Author's Note. I haven't written fanfiction in over a year, so I guess you could say I'm a bit rusty. But I've always loved Cato and I've always believed that there was more to him than what was showed in the first book. No one is born a monster; monsters are made. And this is the story of how people and circumstances transformed Cato into a monster of his own.
"Catch."
That is the last thing my father says before he sends a double-edged sword flying toward me. My heart almost leaps out of my chest at the sight of the weapon—all forty-one inches of hard, polished stone—glinting in the sunlight. It's as if it is moving in slow motion, both challenging me and giving me a chance to escape.
Suddenly, fear wells up inside of me, pushing upward, threatening to make itself known. But at the last minute—just a second before I decide to leap out of the way—I hold my stance, scolding myself, fighting with myself. A thousand thoughts and opinions oppose each other in my head.
"Try to catch the weapon, or run from it?" is the question that races itself worn-out through my mind. If I try to catch it, there's a large chance I will miss and an even larger chance I'll be wounded worse than usual after this session of training. But then again, if I run from it, there is a hundred percent chance I won't catch the sword, as well as a hundred percent chance that my father will beat me unconscious tonight. Again.
In a split second, I decide to take my chances with the sword.
The fear of my father overwhelms the fear of the immediate threat, pushing the latter farther and farther down my throat until it's barely there anymore. I straighten my back, square my shoulders, and tilt my chin upward. My eyes follow the trajectory of the weapon, my body tensing in anticipation.
The sharpened stone is now alarmingly close, but while my sane mind screams Grab it now! at my common sense, the cold, determined, experienced Career blossoming inside of me says in a quiet voice, Wait.
My muscles are practically stone now—practically as cold as the weapon slicing through the air toward me—as I do what the Career says, waiting for my sure death with cold sweat running down my back. Waiting. Waiting… waiting.
Waiting until the sword flips in the air—the blade moving away from me and the grip twisting toward me—before I step back with one leg for support, raise my arm, and in one swift motion capture the handle with my hand.
Just like that, it's done. I've caught the sword. I taste bile in my mouth. The last deep breath I took stops in my lungs as I try to come to grips with what has just happened. Am I alive? Did I catch the sword? Am I alive?
A quick glance downward reveals a dark gray, nearly black iron ore sword, the handle gripped by a pale hand with ghostly white knuckles.
Oh my god. I've caught the sword.
The realization hits me as hard as the sword would have if I didn't catch it. I breathe out a sigh of relief. I'm alive and I've caught the sword.
The blade points downward toward the ground, and I try not to notice how much the weapon is quivering in my hand. I lift my gaze and my eyes meet my father's. They're blue like mine—not light like the sky but deep like the ocean with fragments of green—and they hold me in place, inspecting me.
They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul. Many people think my father to be soulless, but I believe he has a soul. I know he does. There is a window, there is a soul. However, beyond that, there is a cold abyss. Emptiness.
Suddenly the abyss fills with something else—some emotion I can't place. Pride? Joy? Happiness? Somehow none of these fit the expression dawning upon my father's face.
The corners of my father's mouth turn up in a crooked smile. Even in the light of day, my father's face looks dark and dangerous and cold. I am afraid of him, and that is one fear that I am not ashamed of admitting to myself. I am afraid of my own father.
But then he says, "Good job, Cato," and for once in my life, the fear of being like my father disappears, quickly replaced by the want—the want to be like him. So he can say those three words to me again and again and again.
I don't yearn to hear him say he loves me. I've long ago accepted that he doesn't and never will. All I want now is for him to say that I've done a good job, that I've satisfied him. That I'm worth all his hard work.
"Thanks," I say, and I grin. He grins back.
And then I'm finally able to name the emotion glinting in his eyes.
It's murderous excitement.