notes; this is quite a mess.
we walk these paths alone.
.
They're taught from a young age that winning is everything, surviving is everything. You're not here to make friends, you're here to kill. Cato wishes for a different life but his brothers and sisters have all been victors— he must be one, too. Blood splattered on his hands, on his pants; like an animal, a lion hunting it's prey. It's hard to forget that these are children like him, they have families and dreams and hopes but he holds another throat, (another life) in his hands—
All he sees is red. Angry blood, and the screams of rebellion coming from a girl cloaked in dust with an admirer she's using to further herself in these games. All he sees is a girl with blonde hair dying and a boy with an arrow in his heart. Twelve years old and dead, dead, dead. Even if he didn't kill them— it's their blood on his hands, on their hands and Cato must win.
He's been training all his life. They're not like you. Forget their human; forget the lives and hopes and families and dreams they carry. It's you or them. He has families and dreams and hopes; none of which involve a ripped throat and a dead heart. Sword shatters another skull, hands soak in red, again. Splatter, splatter, splatter. Canons boom, and Cato grins because maybe this will be over with soon. Another kill, another canon; a faster way to get home.
Alliances are made. District One and District Two; just like they always are. Fighting tooth and nail to win, together. No one mentions that they'll have to kill each other (but no one really cares, either). They walk these paths alone, made of dust and dirt. Of blood and gore. They're not fighting for some prize, for some pretty little crown, for some title. They're fighting for their lives. Cato watches them struggle, he's the strongest there. Dangerous and deadly and he's going to win. (They all know it).
.
Glimmer sneaks up next to him, batting eyelashes and swiping blonde hair behind her back. It's another tactic, another strategy. She's hoping to steal his heart and then stab it right underneath his own nose— he plays along; feeding her lines of compliments. District Twelve looks uncomfortable in the circle, watches Glimmer and Clove; he'd almost forgotten about Lover Boy, desperate and lonely yet siding with them. While the rest may be dumb, Cato is not. It's a tactic, a strategy. To save the other girl, the one from District Twelve but Cato plays along.
He's an easy target, anyway. Could kill him now if Cato could be bothered. Just a little cut— he may be here to kill, but it doesn't mean he wants to. Yet the urge to kill is getting stronger, it's what he was trained to do. It's what's expected of him to do here. So why isn't he killing more? Slaughtering the innocent. Slaughtering the unlucky. Slaughtering, slaughtering, slaughtering. It's all he's good for, all he knows how to do.
He watches Clove roll her eyes at Glimmer and Marvel. District One were taught to be pretty, District Two were taught how to fight. She catches his eye and glares at him. It's only a reminder of what else will be lost due to these games. They're just kids. Why do they deserve this? Another canon booms and Cato's hands turn another shade darker.
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Clove has made it her goal to win the games; not to stay alive but to prove something. To show her mum, her dad, her sister, her brother, her aunt, her cousin, her uncle— that she's strong enough, that she can win something deadly even though they all said she couldn't. Instead of crying about her first kill, the red splattered on her hands— she rejoices!
A canon booms— she rejoices! Is it her kill? Is her hand that caused their last breath? Part of her tells her to be sad, to be destroyed on the inside. Murdering innocent lives; she's not stupid, even if the Capitol trained them to be that way. Killing is wrong, dying is wrong— but winning is so right. Proving something to everyone that's only ever looked down on her, told her she was good enough— is so right. She celebrates the kills, dances on their graves, as everyone else falls apart.
She sees red, she sees freedom. Clove isn't a monster— no, just programmed that way. By the Capitol. By her family. By her district. She knows better, but as she holds that knife in her hand, threatens to kill someone else. A terrifying grin, a terrified girl lies in the shell of the confident one with another child's life in her hands. Boom. Numbers are dwindling, closer they come—
The finish line is in sight, now. There's others she's teamed up with, alliances and what not have been made. She cares for none of them, would kill them in a heartbeat if she didn't need their skill. (What skill?). Her hands itch for their blood, to see their red painted on her hands. If they're going to die, she's going to kill them.
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Cato grins at her, once Glimmer and Marvel have fallen asleep. Once lover boy has disappeared to find food— or someone else to kill. Can he kill? Clove whispers against the skin of Cato's cheek. Can you? He whispers back, breath harsh. She's forgotten what it was like— back when they were younger, innocence wasn't questioned then. Training was just another formality, the games were just a thing back then. Winners, victors came home and the district rejoiced. Clove had held Cato's hand—
Lover Boy comes back, empty handed and a shy smile as he sits down next to Cato and Clove; they pull apart. She forgets about everything that had ever happened before these games; there's no life outside of them now. What's your name again? Clove asks the boy from District 12, his mouth pops open before whispering out a Peeta. Clove shoos him away, why does he get to be the only one with a broken heart? A love story—
Cato kisses her. Once he's gone. It's the last time, (but not the first). She pushes him away, glaring at him before storming off. Fingers trace her lips, and salty tears land on her fingers. Another cannon goes off, and her skin runs cold. It wasn't one of them— so someone else is getting bold.
.
( back when they were little— when they used to play in the meadows with broken swords; Cato used to kiss her, on the cheek, on the nose, on the lips. Five, ten, fifteen— it used to be wonderful. Remembers playing in pools of water, swimming up and down a stream and the boys used to watch her, the girls used to play with her; everything was simple then.
Back before they were trained to kill each other. Back before the girls starting hating her, and the boys started ignoring her. Cato would still kiss her, under that stream. Back in the meadows with broken swords. Used to fight until the sky grew amber— until boys with broken hearts used to run home, and girls with broken dreams used to walk home.
Cato once told her he loved her; Clove once told him to shut up. Cato once stopped hanging out with her; Clove once cried because of it— growing weak and fragile and useless! She had screamed. She wasn't the girl he cared, not about Cato and the flings he had with the older girls with the longer limbs and brighter smiles. The ones who's fingers didn't curl up around shattered glass, and dig blood out of underneath her nails. )
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Clove dies first, and the boy curses himself for not running sooner— she's a mess of curls and blood, and her family won't be mourning; they'll be laughing, silly girl, was never going to win. It's a victory, it's a curse. He kills Thresh, who bashed her head in.
Comes close to killing Katniss, killing Lover Boy but the cannon booms— and it's his blood that runs.