Suzanne Collins owns The Hunger Games. I own an imagination in which Wiress survives. I win.
Cato shifted uncomfortably, trying to remain silent. A few crumpled leaves fell to the ground below, spiraling and twisting as if in terror. He watched them fall, imagining what it would be like to follow. A human body would be battered severely by this drop, he decided. A broken leg at the very least. The image of his current enemy plummeting to her death filled his imagination. He'd dreamed up at least fifteen different methods of killing the girl from Twelve in the last few days. Each more excruciatingly painful than the last.
Waiting for Clove to come back was taking more patience than he'd expected. When they'd planned out this day, their strategy for the feast, it took a lot of persuasion on her part to convince Cato to be the ambush. But he was the bigger of the two, and if one of their opponents took this route to reach the Cornucopia, he was the one who could take them out. And now here he was, sitting up in this tree like a ridiculous bird, like Twelve herself. No, not like Twelve. She'd be even higher, that skinny little idiot.
Suddenly– he nearly fell out of the tree– he heard a scream. His name. Clove. Recklessly, desperately, he called back. "Clove!" She'd know he was coming, she was smart, she could stay out of harm's way until he showed up...
It took him longer than he liked to reach the ground. Every moment of his descent, he had to force his muscles into calm obedience, keep himself from climbing too quickly for his ability. Couldn't fall now. Had to reach Clove. But finally his feet pressed against the cold, unforgiving ground and he threw himself in the direction of the Cornucopia.
Each step made him more aware of the urgency of the situation, yet also more aware of his own physical prowess. Even if it wasn't Twelve who was the source of Clove's fear– and he doubted it was, Clove could easily take her down– he could use any of the killing methods he had planned for that girl. He and Clove could still win this. Together. And after they tore apart this next threat, maybe that giant from Eleven, they could kill Twelve. Together.
These thoughts were at once wiped from his mind as he broke through the tree line and spotted his partner, his ally, his friend on the ground. Cato mechanically took note of the presence of both Twelve and Eleven, but didn't pursue as each took off in a different direction. Only Clove was important now. Could she still be saved...?
He reached her side. Knelt down. Took her hand. "Clove."
Her eyes could barely open. The dent on her skull was terrifying to behold. She couldn't be saved. "Cato... late."
Cato felt tears rising, and helplessly fought them. He had never admitted it to himself until this moment, but he realized that he enjoyed Clove's company. He remembered what it was like back in District Two. Their rivalry, as both trained continually for the Games they were each certain they would win. The few times their paths had crossed buzzed at the back of his mind, but he tried to ignore the memories. All that mattered now was that he avenged her death. Won these Games.
"Who did this?" Fourth grade. How he teased her for caring about school and she responded by hurling a book at his head. The bloody nose that followed.
"...Eleven. Big rock." Her voice was unrecognizable. It sounded as if her throat had been shredded, her words were so raspy and painful.
"I'll get him. I'll get him for you."
Clove made a strange noise, a moan of pain punctuated with a squeak. Fighting to stay alive, and failing.
"You're not dying, Clove. You'll be fine. I promise." Did she remember how she had mocked him, four years ago, after he received the worst haircut known to man? And why was it that it was only now, in this moment, that he realized that she had been trying to make friends?
"I'm done... can't..."
The tears were back with a vengeance. "Don't leave me! We can still win, Clove!" One fell into the rock-shaped impression on her temple. His heart twisted painfully inside of him. She was really dying.
"...win." This word came out in a gust of air that was her final breath. The sound of a cannon echoed in Cato's ears, but it was much less distracting than his memories.
Cato stood, feeling drained. Somehow his passion for killing didn't ease this pain. No matter how he tried, he couldn't transform this event into something humorous. This wasn't another meaningless dead body. Clove was different.
He watched himself, as if within a dream, as he strode to the Cornucopia. No backpacks left. Because Eleven had taken theirs. No, not theirs. His. He wasn't part of a team anymore. A noise behind him made him turn.
The hovercraft was already pulling Clove's body from the ground. Her blonde hair obscured her face, and her limbs were twisted. This wasn't the Clove he knew. A despair bordering on rage flooded his heart as he realized he hadn't gotten to say goodbye. He hadn't looked into Clove's face one last time, memorized it, found the finality of her death.
Cato sunk to the ground, for once feeling small.
Then he looked down. He saw a rock. And perhaps it wasn't the same rock used to crush his ally's skull, but to him it was. He picked it up, felt its weight in his hand. His entire being began to tremble with rage. A rage that bordered on madness. Cato hadn't gotten to look down at the face of his dead friend in one last goodbye.
He rose to his feet and began sprinting downhill. Following his prey. He wouldn't forget to look down into Eleven's dead face.