Summary: Cato seems to be a ruthless killing machine, but what is really going on inside his head when he leaps forward to volunteer for the games? Was he crazy all along, or did the arena slowly change him? And is his lethal female counterpart, Clove, just an ally- or something more?
I had waited such a long time for this day.
The sun was high in the sky above the square where groups of kids huddled together by the masses, youngest to the front. I stood in the very back, along with some of the other largest eighteen-year-old boys as we sized each other up.
This year is my year.
I would have competition, of course, but I had an advantage to get me closer to the prize. I had not only my age to rely on, but I had a story. Something the Capitol could bank on, should they run out of things to gossip about for this year's tributes. I would never forget the 67th Hunger Games, and no one else would either, once I was through with them.
"Hey, good luck," said Bromley, my best friend. He winked at his girlfriend, Clarissa, who stood across the way in the large group of girls. All of us, children ready to be reaped. "May the odds be ever in your fav—"
"Oh shut up," I said briskly. "I don't need your damn 'odds.' I've waited too long for this."
Bromley smirked as the mentors and chaperones made their way to their seats. I recognized Brutus, the large, hulking man who would be my mentor. His eyes scanned the crowd, as if he was strategizing the best way to survive. I knew we would make a great team.
Mayor Larks walks forward and begins to read the dry history of Panem and District 2 that I have been forced to listen to since I was twelve years old. Then he reads our list of victors, 19 male and 14 female. He finishes with, "And of course, we hope that this year, we may add another name to that list."
Me, I think desperately. It will be me.
Our chaperone, a ridiculously flamboyant man named Peridot with hair in a long, sleek lime-colored ponytail and silver tattoos adorning his face, steps forward to reach into the girls' reaping ball. He digs through thousands of slips of paper, determining who will be the next girl to die from the district. Because she won't be the victor. It will be me.
He gets a grip on a slip of paper. You can hear all the girls sigh as he unfolds it and reads, "Clove Reddenfield!"
Everyone looks around madly, trying to find the one who was picked. Clove Reddenfield makes her way to the podium. I recognize her face vaguely, perhaps I have seen her around the town once in a while. She is tall, thin, and pale, and dressed in a siren red frock. Her dark hair is brushed down her back, which is straight as a pole. She doesn't look afraid, rather, she looks challenging. Like she is already hunting for her next victim. She may be impressive, but not intimidating.
Peridot congratulates her and then migrates to the large glass ball full of boys' names. He shuffles around searching for what could be one of my seven slips of paper. He draws one out, unfolds it, and reads, "James Hackett!"
My back stiffens as I watch James make his way to the podium. He is tiny. Weak. Pathetic. He looks to be about twelve years old. He is, in the split second I have to evaluate him, a sad excuse for a tribute.
"ME!" I yell. "I volunteer!" I push my way, none too gently, past all the other boys milling around, past all the obstructions in my path. I reach the front of the crowd and the twelve year olds gaze at me in what I can only describe as awe, including James.
Peridot looks pleased. After all, no one likes it when a twelve-year-old is chosen. "Very well! Any other volunteers?"
He doesn't bother to scan the crowd long. "Alright then, what's your name, son?"
"Cato," I say proudly. "Cato Stelle."
I climb the stairs and take my place next to Clove. She looks at me, one eyebrow raised, then tosses her glossy dark hair. She has confidence enough, and could make a valuable ally, but she is considerably smaller than me. I could keep her around long enough and then strangle her pretty little neck with one hand. Brutus is smirking behind me. He always likes the eager ones. Little James scoots back to his place among the other children. Cowardly little thing. I probably did him a favor.
There are usually more volunteers, but no one steps up. Good. They all knew I wanted this. Larks reads the Treaty of Treason, and I step forward to shake Clove's hand, staring her dead in the eye. She doesn't even wince as I crush her hand, but I'm not afraid of her, no matter how tough she is. As the anthem plays, I can think of only one thing:
This year is my year.