DISCLAMIER: I do not own the Hunger Games or any of its characters. All the rights belong to Suzanne Collins
Chapter 1:
I am roused from a sleep by a loud noise, a noise whose source is not much of a mystery. I ball my hand into a fist, and bring it down hard and fast on the alarm clock resting on my bedside table, and I grin as the incessant beeping is replaced by a shattering sound, and that, too, is soon replaced by the sound of little pieces of metal clanging against wood. I open my eye a little and see that I have damaged the clock beyond repair, but I do not care. I will have a new one the next time I come home. For the next time I return home, it will be a different house, a grand one, residing in the prestigious Victor's Village. Yes, this year is my year. This is the year I volunteer.
This year is the year I win the Hunger Games.
My grin widens, and I swing my legs off the mattress, my feet sinking into the carpeting below. I stretch my arms out in front of me, and quickly realize how stiff my neck is. In response, I bring my left hand to my chin, the other to the side of my head. I turn my head, slowly, and am satisfied at the series of cracking noises accompanied by the relief of tension. I rise from my seat on the bed and cross my room, my destination being the closet opposite my bed.
I fling the doors open, not even flinching as the doors smash loudly against the wall and make an attempt to hit me as they bounce back. I rifle through my closet to find something to wear. Really, I could wear anything from dress shirts to basic cotton t-shirts or khakis to athletic shorts. I have always had a dislike to fancy clothes, and I know my mom would reprimand me even in her delusional state if I went to the Reaping in clothes I usually wear to training, so I try to find something slightly dressy that looks basic, so my mother is pleased when she inspects me, but it looks as if I just didn't care for the people who look upon me from a distance. I grab simple blue dress pants, because they will pass for jeans, and a solid black t-shirt. I quickly pull the shirt over my head and put on the pants and some sneakers before I exit my bedroom.
The long, peach colored hallway stretches from my room to the large staircase that spirals from the easternmost wall to the edge of our seating area. My brother's room as well as my mother's room are located along this hall, my mother's nearest the stairs. I begin my journey to the kitchen, traveling at a leisurely pace, until I hear light footsteps approaching from my side, and I reflexively raise my arm to block the blow I instinctively realized was coming.
"Oof!" a high pitched voice cries, and I turn to see a young boy laying on the ground, a look of pure hate and annoyance on his face. "Hey Bryan," I greet, my tone positively void of emotion, but if anything it was completely bored. "How'd you know?" Bryan whines, totally betraying his resolution to get people to believe he was really and truly his actual age: 9. "You were very loud. You need to learn to be stealthy." "Well, you're not stealthy!" Bryan accuses, arms crossed over his chest in an angry manner. "True," I admit, "But I'm big, so I can still take people down without the element of surprise." I start to walk down the hall once more, when I hear Bryan call after me, "Well, thanks for that!" I turn and nod at the boy who could pass for 6 years old, smirk on my face.
I thunder down the hardwood stairs, and swing into the seating area, which is complete with several couches, chairs, side tables, a fireplace, and, hanging above the aforementioned fireplace, a large, flat-screen television.
I remember watching the Hunger Games on this television in years past. I remember seeing 24 kids, a boy and a girl from each district, fght until only one is left standing while my mother lying on the couch, my brother placing bets of little value on what tributes scared him the most, my older sister calling her friends to gush about the most attractive tribute. But there was never a fire in the grand fireplace. We used to, back in Victor's Village, but that was something my father did... and mother prohibited anyone else doing so after he passed. Out of respect or something, I wouldn't really know. Respect is really something I do not have, because my mother said she had gained respect for my father because all he had done for her and helped her through, something I would not appreciate. I can do it all myself, and I do not need or want any help from anyone.
I walk through my home, cutting through my dining room before bursting into my kitchen. I grab a piece of bread to toast from the walnut wooded cupboards, and cram it into the high speed toaster. I look to the stove to see the time, and just can see 8:07 being displayed in neon on the stovetop. I curse under my breath, because I needed to meet Ashen and Brad in a minute, or 3 to be exact, and I can't exactly just leave my mother all alone with my 9 year old brother to take care of her without preparing him and informing her. I sigh, and run a hand through my blonde hair, spiked up in the front, and immediately hurry back to the base of the steps, soon after beginning my quick ascent.
