Shards Of Advice
Author's Note: This is my first time writing Cato, but I really liked his character, so I wanted to give it a try. Hopefully I managed to portray him decently, but I'd really appreciate thoughts on this.
Disclaimer: Unless this is a dream, I don't own Hunger Games or any of its plots, characters, etc.
Beta: Emma (Pen-name: SimpleTune). Thanks so much for your help with this piece!
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As you stand on the launch plate, you remember what your dad had said, timer ticking down as your eyes try to take in everything too fast. The faster you kill them, the faster you win. You're there to win, Cato. Some of the tributes turn towards the woods that surround you, but they're cowards because Get into it fast; don't ever run, got it? You take them all out, I don't care how.
There's a pile of supplies; backpacks, water bottles, knives all scattered and you grin because If you ever get in the games, find a weapon and go for it, boy. And you do; you push forward as the gong goes off, just like in training back home. You've practiced it before, been through the motions of pushing off the plate and sprinting forwards, only this time there's no glaring man yelling at you to go faster, work harder, why can't you just do it right for once? He's not there, only there's just the noise of the gong still ringing in your ears as you run hard for the first thing you see, a small black knife laying in the dirt.
You pick it up and lunge, doesn't matter at whom, slice through the neck and then into the stomach, twisting until the girl on the other side of the blade falls. You pull it out and move on, find another and pull the spear from his hands after, not stopping to clean the blood from the knife as you stick it quickly into your belt. Over and over, kill each one you see, because Don't even hesitate, Cato. So you don't.
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You remember what your trainers had said as you look at the wreckage of what was your food and weapons, your chances of survival scattered in burnt clumps on the ground. Never surrender the upper hand. You have an advantage, keep it.
But it's gone now, you can't keep what you've already lost; your supplies are destroyed, and you're dead now, aren't you? You survey the destruction, kicking aside fragments of containers and blown-up crates, looking for your sanity. Don't ever lose control, Cato. But how can you control anything when you're empty-handed, your chances of winning falling, falling, soon they'll hit the ground and shatter.
You want to stop, make it stop, do something because since when were you this useless? What are your trainers thinking, back in District Two? Thinking, "There go our chances; didn't we teach him anything?" It's a feeling you're not used to, this sensation of- of- (not "helplessness," you won't let yourself think that) of disadvantage, because isn't that the same as having no advantage at all? And this was never supposed to happen, never factored into your plans that everything might collapse. The training, the planning, everything's suddenly turned against you, because where were the preparations for this? When did the trainers at home tell you what to do when things go wrong; when did your dad give you crisis advice more useful than "At least if you don't become a Victor, you won't be the one who has to live with the shame of it"?
But he's right, of course he's right, and what happened to your sense of district pride? You're supposed to want this; you always have. You volunteered to show you could win, to represent your district (because that's what the best are supposed to do, aren't they?) and, yeah, of course you want this.
But now it's a hundred miles further away and it's hard to keep running towards the finish line when you're being pulled backwards into the wreckage that you don't want to see, but how can you avoid what's all around you?
You're shouting now because that hurts so much less than thinking logically. (And this isn't hurt, not really; there's no blood so this has to be something different.) It doesn't feel better, but it feels right, so you do it anyways, not even sure who you're angry at any more but you just want to be angry at something.
And there's still District Three, standing there watching. And what was he doing, how could he let this happen, doesn't he know what he's cost you? He was supposed to stand guard, but now you'll lose; you're done and you're a waste of your district's tribute slot. You don't even want to consider what this must look like, what people will think, seeing you robbed of everything you'd gotten in the arena.
In the space of two seconds he's falling from where you locked him beneath your arm, neck twisted to the side, and you hear the crack just before the cannon, the bones pushed further through his skin by the impact with the ground. Never lose control. You already have.
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You remember what your mentor had said back in the Capitol, as you kneel by her body. Don't trust them, anyone in the arena, no matter how much you want to. But she's your district partner, and you're on the same team now, aren't you? The rules changed because of Twelve but they apply to you and Clove too, and working together, you've doubled your chances of going home.
It's not how it had started, your alliance in the arena. It was glares as you shook hands and hardly-veiled threats on the train as you tried to search for any memories you had of her from training back home, hoping her weaknesses would be less subtle in hindsight.
But you talked too; grudgingly at first because you knew you'd have to work together before you could try to stab one another, and might as well get to know the girl if you planned to be allies, even if only briefly. And she'd talked too, matching your words and the venom in them, the self-assurance that you couldn't believe at first, because didn't she know who she was competing with? She's good, you'll acknowledge it (but not to her), but you're better, and that's what matters.
