Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belong to S.C.
Author's Note: Extremely pleased, (but not enough to be a braggart), about this one-shot.. It came up at the spur of the moment when me and a friend of mine were the last two survivors of a zombie-based game. I'm also sorry about the "rhyming" in this one-shot. It was never intended. Believe me =)
Flesh on flesh, fist to fist, that was all there was to it. Between the quiet conversations and midnight kisses, that was all that their relationship was composed with; they did not love nor care for one another. They fought and murdered;glowered and shot, but never felt the deeper emotions concerning love.
This was because they were humans built into hungry machines; the only thing savoring their hunger was winning; and therefore, they were considered strong; proud, brave, and strong – better than the rest, better working alone.
On the first night they spent together as tributes, they made no love yet went to bed together. Waking up alone or not – they were birds of a feather; one the early and already eating up breakfast; because they weren't stupid – oh gods forbid if they ever were – to think of their nightly activities to mean anything more.
For they refused to fall in love and be met by desolation in the end. No, they would not show weakness; they would not fall to their knees in demise. They would fight and if it came to it – kill the other.
Sure there might be a tiny bit of regret after, but nothing less – nothing more. They would feel jubilation after that phase for it was just another target down. Just another step closer to winning. Just another soul dying. Always stay indifferent.
Ten. Nine. Eight.
The two exchanged glances before staring hungrily at the Cornucopia. The time had come. One of them would soon return home.
Seven. Six.
Sprinting across the field, Cato beat every tribute to the fruit of all things needed; Clove was already targeting victims. One throw, a twist of a neck – a dive. They were all dead either way; and soon, Cato would be the next one bleeding on the ground.
Five.
That was how many stingers he counted ebbed into his skin. Clove had more. Among the whole Career Pack, she had received the bitter end of the Tracker Jackers. Pulling her up from the lake, he guided her to the shore and helped her cough up the water that had entered into her system. Later on, he would question why he ever dared assist her – why he hadn't left her at death's door. But that was later. Right now, he was just focused on keeping her a live, arguing that she was a valuable asset to the team and that they couldn't afford to lose anymore of them.
Four.
Marvel, the only one to have come out of the whole ordeal unharmed, suggested that they should just kill her. Cato's head shot up at this and he marched over to him, picking up his sword in the process. Lifting the other boy with ease, Cato briefly wondered what had gotten into him before noticing dear District Twelve's lack of appearance. Dropping the trembling boy, Cato gathers the rest of his composure and marches out to look for him.
Three.
If a tiny part of him ever worried about Marvel possibly killing Clove, it was conspicuously hidden through the Tracker Jacker barbs he discreetly stabbed into the District One tribute.
Two.
That was how many syllables Cato's name held. Multiply that number by three or a hundred – it made no difference. All Cato's mind was set on was finding Clove. The two had been hovering between paranoia and thinking of just killing each other just to get it over with since the realization of being the last two Careers hit them. Now, after Claudius Templesmith had announced the heavenly news, they began to operate as a team again. And perhaps that had been their downfall.
They had been so sure that they would be the winners. Cato and Clove. Two very prideful sinners.
But then, the tables – the bloody tables – had to finally turned against them.
Forcing his legs to go as fast as they could, he ran for Clove.
For his partner.
In the back of his mind, he reminisced the times when she had screamed his name in their lustful nights together – but now, the sound wasn't the same.
Cato trudged through the heavy undergrowth before finally emerging into the center field. The sight was horrifying for him. Sprinting at a speed he never thought he could reach, Cato slid to his knees and stopped by a dying body.
Clove.
Something terrible shook inside Cato as he held her body close to his. Never crying, but always feeling; she was gone, and he was once again, left alone...
One.
The mutated mutts were ruthless, and Cato's will to survive had long been absent. It was only time before either they or his lack of blood killed him off; this was the end of the final District Two tribute.
Clove.
Briefly, his muscles went limp as familiar eyes stared at him ferociously. How could they? Cato grit his teeth and forced himself to bare the pain – even for a short ten seconds as he lurched for his sword.
The despicable Capitol had finally outdone themselves.
Feeling the comforting metal wrap around his bloody hands, Cato ignored the chunks of skin – his skin – being torn from his body as he drove his sword through that one dog. Hearing the mutt whimper, Cato slid the weapon through the mutated creature's body before another mutt bit through his shoulder.
Screaming in agony caused by both the dogs and some distant part of his barely beating heart, Cato finally broke as the sun rose.
The mutts were gone, but so was she.
Cato stumbled into the opening – barely alive, barely breathing. There was only one word that escaped his mouth, and as he stared at Katniss's arrow, he finally knew; you could never doubt love.