"Ma, you all set?" I ask her tentatively through the door. "Yes, yes. Of course." comes a less than steady response. I push the door open, and my eyes immediately land on the frail, bony figure that is Alexandra King.
My mother married my father years ago, a year after he won the 53rd Games. She used to be elegant and rosy, always cheery, and she somehow shined even brighter with her husband by her side. But somehow, my father took all the light with him when he passed 6 years back, leaving us with a hollow shell of a woman. My mother has fallen gravely ill, and I tell no one. I say to everyone that I'm volunteering because I know I can win, and I don't want to have to wait; but truth is I can't wait. I need to get the money to save my mother soon because I doubt she will even live out the summer.
"Mom?" I whisper, looking into her glazed over eyes. The usual dull brown color gets a new spark, her whole personality becoming as animated as her eyes. I'm surprised beyond words. What... what just happened? My mother smiles, years of aging due to stress being erased, and she murmurs, "Jacob!" I'm taken aback. "Jacob...?" I question. My mother struggles to get up, reaching her arms out towards me. Then it hits me. Jacob King, my father. "No ma, it's me, Cato." My mother is still struggling towards me, murmuring, "Jake, oh Jake! I've waited so long for you to come! Or, have I come to you? Oh Jake, tell me, is my suffering over?" "Dammit, ma! I'm not Jake! My name is Cato, I'm your son!" I shout, but my mother only titters, "Oh Jake, how I've missed you!"
My blood boils for no reason I can place, but with every word my mother says I get angrier. I consider screaming again, but decide against it, so instead I turn on my heel and stalk out the door, trying desperately to ignore my mother's desperate shrieks, "No! Jake! You can't leave me! Not again! Jake!"
I stomp down the stairs, and at the landing come face to face with a portrait of my family. I ball my hand into a fist and punch it straight into the glass, and let it shatter over my hand. I shake my hand, dripping with blood, before I storm out my front door, slamming it behind me.
I emerge into the street, shocked slightly by the cold, but am not willing to let anyone know. I live in the upper class, a place for people who are related to now passed victor's and just plain rich people. I make my way down the sidewalk, because even though it is early and a holiday as important the Reaping, cars are already crowding the streets. Yes, we have cars. Only the rich, inner city folks though, it is not so common in the middle class, and completely absent in the poor areas like 59th Street. It's almost laughable how poor and unfortunate the gutter rats are, in fact, my best friends and I have often had a laugh over them when we hear about some outbreak of some contagious disease that blows through the 59th Street area that never contaminated even the lower sections of the middle class. But then we see some of the people who died because of it, sometimes 3 year old, starving children or withering widows who appear so desperate for their life to end, and, though none of us acknowledge any feeling of remorse, we do not find it all that funny anymore.
I run towards downtown, knowing I'm to meet Brad and Ashen just outside of Victor's Village, where they both live. The side walks too are becoming crowded, but I just push through the crowd, using my terrifying reputation I built at the Training Center to scare people out of my way. I pass the bakery, clothing stores, and several other shops before I hit the path to Victor's Village, and lay eyes on two very angry teenagers. I meet their glares and glowers with my trademark smirk.
"Where the hell have you been!" cried the red-headed, fair skinned girl. Her thin frame was clothed by an white dress, her sleek legs probably being longer than the fabric, as her dress cuts off mid-thigh. Her brown eyes glint maliciously, as do the girls in training, but one good look at Ashen Marshall tells you she's never done any manual labor.
The boy next to her has dusty, brown hair that falls across his forehead but is cut short. He wears a white dress shirt and black slacks, and even though he is glowering, you can tell that Brad Fowler does not mind wearing it, which totally confirms the fact that there is no way the 17 year old has ever set foot in the Training Center.