And once you got in the arena, you still didn't trust her, Everyone'll try to kill you, but that's okay because you'll be trying to kill them too. But you needed her and she needed you, that's what your super-alliance was for. You watched her and she watched you too, but you wouldn't have killed her, not with so many people she could eliminate for you. And there was nothing wrong with working together, not really, because Allies aren't friends; don't forget that.
And you'd been trained, you knew better than to consider anyone a friend in the arena, to see their lives as more than an expendable method of keeping yours. Yet you can't help but enjoy her wit sometimes, after it'd become just the two of you and you find yourself not minding the additional person there. You're not supposed to care who you have to kill, but you find yourself thinking about it sometimes, having to stick the sword in her stomach when she's not prepared and since when did you feel the phantom scar of pain that wouldn't be yours anyways? It's different, somehow, when it's someone you've talked to, seen training for years and teamed up with, even with the other tributes of your alliance dead. You may not be "in love" like Fire Girl and her boyfriend (does she know that you cut him, that he's probably bleeding out and leaving a pale-white carcass on the arena floor?) and you're not best friends either, like Katniss was with the district eleven girl, but, okay, so maybe you don't mind having someone else there that you can think of as maybe nearly as skilled as you.
So when they changed the rules, you might as well already have been crowned, right? You could win and so could Clove and maybe, just this once, it was okay to be friends with another tribute because you wouldn't have to kill her anymore, wouldn't have to feel this death that's somehow worse now. She'd rolled her eyes at you, "Looks like I don't have to finish you off, then," but you'd seen her smile too, and so what; why shouldn't she? Because you didn't have to be paranoid anymore, didn't have to think "Maybe I should do it now" or "How can I do it?" or "I should've just killed her at the beginning." And finally you could stop thinking of her as an opponent and it felt so good to just have someone else trying to win with you.
But not now, not anymore, because her skull's dented and she's gasping, trying too hard to take in breaths and Don't forget that this isn't a team sport, Cato. It was, though, when you were helping each other. Maybe not at first, but the rules have changed now, and it's so much easier to stay alive when there's someone who cares whether or not you do.
She chokes on her own air that's stuck somewhere in her lungs and you're talking to her, babbling maybe, but for once you don't think about how it'll look to your sponsors, your dad, your whole district watching you, because half your team's gone.
But that's what they want, isn't it? They want to see you here, everyone in the Capitol, want to see her, everyone, dead. To see you dead. That's what happens in the Games, isn't it? And you've always known, it's always made sense, but for some reason things look different from the other side of the screen, and the resolution's becoming clearer than you wanted it to be. You're here to win, still here to win, but now you can't help but wonder if that's all you're here to do; after all, wasn't Clove too?
It's what they'd told you back home; fight for fame, for glory, to bring pride to your district. It's what you were trained for, made for, and you'd embraced your purpose, looked forward to it. Somehow looked forward to this.
In the arena, you're always alone. Maybe you have been for a long time.
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As you feel the teeth, the claws of the mutts, you remember what you had said on top of the cornucopia. Go on, shoot. And we both go down and you win. Except it's just you now; and it's always has been you, really. You just didn't realize it, didn't see that you were playing the same game as everyone else. I'm dead anyway. I always was, right? You can feel your skin being broken into, the side of your face cut open and ripped apart as they shove one another aside to get to you.
Maybe you should fight. That's what you would have said before, isn't it? Except maybe you're tired of fighting, maybe you're finished. I can still do this. I can still do this. And there's got to be a point when you stop lying, but if there is, you don't know if you've reached it yet, nor if you ever will.
But things are all too fast now. They always have been, and you can't keep up anymore, can't control it this time. It's evident in every slice on your body, every choking sound you try to bite back out of habit. And how must that look in District Two, your acting this way, and who knew trying not to look like a coward was this hard? Your skin splits over and over, wounds opening where you swore they already were until they've got to be cutting deeper into each other, scarring your wounds in a way you didn't think was possible. You can tolerate pain, but like this, never stopping, is another feeling entirely, and if there's one thing you know, it's that between your loss and your death, you're not what was expected when you were chosen to compete. They wanted a Victor and this is what you're delivering instead. That's the only thing I know how to do, bringing pride to my district. Not that it matters. But you already knew that in the arena, you're always alone.