Extra: Cato
This seem to a be a pretty highly requested one-shot, and it was an interesting piece to write, so let me know what you guys think! P.S. I'll try to get the playlist up and running soon, but it's been giving me some trouble. Anyway, without further-ado, let's begin.
Rated T for language.
The first time he sees her, he sees red too, and he swears to himself that he won't let anything get in his way. Not even this. Not her, some girl from Twelve with one of those stupid tragic backstories that they love in the Capitol. He glances at his brother, watches as his eyes trail over the screen. He looks distant, maybe even guilty. Pathetic. That's all Cato can think. Fire burns hot in his veins when he turns his eyes back to the Reapings. It's something he'll be ashamed of later—how he thinks about all of the different ways he could kill her. Snap her neck, cut her down with a sword, stab her through the heart with a spear. He knows he'll have the upper hand. He knows he could even make her beg for it. Yes, he decides with a clenched jaw and tense shoulders, he'll make sure she doesn't make it out of this alive. After all, he was always meant to be the victor.
The second time he sees her isn't much different than the first. He has to admit that Twelve's head stylist has outdone himself again. Anger floods his body at the thought. She will not steal his spotlight. But then she does, and he swears he could kill her right then. The rage is palpable. If only it weren't against the rules… He sucks in a sharp breath, trying to pretend that he doesn't notice Mace and his obscene gesture. He really fucking hates the kid. And he's really starting to hate her too, because he can't ignore their staring. So he does what he does best—he takes control. He turns his gaze to her. He knows she'll notice. He knows it will terrify her. And he's right. The scowl disappears from her face and so does the color. His heart sings at the idea, the notion that he can inspire so much fear in her. Good, he thinks, she should fear him.
He sizes her up, letting his glare trail over her for longer than necessary as she's pressed up against the railing. She should start getting used to it, the feeling of being trapped. Cornered like an animal. After all, she's nothing but prey. When she talks back to him, he can't help but be amused for a moment. He can't deny that she's got some bite. But then she keeps talking, and she smiles—fucking smiles like he doesn't even scare her, but he knows he does—and he feels the amusement give way to fury. He's seething. He's experienced this plenty of times at the Academy—the rage rushing through his limbs, filling him up until he explodes and tears apart anything in his way. Who the fuck does she think she is? And why the fuck is he letting her get under his skin like this? You're being weak, he tells himself. You'll kill her, he tells himself. You'll be the victor, he tells himself. And for the first time in his life, there's a little flicker of doubt. He focuses on the red-hot anger instead, relishes the feeling of it growing and growing until it surrounds the doubt and suffocates it until it doesn't exist anymore.
Brutus and Enobaria like his rage. They think it's productive. There was a reason he was selected to volunteer after all; a reason why he was at the top of his class. They praise him for it, and it only feeds his confidence. He doesn't see any problem with that though. Demetrius… Demetrius tells him he's too impulsive. Too sure of himself. He knows his brother can tell she's getting under his skin. Some of his anger becomes more self-directed. He doesn't need Demetrius to tell him what to do. He can win this on his own.
It's not often that he gets surprised. The Academy preaches preparedness after all. But underneath the rage that's burned hotly in him since the Reaping, there's a hint of surprise. He stares at the scoreboard for a moment longer, if only to confirm what he already knows. She's not as weak as he believed her to be—or wants her to be. If he didn't hate her so much, he might actually be able to respect her in this. It's too bad he sees nothing but red. It's too bad that at this moment, he doesn't want to respect her—he'd rather wring her neck.
He grips the edge of the couch tightly, trying to control his desire to smash the vase beside him. This is just fucking perfect. She gets an 8. Some nobody from Nine gets a 9. Another nobody from Seven gets a 10. The same score as him. There's the surprise again, because he certainly didn't expect this. That just makes him clench his hand tighter. This was supposed to be his year. No, he thinks, it is. He'll do anything to make sure of it.
He knows it's coming. He's been coached through this enough times to know that Caesar won't be able to resist the question. Or rather, questions. First comes the one about his father and his brother. The urge to roll his eyes is on him fast. The urge to growl out his answer comes faster. He hates being compared to them. Loathes it, in fact. But he plays his part well. He knows he does. He can hear the crowd screeching in excitement. They love him. But he doesn't need their approval. In fact, he thinks he'd prefer it if he never saw one of these ridiculous, frivolous Capitol freaks again. The Academy has already done all it needed in order to assure their support, but he still wishes he didn't need to pay them any attention. They're a waste of time and energy. He should be training, he thinks with frustration, not entertaining a crowd of nobodies. But, well, he's also human. He smirks as their cheers grow louder.