"I was late, okay?" I try to calm my friends. "No, not okay!" Ashen shrieks. She grabs the hem of her dress, and gestures to it with her other hand, "If I had known that you'd be 15 minutes late, I could've found a more attractive dress than this that would better compliment my hair!" "I-I think you look, look great in that white dress." Brad mumbles, but tries desperately to keep it even. I smirk at how desperately in love Brad is with our best friend, and try to help him out, "Yes, it's a very nice." Brad looks grateful, but Ashen seems spiteful, for she gives Brad the same glower she just gave me, and spits, "It's ivory." Brad looks taken aback by the venom in her voice, "Umm... wh-what?" "It's ivory, not white! Oh, if I had known how ignorant and inattentive you guys are I wouldn't have spent 300 dollars extra to get something better than white, but of course you just had to be so..." "Why don't we grab some breakfast?" I interrupt Ashen's screams, and Brad enthusiastically agrees. Ashen only gives a slight nod. I sigh at the relief of the tension, and we turn to walk towards downtown.
As we walk towards the bakery, the one I just past moments ago, I realize how easy it is to lose my friends in the crowd. They are just so, small. Ashen is 16, and is barely 5'3", and Brad only comes to 5'7", which is basically means he comes to the middle of my chest. I am 6'4" and 240 pounds of pure muscle, and can kill a man with my bare hands 7 ways, all in under a minute. Ashen is under half of my weight, and it is really quite comical to see us next to each other, and then there's Brad. He's basically right in between the two of us, and we make quite the interesting trio as we walk down the street, Ashen usually in the middle, accentuating our differences in height, weight, and stature.
"So... where are we going?" Ashen asks, her voice muted since it is coming from in front of me. She had missed our conversation for she was still seething over the fact that we had called her ivory dress white, which seems like a Capitol thing to me. But I guess she was spoiled rotten. Daughter of two victors and an only child? She basically could ask for a pony statue made of diamonds and her parents would have it made and delivered to her the next day, if Ashen would even want a pony. She might call it too common and ask for a unicorn.
"Bakery." I respond. "Oh." Ashen responds, her voice still muted so I can not tell whether she is pleased or upset by my words. Probably upset, for like I said, she's probably used to crepes filled with exotic strawberries and fresh milk served by her personal maid every morning. I sigh, and run a hand through my hair. I forget what it's like to be the child of a Victor, and to be able to waste money on any personal expense I please. We spend the majority of our money on mother's treatment. 'Mom,' I think, and what I did earlier hits me full force. My mom can't come to the Reaping, so I basically just left for a month without saying a proper goodbye, my leave taking being one contorted with anger. I always feel like I have to win for her, but will she even know if I'm gone? I frown, my family is that of the kings, or so my last name translates to, so, tell me, would a prince save the queen to become king, or would the prince have to prove himself otherwise to become king? I sigh, because I know the answer.
I am no longer winning this for my far-gone mother.
I am winning this for myself.
"Okay, we're here." I am pulled out of my thoughts by Brad's words and into reality, and see that my semiconscious steps had brought me to the outside of 'Creative Confections', the best bakery in the inner city. It is a bright white cottage, with lots of windows, and a door decorated like that of a door on a ginger bread house. For some reason, whether it be the cheery decor or delicious smell wafting out the windows all day long, being around it always bring a smile to my face.
Apparently it cheers Ashen up as well, for she is smiling and laughing as if we had never insulted her white... er, ivory dress. I smile as Ashen screeches when Brad kills an insect on his arm, because that's the real Ashen. She doesn't like anyone to get hurt, which is another reason why it's hilarious we are best friends, because I am the epitome of training gone absolutely perfect. Sure, I've never wasted my time in training on meager knives, because who needs a tiny, delicate, and pathetic weapon when I could just as easily slice open an opponent with a sword in the same time it takes to make a single cut with a knife? I deal in swords, spears, and pure, unadulterated strength. I smirk as I remember how Mr. and Mrs. Marshall attempted to train Ashen as well, and if I just tell you that the trainers had to get the little girl and forcefully escort her from the gym, where she stood with an innocent face amidst broken displays and with weapons scattered about her, mere moments after training began, you can understand why Ashen was not allowed to train anymore.
