A/N: Lately all this Glato shipping has gotten me depressed. Just no. Clato will forever be my OTP, screw the movie. They should've had more Clato scenes, not Glimmer using Cato for a pillow! But yeah, I had to update this because I spotted an error... *tear* Happy reading!
Cato is in his element. Blood.
The carnage around him is a beauteous sight to behold. He pauses for a single second to study his latest victim, to watch as the light of life fades from their eyes, rendering them as dull, glassy orbs. The bittersweet stench of blood pervades the air, horrifically tangible, smelling of salt and copper and tears.
He is a blur, his sword cutting into the flesh of another tribute with a sickening squelch. When he yanks the blade free, gobbets of flesh come with it, along with a spray of blood. The tribute collapses to the ground in a mangled, mutilated mass of flesh and bone.
Adrenaline courses through Cato's veins, making him feel more alive than ever before. This is what he was born to do, what he has dedicated his life to- the Games.
He lets out a laugh, an eerie sound that send chills down his spine. It is the sound of a madman, an echo of who he once was, an omen of what is to come.
He lashes out once more, and this time the blood-stained metal of his sword cleaves through not only flesh, but bone. There is a sickening yet satisfying crunch as the girl's spine is shattered. Her eyes roll upwards in her skull and a waterfall of sickly sweet, crimson red blood cascades to the ground, drenching Cato's fingers in the process. The scarlet liquid is sticky and warm, painting his skin in a hauntingly beautiful way.
A twisted grin adorns his face.
Everything about him breathes confidence, or is it arrogance?
Cato does not doubt, not for a second, that he will be the victor of the 74th Hunger Games. Not Everdeen, and certainly not Lover Boy. He will crush them like the pathetic insects they are. He will elicit screams of torture from them, that and blood. Oh yes, he will spill their blood, all of it.
Cato can imagine it now, Everdeen and Lover Boy's blood, painting the forest floor. Dark crimson, almost black, blood gushing from their numerous wounds. The ground will drink their blood, lap it up thirstily.
Yes, Cato thinks. He will paint the forest with their blood.
Only one person stands in his way of victory.
Clove.
Her name resonates within Cato's mind, and he fights the urge to snarl at himself in frustration. It isn't that he can't defeat her- he's sure that he could overpower her, eventually, because when all's said and done, he is the power player in this game- but the crux of the matter is, he doesn't know that he wants to defeat her.
Brutus would laugh and jeer at him for certain, scorning his weakness. But Cato cannot help it. Something about Clove draws him in, inexplicably. Perhaps it's the way she twirls her dagger, or maybe it's the cruel glint in her eyes as she watches the life bleed from others. Cato isn't able to fathom why. All he knows is that something in him thirsts for her, for her blood.
He wants to carve his name onto her skin, bloody trails that snake up her arms. He wants to break her, shatter her resolve into pieces, to taste her sweat, her tears, her blood. To listen to her screams of sadistic agony is his desire. The beast inside Cato is hungry, and it prowls restlessly, waiting for a chance to strike.
Only one person will be able to kill Clove, Cato decides. He will be the one to let the life bleed from her as she cries out his name.
Cato has never stopped to think about how they are all pawns in the Capitol's game. Never.
Not once has he questioned his duty or his training. All he knows is the sweet taste of blood- blood and victory. Cato knows everything about inflicting pain, for that is what has been branded into his brain, white-hot. Kill or be killed, everything in him screams. Crush the weak underneath your foot, something tells him. Draw blood, taste victory.
It was all that mattered. Nothing else.
He never stopped to think about the fact that winning the Games would be a tainted victory, one that would taste as bittersweet as drinking his own blood.
"Cato!" His head snaps up at the sound of her voice, calling to him, pleading for him. But her voice is too far away, and his heart (if it could be called that) sank like the stone it was.
"Clove!" He cries back, the desperation in his voice crystal clear. No, he cries to himself. No, please, not her. But Cato has no god to pray to, no reassurance. He has nothing.
"Clove!" He sprints towards the sound of her voice, towards the Cornucopia. Every nerve in his body is on fire, adrenaline pumping through his veins. But somewhere deep inside him, Cato knows that he will be too late.
And still, he runs.
Cato bursts into the clearing, tears streaking down his face, twin silvery trails of weakness.
There she is, broken.
Clove looks small and shattered, blood trickling from a dent in her skull. He feels everything inside him shatter along with her, his normally cold, stony heart splintering into thousands of fragments that pierce his soul. Even death would be better than this, seeing Clove bleed out at hands other than his own.
"No!" He cries, somewhere between pleading and groveling. "Clove! Stay with me! Please." His voice breaks on the last word, shattering like the rest of him. If she could speak, she would surely condemn him for this show of weakness, of humanity.
"I-" she whispers, the life beginning to fade from her. He can't bear the sight, seeing her broken like this, broken beyond his repair. Cato knows that it is hopeless, that Clove is as good as dead, but he just can't give up on her.
No, he thinks. No! Please!
Clove reaches up to brush his face, her fingers that once twirled knives with such expertise now trembling with exertion.
And then she is gone.
He lets out a wail of despair as the heat seeps from her body. And then, his loss turns into fury, into the insatiable need for blood and vengeance.
They will pay, Cato vows. They will all pay.
Cato paints with Clove's knife, etches swirling designs on Thresh's skin. The fury consumes him, the need for revenge.
The need for blood.
Thresh does not cry out, which only serves to infuriate Cato further. Why will the boy not cry out? He deserves to suffer for what he did to Clove.
Cato carves a bloody letter C onto Thresh's skin, the blood pouring forth. Still, there is no plea for mercy. Cato continues to bring down the knife, slicing the larger boy's flesh to ribbons. Rivulets of blood pour onto the ground as Cato continues his gory, savage work. He paints Thresh's skin with blood, turns it into a piece of artwork.
Finally, out of sheer frustration at Thresh's lack of cries for pain, he bring the knife down, hard, and severs one of the boy's fingers. Thresh finally lets out a pained cry, and Cato feels the rush of gratification sweep over him, and for one moment, he can almost forget that Clove is gone.
Almost.
The mutts swarm over him, all of them, and for the first time Cato feels true pain. Its fingers wrap around him, sending fire through his veins, causing him to scream in pure agony. The armor that was once a blessing becomes a curse as it locks Cato to life, preventing him from entering death's arms.
With a jolt of pure, primitive fear, Cato sees Clove's mutt. Its fur is dark as midnight, and its eyes full of malice, just as they were when she was alive.
"Please." He begs, voice cracking. "Clove." But it isn't Clove, just a replica of her. The thing is, Cato's fevered, pain-wracked brain doesn't understand anymore. He can't understand anything, not why he's here, not why Clove died, not why he can't die.
In the end, Cato does not emerge victorious.
For in the Games, there are no true victors.
A/N: Hi. Eh, I don't think that was my best (Cato felt too crazy), but I needed to vent my sadness over Clato... Idk, I was just in a Cato/Clove mood... D; Well, reviews are always appreciated!