But then she makes her way over to Caesar, and he drops the smirk in favor of a scowl. She's attractive, he'll admit that. He's not blind. But there are a lot of attractive girls—a handful of them on the stage right now, some even prettier—and he wants the same for all of them: death. It's a satisfying thing to imagine. She doesn't even flinch at the question. He anticipated this one too. He still wants to break something. But he remains stoic as she answers. He expects her response and he still wants to snap her neck.
For a moment, he doesn't think he can breathe. He's never experienced this—this kind of excitement. It rushes through every nerve in his body. It's the same for the adrenaline. He turns his eyes towards the clock. 40 seconds. His fingers stretch out, itching to grab something, and he leans forward. He was hoping the arena would be better—that the Cornucopia would be better. Not some giant hunk of ice. What do the Gamemakers expect them to do with this? He clenches his hands into fists, glaring at the poor excuse of a Cornucopia. If any of the outlying district rats were smart, they'd scatter as soon as the countdown ends. He smirks when the gong sounds. His first kill is easy. So is the one after that. After all, most of them aren't that smart.
The first few days in the arena aren't so bad, but it gets worse as the days pass. He's not weary of killing—not yet, anyway—he just hates the snow. It's taking longer than he'd like. It's been three days since they've seen another tribute, and he feels the anticipation swell inside him. It's just another thing his father used to criticize him for: impatience. His fingers itch to grab his sword and slice it through the nearest tribute. He refrains. Barely.
He hears two cannons sound, and he's elated. Finally. He assumes someone was stupid enough to break into their camp and get themselves killed. He isn't wrong, of course. But elation is quickly displaced to make room for the heated pressure building up inside of him. Tilver tells them what happened, and he can't believe it. He throws him against the wall of Cornucopia, because how fucking dumb do you have to be to let scum steal from you? Tilver makes a point of saying that she's injured, but he doesn't care. "That's what the stolen medicine is for, you idiot," he hisses at the boy from One. He doesn't understand how she managed to get away. How she managed to steal from them. Her of all people. He can't believe it.
Except, he can.
Un-fucking-believable. He glares at the sky, and he knows he's not the only one watching as the kid from Twelve's face fades. They're all watching because the first round is over. He's watching because she's still alive. He's tired, he thinks as he watches the hovercraft appear. Stop being weak, he thinks. He underestimated the arena at first, not realizing how physically taxing it would be. He's underestimated a lot of things, he internally snarls as he throws one last look at the sky. He doesn't know why he thinks it—she's going to cause problems for him. He just knows it. He still wants her dead, but he gets the feeling that it's going to be harder than he originally thought. Well, he always did like a challenge.
When he watches the recap, he finds it impossible to heed Demetrius' advice. He watches her kill the mutt, and then he watches her fight with the kid from her own district. He watches her kill him too, and he knows that he was right before—she's more competition than he gave her credit for. No, he can't follow Demetrius' advice. He turns his glare to her because she's doing it again—stealing his spotlight. But he should have listened to his brother, because soon enough, he's forced to shove all of the anger back inside and pretend like he's not hoping she'll drop dead on sight. If he believed in any sort of higher power, he'd tell them to go fuck themselves.
The training center gives him two revelations, though he's using that term loosely. First, without the recap as proof, he has trouble understanding how she managed to survive. She's certainly no Girl on Fire. Second, she's really fucking great at getting under his skin. He grabs a sword, slicing through the dummy with ease. Later, he feels guilty for imagining her face, but in that moment, he's furious. Mainly because he can't pinpoint what it is about her that gets to him. She's like a sharp pain at the base of his skull: painful, impossible to get rid of, and as much as he hates to admit it, worrisome. They don't stand much of chance as a team. He eyes Mace and Nerissa across the room. It's a good thing he doesn't need anyone's help to win.
