Cato made his first kill when he was barely old enough to ride his bicycle. It was a baby bird, fallen from it's nest. He remembered standing over it, watching as it flapped it's miniscule wings and cawed desperately for it's mother. Rage took hold of him, causing his small fists to shake. No matter how many times he had called for his mother, she never came back. So he killed it.
When he met the Clove for the first time, he brushed her off, threatening to stomp her like the little bug she was. That rewarded him with a quick kick to the stomach with her steel-toed boots and a snarled "Watch your back." Needless to say, they became quick friends.
Cato soon discovered that there was much more to Clove than anyone assumed. She enjoyed painting, she enjoyed dancing, claiming it helped with her flexibility. Her mother, a past victor herself, was always gone and in the Capitol, leaving Clove to be raised by her father, a freight train of a man with no outward emotion.
Clove also had a fucked up life, but Cato didn't know about it until he saw for himself.
They had stayed late that night to work one-on-one with the survival trainer. By the time they were finished, the sun had descended beneath the clouds, and the streets of District Two were dark once more. Cato offered to walk her home. She told him to fuck off. Like always, he didn't listen.
A comfortable silence settled over the two as they made their way back to Clove's house. They had been training for years now, knowing each other like the back of their hands. It was almost like she was his missing puzzle piece. Although he'd never admit it to her, his life had become slightly bearable when they were introduced. For once he wasn't haunted with his painful past. For once he could focus on his future.
When her house came into view, Clove paled slightly, hissing at him to go home, she would be fine from here, but Cato insisted on walking her all the way; half-curiosity and half-stubbornness prompting him to keep going. With a frustrated sigh, Clove kept her pace, suddenly less eager to get home than before.
They approached the front steps of her house in Victor's Village a few moments later. Waiting for her outside on the porch was her father, a beer in his left hand and a cigarette in his right. Disgust laced his voice as he shot questions at her like bullets, until he stood up, towering over her, and Cato knew what the man was going to do before he did it.
Cato nearly rose his number of kills that night.
Clove avoided him like wildfire, going so far to even request a new training partner. Cato tried to talk to her, to explain, but she wouldn't have it. Eventually, when she'd had enough, she screamed at him to leave her alone, that she could take care of herself.
When she turned to leave, Cato could have sworn he heard the sound of her breaking.
The next time they spoke was the night before the reaping of the 74th Hunger Games, when she showed up at his door, dressed in simple night attire, her hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. Her face was about as unguarded as he'd ever seen it.
He stood in a stunned silence, eyeing her wearily. Suddenly, without warning, Clove blurted out an apology.
It was the strangest thing he'd ever heard.
They talked until the early hours of the morning, both of them knowing what tomorrow would bring. Both had come out on top. Both were volunteering; him at eighteen, her at seventeen. Neither were afraid, just a little wistful. When they look back on the time they spent together, they realized they had spent it all wrong.
As the sun peaked over the horizon, Clove let out a small sigh and leaned back against his wall, sweet sadness clouding her eyes. She glanced at him and smiled bitterly. "Sometimes the world can be a horrible place, Cato," he remembered her saying. "But, then again, it's filled with horrible people."
He would never forget that night.
The days came and went, each hour ticking closer to the death match they've been preparing for their whole lives, and, once again, they did not speak to each other. The pair had trained together, bled together, sweat together, but when it came down to it, they weren't prepared to die together. So, naturally, they lived in ignorant bliss, each pushing themselves further than ever before, cramming survival knowledge and useful information into their heads until it hurt.
The Careers that year had been deemed unstoppable by various Capitol magazines that their escorts had shown to them with joy. Raking in the sponsor money had never been easier.
Until, however, the Star-Crossed Lovers of District Twelve were introduced, stealing the attention as well as the valuable sponsors. To say they were enraged would be an understatement. Losing would be bad enough, but losing because the Capitol fell in love with two kids who faked a romance would be even worse.
Cato's confidence was chipping, slowly but surely. Suddenly his eyes were opened, and he realized that maybe he wasn't as invincible as he had thought himself to be.
He didn't remember the bloodbath. Everything happened so fast, and finally he could kill with no consequences. Later on Glimmer told him with a snarl of delight that he killed so viciously, so mercilessly, the crowd ate it up.
Cato didn't quite know how to feel about that.
Tributes were slowly dwindling. The once vicious Career Pack that had everything was down to two: Cato and Clove.
A part of him had hoped she'd be taken out early, to save him from having to put an end to her. The other part of him wanted it to come down to the two of them. When he really thought about it, no one else had the right to put an end to Clove.
As precious minutes ticked away, he realized just how little time they had left in this arena together.
Then, the announcement came.
It was a blessing and a curse.
The rule change wasn't for them. They knew that. She stewed. He celebrated in silence.
When they announced the Feast, everything began to unravel. They fought about who would go for hours on end, until Clove, in a rage, stormed off, shouting at Cato to not bother following her. He bit back a sigh and shut his eyes.
He had no idea what the next day would bring.
Too far.
He knew it as soon as Clove shouted his name.
He was too far.
She was dead within minutes, her last word ringing with his ears almost as loud as the canon.
"Cato!"
He was too late.
Everything hurt.
Girl on Fire stared into his eyes, and he thought he could see a hint of pity mixing in with the raw hatred for what he'd done, what he was doing. Lover Boy was struggling under his iron grip, but Cato knew there was no way for him to get out. After all, he'd been doing this headlock for years and years.
He was slowly losing his mind. He'd come to that conclusion a few days back, after he killed District Eleven. Nothing was exhilarating for him. Was Clove's life worth these stupid Games? Were anyone's?
Cato felt Peeta slowly trace an X on the back of his hand, but everything else was too numb to register what he was doing. He was actually shocked as the arrow imbedded itself into his hand. All of his careful planning, all of the years of training… they were for nothing.
The rest was a blur.
Dead. He was dead from the minute he decided to be a tribute. Dead from the second he took his first steps into the training center. Dead the minute his parents decided they wanted a little victor for a son. He was dead the minute he was born.
Was it worth it?
The world was a horrible place; but then again, they were horrible people.
Cato welcomed the arrow to his head.