventeen year old had to bite back a curse. The victor had never been known for being gentle, but the hard grasp seemed harsher than was necessary. "Tell me, did you fall down the same stairs as Arden? Perhaps at the same time?"
"No, I –fuck!" A clicking sound came grotesquely from the broken bone as Baric prodded at different points, a thoughtful crease in his forehead. He seemed oblivious to Cato's reaction, but Cato had a nagging suspicion that there was a reason for the avoidable roughness. That or all victors really were sadistic assholes.
"I'm sorry," Baric said mildly, not looking up from his observations. "Did you say something?"
Besides "You're an asshole?" Not much, nope. "Before you proved you suck at being a doctor, I was just going to say I punched a wall. I didn't fall down any stairs."
"Ah. If you feel up to walking…" No reference to his jibe, no sign of irritation. Baric had smashed in the head of the last person left in the arena with his bare hands. Where had that gone?
His calm conversely fuelled Cato's irritation. "I'm not the medic here, but I don't think my feet are broken." He stood, jerking his hand from Baric's grip despite the pain it caused, and glared at the man, his uninjured hand clenching and unclenching, even as his muscles made a muted protest.
"Excellent. If you'll just follow me, then…" The medic turned away without as much as an ironic smile. Cato had no choice but to follow him through a door marked "Minor I, Bay 1" and leave the receptionist behind.
They entered a room with large windows on the far side that let the midday sun through, illuminating the crisp white sheets laid atop the ten or so beds that fitted comfortably into the space. All the beds were empty except for one close to the windows, which was occupied by a slight shape that had his back to the entrance and stared outside. It was Arden, of course.
Cato would have been happy to ignore him completely, but Baric headed decisively towards the empty bed next to Arden's and indicated Cato should take a seat. Somewhat slowly, not willing to look at the hunched figure next to him in case he lost his temper again, the seventeen year old complied, deliberately keeping his eyes averted.
"Arden, how are the pain meds working for you?" The medic had turned his back on Cato and now towered over his other patient, hands working –gently, Cato noticed- to remove the ice compress and bandages he'd applied to the finger.
"It doesn't hurt anymore, Baric." Low and dull, Arden's voice sounded like the meds had affected more than just his pain, though Cato couldn't see his face to confirm those suspicions. There was a brief pause as Baric observed the Extra's finger –which was bruised and swollen, but less than one might expect- and then Arden continued. "I think I'm gonna go home after this. It's not really worth it, you know?"
It occurred to Cato then that Arden, who kept his eyes on the window and didn't turn as Baric ministered to him, didn't know his harasser was there. "My family's well enough off to live, and the Games, they're not… they're not…" He stopped, fumbling for words that Cato himself couldn't bring to mind.
The Games aren't what? Fair? Easy? You knew that when you signed up. An unfamiliar feeling filled Cato's chest, hot and urgent and impatient, and he leaned forward to hear what the Extra had to say about the Games, straining to hear as if it was important, life changing.
"They're not-" and then Arden caught Cato's movement from the corner of his eye and flinched away, mouth clamping into a bloodless line.
Baric looked up in the sudden silence, took in Arden's expression and immediately realized what –or at least who- had caused it. The medic frowned as he finished splinting his patient's finger, but he didn't say anything as he left the two of them, presumably to get more bandages and painkillers for Cato.
That better be where the hell he's going. Watching his powerful figure stalk out of the room, dressed in the simple white of all medics, he wondered once again what had made Baric choose to be a medic of all things. What a ridiculous choice. You spend years training how to kill people, prove that you're damn good at it, and then suddenly decide to start saving lives instead? It's stupid.
Cato forced back the sneer that struggled to spread across his face. Even if he disliked most of them, he hadn't yet achieved what the victors had and for that reason, and that reason only, he occasionally found it possible to hold in his contempt for them. Sometimes, when he mocked them for being old, for doing what he would never do, they gave him a look he couldn't decipher, one that was incredulous and sad and… he didn't know what. But it was unnerving enough that Cato was wary about pushing the victors too far.
The silence grew from the space Arden occupied and began to expand into the rest of the room, flowing over everything, including Cato, until he realized he'd even quieted his breathing to comply with its imperious demand. Then, with a heavy huff, he began tapping the metal frame of his bed, his long nails making a pinging sound that was a weak defence against Arden's stillness.
Just when it became close to unendurable, Baric re-entered, his arms loaded with white cloth, pill bottles, syringes and an ice compress. Without looking at Cato, the medic said to Arden, "There isn't much more I can do for you in terms of fixing that finger. The bone will be fine to use in a couple days, completely healed in a week. But about what you said about leaving the school…"
Once again the tall victor had become absorbed in his work, in this case Cato's hand, and he didn't see the way the Extra winced, but Cato noted it and speculated it had something to do with embarrassment and guilt. Baric continued blithely as he began preparing a syringe. "I can't say much about that, either, but I would suggest it'd be a good idea to avoid falling down stairs for the next while." There was meaning in that, meaning that Arden understood, and the younger boy sagged with relief as Cato scowled.
He shouldn't be encouraging kids to quit Thornton; even if there is no way in hell they'd make it to be a Tribute. Doesn't he know that reflects poorly on the school, on us?
Baric obviously didn't care what Cato thought about anything, because even though he must have noticed his glower, he ignored it. "Either way, Arden, I'd suggest you go home for now, talk to your parents, all of that."