He begins to wish that there wasn't a force field around the roof. It's the only thing stopping him from throwing her over the edge. He's seething, but he can see that she is too. He sees the way her spine stiffens, how she crosses her arms over her chest. It brings him some satisfaction, but not as much as he expects. She has no idea what she's talking about. This is why they're scum, he thinks. But when she practically laughs at the prospect of glory in the Games, when she spits the word honor like it's physically painful to say, he feels a flicker of something he forces himself to ignore. Instead, he growls out a response, uses whatever words he thinks will hurt her the most. She will not ruin this for him.
She accepts the alliance with less trouble than he expects. He knows he's just looking for a fight though, because whatever he may think of her, he knows she's not stupid. She knows there's no way out of this alliance save for a coffin. It's a shame. He really was hoping she'd put up more of a fight. His satisfaction lasts no more than a few hours, because he's already unhappy with the arena. And he really fucking hates Mace. He thinks—no, he knows—that if he could only kill one of them, he'd be forced to let 12 go. The fact that the place is filled with poison reinforces the decision. He feels heat crawl through his skin that has nothing to do with the temperature in the arena, but he manages to keep his face neutral as she turns her smirk to the group. He hates not having the upper hand, and he doesn't know why, but he believes her about the poison. Figures this would be her advantage. Fucking survival skills.
He doesn't understand it. Why isn't this arena as fun as the first? Every word uttered by his alliance grates on his nerves, every branch he cuts away causes his anger to build. He tries to focus, for once heeding Demetrius' words. No, he really doesn't understand why this time is so different. He doesn't let himself search for the answer.
She has the nerve to play dumb, and he almost strikes her right then. How could she let her get away?
She fights back just like he expects her too, and he enjoys it despite how angry he is, because this is the type of anger he is used to. He doesn't want to analyze the new anger he's beginning to feel. So instead, he tells her it will come back to bite her. Turns out it comes back to bite him.
He almost slips up the second night. If she'd just gone to sleep like she was supposed to, it wouldn't have happened. He doesn't mean to bring it up. He doesn't even want to think about what connects them. He also doesn't want to feel bad about it, so he pretends he doesn't. He wonders why he feels bad at all.
He doesn't even pretend to entertain Mace's lewd comments or his suggestive remarks. He may be confused by the source of some of his anger but not this. He thinks of his sister going into the Games, or even back home in Two, and some bastard acting like this towards her. He thinks of running Mace through with his sword.
She doesn't have the weapons skills he wishes she had, but he can't pretend that she's not useful. He doesn't like having to admit that, so he doesn't say it out loud.
When he wakes up to maggots—fucking maggots—burrowing their way into his skin, he decides that yes, he really is beginning to hate this place.
When he finds her after the flash flood, he thinks that maybe there is some higher power and that she must owe them a fuck-ton, because once again, she's managed to survive. He can't find it in himself to complain. If he's being honest, he's just glad to be alive. But that makes him feel weak, and so he channels all of his energy into moving forward. When she tells him Hera is dead, he doesn't care. Or he pretends he doesn't. But he thinks of how she had been friends with Clove, and then he's thinking of Clove and her bashed-in skull, and then he's angry and he's tired. The second part comes as a surprise. He doesn't know what's wrong with him, so he tells himself that it's just the physical strain. He convinces himself that that's the truth.
When he kills Tilver, he feels the familiar power of rage. He tries to hold onto the normalcy of it. But then, it's not really what he remembers. It doesn't make him feel better, and he didn't really kill Tilver. He leaves him lying there, choking on his own blood. She's the one who finishes him off. Failure, he tells himself. He can already imagine everyone in his district thinking the same thing. Failure.
She's scared of him, he realizes. It's the first time he believes it to be completely true. But he also sees the horror on her face, and it makes something stir inside him. If the Games are good for anything, he thinks it's teaching him to ignore things.
The more time he spends with her, the more he becomes convinced that she takes pleasure in contradicting him. Sometimes it makes him so angry that he wants to knock her out just so she'll shut up. Other times it's fine. He likes contradicting her too.
Between maggots, giant bats, and flying squirrels, he thinks it's safe to admit that he really hates this place.
He hates to admit it, but the more useful she becomes, the more curious he gets. He ignores his curiosity for days because he knows better than to ask personal questions. It's been drilled into his head for years. But day after day, he watches her slice up an animal, break its body, and rip out its organs like it's normal, and he slips up. He starts to wonder if it is normal for her. He asks her one day in a moment of weakness, and he can practically hear his brother and his father, Brutus and Enobaria, and Lyme, and every teacher he's ever had, telling him to shut up. He tells them to get the fuck out of his head.
