Title: Hunger Games

Chapter: Part 1, B

Characters/Pairings: Cato/Clove, Clove/OC

Summary: The life of a Victor isn't all it's cracked up to be. Assassinations, bogus love affairs and betrayal... Just another day in the life of a double agent.

Disclaimer: Not authorized, prepared, approved, licensed, or endorsed by Suzanne Collins, Lions Gate, or any other individual or entity associated with the Hunger Games books or films. All Hunger Games logos, trademarks, names, characters, and related indicia are the property of Lions Gate, Suzanne Collins, and/or their respective owners. I do not claim any affiliation with those who own Hunger Games and would like to make it clear that no copyright infringement is intended in the publication of this story.


Part 1, B:

"Boy, you better get out of bed!"

Cato groans and rolls over on the bed, trying to escape the persistent attempts at waking him. He's just about to pull the comforter over his head when it's ripped out of his grasp and wrenched away. "No," he mumbles and slowly opens one eye to find Astoria, her rose-gold skin glimmering in the sunlight, standing at the foot of the bed with her hands on her hips, still clutching the comforter. He closes his eye again, nuzzles into the soft pillow, and mutters, "Five more minutes, Stori."

"Oh no," Astoria shakes her head threateningly. "I don't think so. You get out of that bed right now!"

And then the pillow is yanked away too.

"Astoria," Cato pouts and rolls onto his back. "I'm tired."

"Do I look like I care?" Astoria snaps. "You," she points at him and her upper lip curls when she catches sight of the scrapes and scars riddling his naked torso, "are in need of a full Body Buff and it's after ten and Body Buffs take time, Cato!"

Cato winces at her tone and, because he knows she means business, slowly rolls out of bed. Astoria allows him just a moment to sit on the edge of the bed, face in his hands, to collect himself before she begins tapping her foot impatiently. Cato groans again and slowly stands.

"What did you do to yourself this time?" Astoria demands in horror after she sees the way he stumbles when he first puts pressure on his injured leg.

"Didn't do anything," Cato yawns and tries to bat her hands away when she suddenly swoops down and pushes the edge of briefs up. "It's fine."

"It's not fine," Astoria hisses and pokes his tender flesh. She clucks her tongue in disapproval then straightens up and jabs her index finger in the direction of his bathroom. "You get in that shower right now young man."

"Yeah, yeah…" Cato yawns, waving her off as he limps away to follow her directions.

"And you better not be in there all damn day," Astoria huffs. "Or it'll be your ass boy!"

He takes a quick shower, deciding it's best not to linger longer than necessary since Astoria's threats are never idle (and he fears she could actually remove his ass from his body), and staggers downstairs to find the rest of his prep team waiting for him. Once the usual feigning and fawning is done they usher him to the hovercraft waiting outside to work their magic.

The Body Buff takes a bit longer than usual because of the seriousness of his recent injuries, but he's bright and shiny and looks brand new when he steps out of the portable remake center just before six o'clock that evening. The way his prep team is able to completely transform him from a battle-weary personal soldier into a respectable-looking Capitolite always amazes him and he spends a full five minutes in front of his mirror marveling at their work. The gory knife-wound on his thigh has been reduced to a miniscule white line, his broken fingers have been set and refused, and the bruises and cuts and scrapes covering the rest of his body are now nonexistent – it's like the brutal fight with Whitt never even happened.

And like always, Cato's not quite sure how he feels about that.

Sighing, he turns away from the mirror and quickly pulls on the navy colored tux Astoria has left for him. He gives himself a quick once-over in the mirror to make sure he's not missing anything and then hurries down the stairs, thankful that his leg is no longer a hindrance, where Astoria is waiting for him.

"Look at you," she whistles when he enters the living room and then strides over to him with a smile. "You look so handsome, Cato. I love the way that color accentuates your eyes."

Cato grins at her.

"But that damn hair of yours," Astoria mutters in frustration as she pats at an errant patch of hair. "That cowlick is as stubborn as you. Oh well." She steps back and smiles again. "Ready?"

"Not really."

"Yeah, me neither," Astoria tells him truthfully and says mockingly, "But we must do our duty!"

And with that she loops her arm through his and leads him outside to the waiting limousine. The ride to the Mayor's Mansion is spent in silence. It's not an uncomfortable silence, though, and that's what he loves most about Astoria. She's one of the few people he can just be with and not feel like he has to put on a show for.

When they arrive at the mansion a few minutes later, Cato carefully helps Astoria out of the vehicle. She thanks him with a peck on the cheek and then slips her hand in his as they slowly make their way to the entrance, stopping here and there to have their pictures taken by the multitude of Capitol paparazzi - which he hates, hates pretending to be happy and playing like he's got the perfect life. It's tedious and frustrating and right now Cato's trying like hell to smile instead of snarl. Honestly, he'd much rather be camped out in the woods plotting his next assassination than grinning and baring it for these people.