"Yes Baric." Arden slipped off the cot, and it didn't escape Cato's notice that the Extra went around the long way to avoid going closer to him than was necessary. At the entrance, Arden said, without turning, "Thank you for the help, Baric. All of it." And then he was gone.
There was such a load of honeyed gratitude in those few words that Cato made a retching noise in the back of his throat. What was it with the residents of District 2 practically drooling over a bunch of outdated nothings? Half of them didn't even contribute to anything anymore, just sat around boozing and getting fat. Lyme and Baric were the only exceptions; even Brutus had an alcohol problem that only his fanaticism about exercise held in check. So why did everyone always worship them, and pay only lip service to the Prospectives who would actually be risking their lives?
His bitter reflection was interrupted as a sharp speck of pain –almost unnoticed in the demanding agony his hand was producing- made its presence known at his wrist. It was the prick of a syringe being inserted, and the sensation startled him enough that, had he not been so drained and drawn, he would have clouted Baric away.
As it was, both hands rose in a defensive flail –tearing the syringe out of Baric's grasp- and Cato snapped, "What are you doing? Do you want to get hit?" It was a well known fact that you didn't bother Prospectives when they were distracted, not unless you wanted to get hit or even killed, and the medic hadn't even seemed to care!
Shaken by how inward he'd drawn his alertness, Cato now forced himself to be doubly aware. He absorbed Baric's grim smile and curt gesture to return his hands to where they'd been sitting on his lap, and also noted the preparations the victor turned medic had made to take care of the broken hand. About freaking time.
"Well, I was injecting a pain inhibitor, but if you're so manly you can handle my ministrations without them, we can move on now." Though Baric's voice was dry, the grim smile on his face had turned mocking, and Cato pulled his lips back in a scowl.
"Just get it over with already!" He didn't sound petulant, but commanding. Or at least, that's what Cato tried to tell himself. What is it about victors that make me feel like an idiot?
"As you'd like, Prospective."
And Cato, whatever his sentiments on Baric's choice of profession, had to admit the man knew what he was doing. Within minutes, he'd inserted another –larger- syringe into Cato's hand, explaining in a clinical way that it contained bone enhancement elements, and then set it with numerous strips of tape that would harden within the hour, becoming a cast. Throughout the procedure it was only Baric's smile –dry, ironic, waiting- that kept the Prospective from protesting against the pain and snatching his hand away, and once he was done Cato let out a small, barely audible sigh of relief.
The job over, Baric straightened from his bent over analysis of his work, and for perhaps the first time since he'd arrived in the medic area, looked Cato in the eye. Bright blue met darker, inscrutable green in a challenging stare and, incredibly, it was blue that looked away first. What is it about them!
"Cato." The statement was hard and pointed as spear, and Cato felt himself drawn from his frustration as he met Baric's eyes again, without challenge, just edgy inquiry.
There was tension in the medic's face, lines that had not previously existed about his mouth and eyes. "As it stands, King is going to go into the Reaping with the greatest amount of points, and the Committee will elect him as this year's Tribute. You will not be able to enter the Games until next year, if you ever manage to enter at all."
Eyes narrowing in confusion and defensiveness, Cato would have replied if Baric hadn't bulled over his protest. "King will enter the Games, and he might very well win. He's bigger than you and better than you in almost every weapon. The only thing you'd ever beat him in is a swordfight, and for all we know there won't be a sword in the arena. Breaking Extras' fingers isn't going to change the fact that he's better. If you want the Committee to choose you instead, you have to show them that you are something he isn't."
Cato stood up abruptly, free hand curled into a fist as his chest heaved. Glaring at Baric, furious that he had to look up to do so, all the injustice of the moment collided inside of him and he let it out in an impassioned shout. "Something he isn't? How about intelligent?What about good looking? Would you say I'm charismatic? Wait, never mind. He's fucking all those things!" His yell echoed throughout the room as Cato shook, struggling for control and failing.
There was the rage, but it wasn't hot this time, or blinding in its enormity; it was terrified. It railed against what it couldn't change, railed against the fact that King was better than Cato, had always been better than Cato… and there was nothing he could do about it. Why couldn't he have been born just one year sooner? Would that really have been too much to ask? I can't win the Games when I'm eighteen, it won't matter any more, dad will just say that Briar-
"Cato!" That voice again, harder than before but more flexible, a whip that cut into him so sharply he jumped and forced open eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed. His vision was blurred slightly, not from wetness but something else entirely.
Baric grabbed the Prospective's shoulders and shook him slightly. Cato didn't know why, but he was grateful for the contact, grateful for the thing that drew him out of his despair. There was strength in the touch, and Cato used it appreciatively, leaning on it but not into it.
As if Cato didn't have tears in his eyes, Baric spoke firmly. "You do have something that King doesn't. All of us –all of us who've survived the Games- know it, see it. It's why we push you so hard, never let up like we do on others." He gave the Prospective another shake, as if to emphasize his point. "You are something that King isn't."
He's wrong. Cato shook his head, slowly but as firmly as Baric had spoken. Baric is wrong. I'm nothing.
At the denial, Baric's hands sprang from his shoulders to drop limply to his sides, and the medic turned away as if weary. "You are something King isn't, Cato." His voice was heavy, as if it carried the weight of the world, and the Prospective could barely comprehend what Baric said next.
"Cato, you're a victor."
Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belong exclusively to Suzanne Collins. All of the non OOC characters belong to her; I'm just putting my own spin and sight on a well told story.