They get separated, but he doesn't see her face in the sky, and he knows that she's managed to escape death once again. He doesn't get it. He's trained his whole life for this. She worked in a butcher shop. He was meant to win. She wasn't. He wonders why he feels like he's losing.
Between maggots, giant bats, flying squirrels, spider mutts, and spontaneous fire pits, he thinks it's safe to admit that he really fucking hates this place.
Pain is nothing new to him. He's been injured in training plenty of times. The wound in his side is worse than any of those times, but that isn't what bothers him. He's alive, that's what bothers him. He smells like charcoal, and he stares at her, and he knows why. He just doesn't understand.
He doesn't understand, but he's grateful. So he calls her by her real name. It feels weird coming out of his mouth, but then again, everything about him feels weird in that moment. She's quick to defend herself like always, but he doesn't care about her reasoning. He barely hears it over the questions in his head. He asks the one he thinks is most important, and he gets angry at her avoidance. She hates him. He knows this. Except she denies it, and he hates how he feels in that moment. She doesn't hate him. He can't even look her in eye, because he believes her. He thinks maybe he doesn't hate her either.
The more he learns about her time alone in the arena, the more bewildered he becomes. He thinks she flip-flops between overly cautious and absolutely reckless more than anyone he's ever met or seen in the Games. He's a little bitter at how easy it seems for her. He isn't blind though. He can see the toll it's taking on her. She wasn't mentally prepared for this. But there are other moments too, when he thinks that maybe he respects her a little—he'd deny it, of course. She tells him about the berries and the lying, and it's one of those moments. She's less hostile, but then again, so is he. He thinks that maybe he doesn't mind that so much. He decides that she's not so bad to be partnered with.
He hates to admit it, but the more he respects her, the more curious he gets. He ignores his curiosity for days because he still knows better than to ask personal questions. It's been drilled into his head for years, and he's already messed up once. But he watches her slice up an animal, break its body, and rip out its organs like it's normal, and he slips up again. He doesn't just wonder if it's normal for her. No, worse, he starts to wonder why. He asks her one day in a moment of weakness, and he pushes away what he's been taught before it can get to him. But then she gives him an answer. Money, he hears, and he doesn't know why that bothers him. He doesn't want it to bother him. He drops the subject and walks away.
He watches her sometimes, though he's not really sure why. He doesn't feel threatened by her, not really. He settles on the fact that she saved him. He decides that he feels like he owes her. He doesn't let himself consider the idea that he could be worried about her safety.
It tears through him in a way he doesn't expect—her scream. He doesn't even know how he knows it belongs to her. He just does. He watches as she's slammed against a tree, and he can already see the life slipping out of her, and he loses it. He doesn't recall much of the fight later. All he remembers is fire pulsing in his veins and the echo of her scream. He feels no remorse for killing the boy from Seven, not after he pulls her from the ground and feels the warm blood dripping from her skull. It reminds him too much of Clove, and he hates to admit it, but he feels something close to panic. He can't get her to wake up, and he knows that it's definitely panic that makes him reach out to break her finger. She opens her eyes, and he briefly wonders what the Games have done to him, because he knows in that moment that he doesn't want her to die.
He knows he's gone off the deep-end in terms of training. He talks to her too much. He acts concerned too often. He is concerned too often. And even though he'd deny it, he actually sort of enjoys talking to her. He chalks it up to boredom, though he hears his brain whisper the word liar over and over. She's entertaining, that's all. Even with her head all messed up, she fights him back. But like always, his amusement gives way to something else. This time it's confusion. She tells him that she used to be afraid of him, and all he hears is the past tense. He doesn't know why, but it's almost a relief to him, and not for any reason it should be. He doesn't know why he doesn't want her to be afraid of him. He still doesn't understand her.
He remembers what they told him after he was selected to volunteer. He remembers how they praised him. Physically superior. Gifted. Mentally capable. Born for this. He starts to think that exhausted should be added to that list because that's how he feels both physically and mentally. He doesn't want to feel that way though, and he tries to convince himself that he doesn't. He fails, and for the first time, he doesn't care about that. He feels the gashes in his side with every movement, letting him know just how close he'd come to dying. He keeps hearing her scream. He keeps imagining her skull bashed in just like Clove's. He keeps imagining her death. He keeps imagining his.