They finally make it into the house and are automatically accosted by Cato's father, who seems overly grateful that his 'intellectually stimulating' conversation with Jamison Jewel, District Two's notorious Escort, has been interrupted. The older man flings his arms around Cato and hisses dramatically, "Thank you! He was talking to me about shoes. Again!"

Cato laughs and Magnus turns his attentions to Astoria.

"Stori!" Magnus waggles his eyebrows at the designer. "You're looking as scrumptious as ever. Care to dance?"

Astoria shrugs and glances at Cato. "You'll be okay?"

"I'm a big boy," Cato tells her and passes her hand to his father. "Stop mothering me and go have some fun."

"Fine." She turns to Magnus and grins. "Let's show these old fuddie-duddies how it's done."

"Yes, ma'am," Magnus salutes and begins leading her towards the packed dance floor. "Oh!" He calls over his shoulder. "Clove is out back, by the gardens. Take her a glass of champagne?"

Which actually means he wants her debriefed. Now.

Cato rolls his eyes at his father's indirect order and wanders out to the balcony terrace. After a brief scan, he notices Clove taking a stroll through the gardens. He smiles unconsciously as he watches her marvel at his father's newest addition to his topiary, a rather majestic stag, and quickly makes his way down the limestone staircase to her, careful to sidestep any conversations with journalists or Gamemakers.

"Like what you see?"

Clove jumps, surprised, and Cato smirks. He never would have though he would be able to sneak up on his friend, but years of relative security have dulled Clove's senses just enough. That, and he's become quite a master of stealth after how long he's been covertly killing people.

"Cato!" Clove barks, punching him in the shoulder.

Cato grins and rubs at the spot her fist connected with his arm. He may have gotten the sneak on her, but she can still pack a punch.

"Is this one of yours?" Clove asks, nodding and turning to the stag she'd been admiring.

"Mmhm."

"It's beautiful," Clove tells him earnestly.

Cato wrinkles his nose and cocks his head at the topiary, scrutinizing his work. He'd finished this piece just before his last mission and it was already in need of a trimming. After a moment of study, he decides to swing by the next afternoon to make a few adjustments to the stag and to a few of the other creatures he's created over the years. He's sure his father wouldn't mind the intrusion or the pruning.

"Thanks."

"No, really," Clove turns to him. "You've turned out to be quite the gardener."

"Stop calling me that. I'm not a damn-" Cato rolls his eyes and turns to find her smiling gently up at him. He stumbles over his words, breath catching in his throat, as the moonlight catches Clove in its glow.

Beautiful, he thinks longingly. And, oh god, she is. The few Capitol enhancements she's had (eyelash implants and hair polishes) only serve to highlight her natural beauty (the smattering of light freckles he loves still shows on her nose) and the way her dark tresses have been pulled back into a messy French twist displays her aristocratic cheekbones and slender neck. Her dress – oh fuck, that dress – which plunges suggestively in the front and the back, glitters magnificently in the moonlight. She's dazzling and he can't help but openly stare at her.

"What?" Clove asks, self-conscious under his gaze. She may have ensnared one of Panem's most sought after bachelors and has somehow become one of the Capitol's darlings, but it's Cato who has the ability to reduce her to a silly schoolgirl in seconds.

Funny enough, he's the only one who doesn't realize it.

Clove subconsciously lifts her fingers to her lips. "Do I have something on my face?"

"No." Cato chuckles and gently pulls her hand away from her mouth. Licking his lip, he uses his other hand to push a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "No, there's nothing on your face."

Clove begins nibbling her lower lip.

"You look amazing tonight," Cato continues, leaning down slightly as Clove's gaze meets his.

It's moments like these, when the desire and the hunger and the ache for her is almost too much to bear, that he wishes they were anyone else in the world. Maybe then he would be free to tell her the way he feels, to confess everything by pressing his lips against hers. He can imagine her melting into the kiss and sighing contentedly when his arms wrap around her waist.

But they're not someone else - they're Cato and Clove, who play vital parts in the war against a tyrannical regime and what happens next is oh-so-typical at this point.

"Clove," Cato starts, leaning further towards her, "I-"

"There you are!"

The reaction is instantaneous; Clove jumps away, dropping Cato's hand as if it's on fire, and Cato chokes back a frustrated snarl.

"Vaughn!" Clove yips excitedly, rushing to him. "Baby!"

Vaughn pulls Clove tightly against him and drops a warm kiss onto the top of her head. Clove looks up, her cheek still pressed against the tall man's chest, and grins. "I thought you had meetings."

"Rescheduled," Vaughn tells her. "And I've got some business in Two."

"Business?" Clove frowns. "What kind of business?"

"You'll find out soon enough," Vaughn says slyly. Clove opens her mouth to question him further, but before she can speak he changes the subject. "What's a guy gotta do to get a drink around here?"