"Brad!" calls a shrill voice, startling everyone in our little group, "Brad!" I spot the source of the noise quickly, it's coming from a plump, middle aged woman who is standing behind the window display, waving enthusiastically at the groaning boy. She places a tray of crepes on the shelf and bustles out of view, before coming bursting out the door, her destination being the boy who's name she just called loudly. She hurries to Brad and circles her arms around his chest, because she comes up to there on him. Somehow, she's inches shorter than Ashen. Brad awkwardly places his hands on her shoulders as he mumbles, "Hi, Aunt Cathy."
This is Cathy Fowler, known as the Queen of Sweets. The women of the Fowler family have been making desserts and pastries for generations in District Two; Ms. Fowler, Cathy's mother, was the Queen before her, and Sasha, Cathy's daughter, is to be the next one. She is rosy and sweet, as are all Fowler's, including Brad. They have that old, rustic charm about them and are always polite, and they seem to know everyone. Cathy is about the age of Ashen's mother, yet both are years older than mine, but their lifestyles are so incredibly different; Marie Ann's being luxurious and pampered, where as Cathy's is more relaxed and laid-back, and more based upon the who than the what.
"So, how have y'all been?" Cathy questions cheerfully. "Well enough." Ashen replies. Her eyebrows shoot up as Brad puts his lips to her ear, and as he moves away, she then blurts out, "And yourself?" Brad smiles as his aunt gratefully accepts the invitation to gush about her newest confectionary creation, and I smirk as Ashen rolls her eyes at him, because she obviously didn't want to hear of the woman's life story due to a pleasantry that was of his idea. "Oh my! Are you hungry? Because if you are, the hour is growing late!" Cathy says with a smile, and gestures to the door of her shop just as the half past bell at the chapel chimes. "Thank you, Aunt Cathy," Brad nods to her as he opens the door and walk in, and Ashen and I also say thank you before we rush in after our friend.
The bakery has an overwhelming sugary sweet smell, and all you can hear is the scraping of mugs against tables, forks against plates, and the sound of the cash register popping open and smacking close again. Ashen's eyes light up as she sees a young man behind the register and she quickly asks us what we want so she can spend as much time as possible flirting with him before the Reaping. Brad looks forlorn, and I slap his back, trying to get the message across that he shouldn't look so weak in public, before brushing past him, sliding into one of the booths. Brad soon slides in across from me, and smiles. Apparently being around his family really makes him even more unbearably polite. I really can't understand why I'm friends with either of them, Ashen or Brad. They re just so different than me, and both so eager to point out these differences and annoy me endlessly with them. But they are both my very best friends, so I do my best to smile back, but based upon the sneer that resides on Brad's face, I doubt I appear very happy at all.
Sooner than I expected food is being placed on the table in front of us. A very angry looking Ashen drops herself down on the vinyl seat next to Brad and rummaged through the bag; she soon after found a bagel, and took a bite out of it ravenously, until she realized what horrid things she was doing to her make-up. She quickly pulled her compact and retouched her lipstick before pushing the bread away from her in a manner that begged one of us to ask her what was wrong. Thankfully, Brad obliged before I even thought of doing so.
"What's wrong?" "Oh, I'll tell you what's wrong!" Ashen shrieks, voice filled with palpable distaste, "That regular ass- down there," Ashen leans into the aisle, her cries especially loud so the man behind the register could hear, "just made a stupid ass mistake! I mean, I expect it from you two! But him?" Ashen spits, voice soaked in venom, "Unbelievable. Just... ugh!" "What did he do?" Brad asks, voice as tentative as before, and before Ashen can respond with another angry rant, I interrupt, "He called your dress white, didn't he?"
Ashen looks shocked, revealing this fact as true, but she quickly pulls on her haughty air again and crosses her arms over her chest and looks defiantly away from us. I roll my eyes and grab my food from the bag, and begin to make idle chat with Brad, until one of the employees shouts, "20 minutes till Reaping!"
I'm about to respond to Brad's former question, when it strikes me that I have not told my friends I plan to volunteer, so I not-so-gracefully work it into the conversation, "So, what do you guys think about me volunteering?"