The announcement comes and he waits for it: Excitement. Elation. Pride. It doesn't come. He doesn't feel any of those things. She's bleeding. Everywhere. He doesn't know if she'll make it. There's too much blood. He doesn't feel much of anything. Except for fear. He feels it, though, later he tries to convince himself otherwise. Later, as he sits in a sterile hospital room, he thinks about the lack of movement he felt as he pressed his fingers against her neck. He thinks about how he felt as they boarded the hovercraft, and they pulled her into a room with windows that he couldn't see through. He thinks about how he didn't want to think about her being dead.
They do everything they can to make him look like he did before the Games. But he sees the scars on his side before they get to them, and he doesn't know why, not until later, but he tells them to leave them. He threatens them until they listen.
He's in the hospital for almost a week before they release him. He's told he looks good as new. He doesn't feel good as new though. He feels wrong, and he wants to feel angry about that, but even that feels wrong—dull. He tries to distract himself. He wonders what's going on with her. They tell him she's alive, that she's being treated, but he hears nothing else. He can't bring himself to ask for more information because he doesn't know why he wants to know. He doesn't want to care. He watches footage of the Games, sees what she did in the arena without him. He doesn't want to care. He waits another two weeks.
He still doesn't want to care. But he does. So he waits for her. He feels stupid standing in the lobby, but it doesn't even cross his mind to leave. She looks good as new too. Physically, at least. Her face tells a different story. It's becoming a habit for them, he thinks—being on the same page. She's wearing the clothes from the arena, and the anger inside of him becomes a little less dulled. He tells her he's fine even though he knows it's a lie. She tells him the truth. He makes sure to call her by her real name when he leaves.
His brother is uneasy. He can tell. He just doesn't know why. But he's uneasy too as they dress him up in a suit and send him off to the recap. It feels strangely familiar, like when they were entering the arena. The only difference is how he feels. He can't bring himself to be honest about that, but she can. He's never been good with emotion, and he doesn't think now is a good time to start. He focuses on how she looks instead, because that is safe territory. He sees her eyes widen when she breaks eye contact, and there it is again—the concern. He lets it slide though.
It's harder than he expects—plastering a smile on his face. He doesn't know why it comes to his mind, but he wonders if this is how she's felt the entire time. What is wrong with me, he thinks. He already knows the answer. He thinks that maybe it's what's wrong with her too.
But he is only more confused about her when the recap ends, because when he first saw her, nothing about her screamed strong. The recap—no, his own personal experience tells him otherwise. No, he definitely doesn't hate her, he decides.
When Snow makes his way towards them, his jaw clenches involuntarily and he has to stop his fingers from curling into a fist. He's never given the President much thought. He's never given anything past the Games much either. He thinks that he should have because when he sees her pale beside him, when Snow places the crown on his head, he feels his stomach twist in a way it never has. He feels it in his entire body, and he gets the distinct feeling that somehow, he's made a mistake.
He's not sure why he does it, but he spends the entire night replaying the crowning in his head. He even watches it on T.V. a few times. Maybe he's trying to convince himself that he's being suspicious for no reason. Maybe he's trying to figure out what he missed because every viewing shows him the same thing. She pales as her smile slips. It's back in place less than a second later, but it's like she's made of stone. He feels the uneasiness swirl again, but this time it's accompanied by something else. He can't pinpoint it at first, because it's not something he's felt very often. But he thinks of a time he found Max with a black eye that he didn't get from training, and how he made sure the kid who gave him it had one to match. He doesn't know how they've gotten here. For what feels like the hundredth time, he wonders what's wrong with him.
When she calls them friends, he's doesn't know what to do. He doesn't do friends, not really. He has a few back home, Cassian and Hadrian and Marcus. He even had Clove once. But he knows those aren't the same. The Games have made sure of that. But for whatever reason, he thinks he's glad she said it. He thinks that maybe he agrees with her.
She hugs him, and even though she's small, he stumbles back. But his arms start working before his brain does, because he hugs her back. But then she whispers into his ear, and for a minute, he is frozen where he stands. His heart starts up again, faster than normal. He doesn't know what Snow is angry about. He has never been on this side of things. But he tells her to take care, and he means it. He can still remember a time when he wanted to snap her neck—he's not sure when he decided he'd rather protect her.