"Oh." Clove pulls out of Vaughn's embrace. "I'll go grab some champagne."

"Make it a scotch," Vaughn suggests curtly. "Two fingers, one cube. Thanks."

Clove nods and, surprisingly, hurries off to fetch their drinks without another word. The two men watch her go until Vaughn finally turns his attention to Cato. The dark-haired man's jaw is set, the warmth and adoration in his gaze gone completely, as he settles his steely sights on the younger man. Cato tenses, but stares right back at Vaughn.

"What the hell was that?" Vaughn finally says after a moment of strained silence.

Cato shrugs, feigning innocence, before casually saying, "I have no idea what you're talking about, Vaughn."

Vaughn raises one eyebrow, annoyed. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

Manipulative? Vicious? Yes. Corrupt? Definitely. But stupid? No. No, Vaughn is one of the most intelligent people Cato has ever met. He's charismatic and charming and has somehow positioned himself as a champion of the people by "opposing" his grandfather's more severe policies. It's all an act, of course. The current President proposes outrageous laws he doesn't even agree with and the future President pretends to block them in order to garner the support of the people, which will eventually help create a seamless transition of power. It's a rather brilliant plan, but Cato sees right through it.

"You may be Grandfather's favorite little assassin, but that doesn't make you indispensable." Vaughn's eyes narrow menacingly. "Stay away from her."

To his credit, Cato doesn't flinch. He stares right back at Vaughn, a defiant gleam in his eye, until the other man finally breaks his gaze and leaves without a word.

Once Vaughn is out of sight, Cato lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and slumps forward. To an outsider it may look like he just won a battle of wills, but Cato knows no one ever beats Vaughn in a battle of anything. Retribution always comes swiftly and completely; he'll need to keep his eyes and ears open in the coming months.

And he should probably go warn his father.

Frowning, Cato takes one last look at the topiary before heading back to the party. What little enthusiasm he'd possessed at the beginning of the night has all but abandoned him and he feels completely drained after the encounter with Vaughn, but Cato knows his night is a long way from over so he pushes through the throng of people milling around on the balcony and steps back into the large house. He's only inches away from the bar when a strong, solid hand clamps down on his shoulder. Cato whirls around aggressively, survival instincts kicking in, and barely manages to stop himself from knocking Haymitch Abernathy into next week.

"The fuck, Abernathy?"

"Language, Conroy," the older Victor chuckles, smirking cheekily as he slips past Cato to the bar. He grabs a glass of something clear and bubbly, ignoring the protests of the man who had just ordered it, and thrusts it unceremoniously into Cato's hand. Cato frowns, but takes the glass anyway as Haymitch slides back around him muttering, "You look like you could use a drink."

Cato chuckles, amused but not at all surprised by Haymitch's odd behavior. He turns toward the man at the bar, who is still watching in bewilderment as Haymitch melts into the crowd, and offers an apologetic grin as he hands him back the glass. He keeps, however, the small square napkin Haymitch had simultaneously passed along and tucks it safely inside the breast pocket of his dinner jacket.

Hours later, when the lights have dimmed and the guests have gone and the mansion is quiet again, Cato pulls the napkin out of his pocket. He glances at it briefly before tearing it up and stuffing the shreds into his mouth. He swallows heavily as he strips down to his briefs and then crawls into his childhood bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling.

Cash deposit confirmed. Funds available. Withdrawal 7/5.

Which means District 13 is ready to fight and the attack begins during the 75th Hunger Games…

Cato frowns. The plan is moving quicker than expected so Everdeen must be royally fucking up this Victory Tour if the rebel leaders are willing to move up their timetable by more than two years. But then, it's necessary for them to act before the other side does so it's understandable. The girl has been fanning the flames (unintentionally, but that doesn't really matter) and Snow can no longer ignore the way his country is blatantly turning against him. He's losing control quickly and he needs to find a way to exert his dominance before his empire erupts in fire.

How? Cato thinks, brow furrowing.

But the answer is obvious – Snow's only hope of squashing this rebellion is by isolating and eliminating its rallying point, it's newly acquired symbol. He needs to kill Everdeen and he needs to do it conspicuously, yet licitly. The people need to know what he does to those who oppose him, but there can be no evidence tracing the murder back to him.

Which leaves him the president with very limited options.

Clove's confession about Vaughn from the night before suddenly rings in his ears: "He's been in a lot of meetings lately." She'd said. "He was distraught."

Snow can't use someone like Cato to do his bidding, not this time. It would be much to obvious and it would only fuel the fire. No, however Snow chooses to kill the girl will need to be bigger than she is, bigger even than outright rebellion if he wants to send the necessary shockwaves through the country. He'll use his own symbol to fight the Rebellion's.

As usual, it all comes back to The Hunger Games.

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