Brad looks dismayed, he has always had an extreme dislike for the Games, but Ashen, surprisingly, looks absolutely radiant. She abandons her attempts to be angry with us and stands up, dancing in a circle squealing, "Oh this is so, so exciting!" She reaches over and starts shaking Brad, "Can you believe it? We'll be best friends with a victor! And one of the youngest in the history of District Two!" "But what if he doesn't..." Brad is interrupted by a slap to the face, and Ashen then turns to me and tells me, "Don't listen to him Cato you're a natural! You'll be victor for sure!" She sits on our table, only to leap of moments later, saying gleefully, "Ooh! I know what you should do to look more tough and such! Go to the Training Center! You always look angrier after a workout! Great idea, right! Yes? Yes!" Ashen claps her hands together out of pure delight. She snatches her purse, and hurries out of the store, calling over her shoulder, "See you at the Reaping!"
"What are you going to do?" Brad asks. I look at him and shrug, walking out of the store, heading towards the destination suggested to me by Ashen.
The Training Center is just up the street, and has a secluded entrance just like that of Victor's Village. Only this path is tread upon less frequentlly, and by people of lesser importance. It leads to a large, industrial like building, complete with a state of the art gym and mini hospital. I've spent sevral hours here, perfecting what I prefer to call a craft. In the time I spent at Victor's Village, I always heard from the mentors of that years games that other mentors complained about our training system. Apparently, Districts One and Four also trained, though our's was the most successful. The other mentors thought we were undeserving of this training, that it wasn't fair. But it is. The Hunger Games were created as punishment for being rebellious, but what District did not rebel? District Two. And since we were not excluded it is only fair that we had the best training for the Hunger Games.
I throw open the heavy, metal doors and brush past the secratary. I do not need to perform the neccessary check-in process. The lady behind the desk knows me well enough to let me in without interfering. I walk down the corridor, my destination being the gymnasium, a place located only a hallway away.
I burst through the doors, and immediately set myself up at the sword station. A fresh row of dummies is set up, and I grab a short, sturdy sword, and swing it to find its weight. I immediately lah out with my wepon, decapitating the head of the dummy in front of me, and then attack the vital organs of the next dummy. I continue down the row, cutting up the dummies in all different ways, but all just as deadly. When I have finished, I throw my sword back to the table of swords similar in its size.
I pass the hand to hand combat arena, for I am lacking someone to spar with, and laugh mockingly at the dainty little knives, arranged from smallest to largest on a table, targets hanging on the wall waiting to be peirced by the blades. I do, however, stop at the spear station, and grasp one by the shaft and heave it at a target. Bullseye. I smirk, and throw another. And another. And another.
Every spear I throw helps clear my mind, and when all but one spear remains, so does one thought: should I volunteer? I will gain nothing from going this year, except my mother's health. 'Or will I?' the ugly thought appears before I can stop it, and others follow, in a chain reaction, 'What would your family do if you lost?' 'What would happen if your mother can not be healed?' 'What happens if she is dead before you return?' Confusion rages inside me, and I decide that I must fight for my mother. And I am resolved, until one little, nagging voice in the back of my head whispers, 'I thought you weren't fighting for her anymore.' I angrily throw the spear, and it hits the back of another spear with a deafening crack. I realize that even though I am an amazing fighter, I will not go fight for my life unless I am the best that I can be. That some sick part of me will not let me risk my life for the life of someone who may never be healed anyway, not even if that person is my mother.
And the sick part of me wins out.
This is not my Reaping, but next. Next year I will slaughter every last tribute. Next year I will return as the Victor.
"Attention to all employees," the loudspeaker crackles, "The Reaping begins in 5 minutes. All those interested in seeing the Reaping may go to the center of town now. Thank you."
I walk out of the gym, and quickly exit the Training Center. I hurry down the hill, my feet smacking against the black pavement, rushing to the center of town for one of the biggest events of the year.
Author's Note: Well, here it is. The first chapter. I apologize if I made Cato a little bit too badass or not manly enough, its my first fanficton from a male's POV. I hope you guys enjoy and please, please, please review!
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