"Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed. Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor."
Cato and I had our weapons at each other's throats in an instant. We had just killed the tributes from District Twelve, leaving us to be the victors. Until the Gamemakers changed the rules ... again. I had no intentions of ever killing Cato in the Games. I was sincerely hoping someone else would do that for me, saving me the trauma of ending his life. Clearly, that's not what the Capitol had in mind.
I stepped closer to Cato, the tip of my knife pressing into his neck a small bit, just enough for him to become weary-eyed. He pulled his blade away from my throat, and looked at me with his big, blue eyes that he knew could kill me themselves. I pushed the knife harder into his neck, but not to break skin. His face began to crumple, and he spoke with a voice he used only when he was truly in pain about something.
"Who will love you?" he asked. Such a simple question made me remove my knife. It fell to the arena ground, my chest heaving as I breathed heavier. He was right; if I killed him, I would have nobody. Sure, I'd have the Capitol citizens worshipping me at my feet, but I'm nothing without Cato. He could sense my despair, and wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me flush to his body. Tears fell from my eyes against my will, landing and drying on Cato's shoulder.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm so sorry." Cato shushed me gently, running his hands down my undone braid soothingly. He's always known how to calm me down. When we were kids, I often had panick attacks, and I'd always get so worked up over something very small. Every time, he calmed me, and I admire him for sticking with me for this long.
We separated, and he reached into his jacket pocket, retrieving a bag of small berries. "Nightlock," he said softly, knocking some into my open hand, some into his. He leaned down, and captured my lips with his own. A moment later, he pulled back, and said, "On the count of three?"
"The count of three," I agreed.
He turned us around, so our backs were pressed together. He grabbed my free hand, and gave it a small squeeze of reassurance, that everything's going to be okay. "One," he said. They couldn't let us commit suicide, could they? If they wouldn't have a victor, I couldn't even imagine what would happen. "Two." They'd stop us. They'd have to. "Three." I dumped the berries into my mouth, feeling them land on my tongue coolly, when trumpes blared throughout the arena.
"Stop! Stop!" Claudius Templesmith's voice rang out. "Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Clove Cronin and Cato Baxwold! I give you — the tributes of District Two!"