Chapter Two
The name echoes in my ears, vibrating like a tuning fork struck against a metal pole.
Cato Talaith. My name.
The other volunteers look around, waiting for me to emerge from the pack. Some of their faces are relieved—those are the ones who got pressured to volunteer. Most are at least somewhat disappointed, which is the face I would've been wearing if I hadn't been called.
But my name has been called, and they're waiting. Every word my personal trainers ever said about poise flashes through my mind, and I step forward, my face smooth, empty. Because that's the best I can manage now, in front of these cameras. I'd been hoping for confidence, or ferocity. But I can lift neither of those masks to my face now, as I walk up to the platform. As people notice my movement, the cameras pan down to get a better view of my face. I catch a glimpse of it and see that there is nothing there. I look as controlled and impassive as my first name suggests.*
In control. Seeing that look on my face makes it so much easier to feel that way. By the time I take my place next to Clove, I'm in control of myself again. There is nothing to fear. I've been selected for a great honor.
"May I present the tributes of District Two!" chimes the white-haired woman, holding up the forgotten stack of papers labeled "The Treaty of Treason."
A deep roar explodes from the crowd, their hands coming together in thunderous applause. Even the tributes who would've given anything to stand in my place clap, because it's expected of them. If you don't clap, the Peacekeepers could arrest you for treasonous thoughts.
Stupid. District Two doesn't need such strict guidelines. We have no reason to rebel.
For a moment, the cameras focus on the audience, only a few remaining to broadcast my face on the smaller screens around the big screen. I glance at Clove, sizing her up now that we're on the same platform. She's a head shorter than I am, but under the silken folds of her dress, I can see the defined muscles of her arms. I imagine what they'd look like in motion, try to imagine what skill she's cultivated to build such impressive muscles. In addition to her apparent strength, she's tan. That could either be a fake tan worn to attract sponsors, or a tan received outside, practicing survival skills. If it's the latter, I'll definitely have to team up with this girl.
After a few minutes of applause, the crowd's excitement dies down enough for the white-haired woman to speak again. "Follow our cameras all the way to the Capitol, and don't forget to tune in for the reapings of all the other districts." She turns her head in our direction, but keeps most of her body facing the audience. "And may the odds be ever in your favor!"
By this point, I've recovered enough to smile. Another screen catches my eye, and I see that my smile doesn't just look confident—it looks savage.
The other tribute and I are ushered into a door covered with black paper. The Peacekeepers' shoulders are rigid, their feet coming down in perfect unison as they march. It makes us look lax and uncoordinated by comparison, and I have a moment where I want to scream at them for making us look so sloppy. Don't they realize we could be losing potential sponsors with every perfect step they take?
My personal trainers have taught me to keep my anger under control. I don't lash out at the Peacekeepers. I don't start yelling. Doing so would be unprofessional. People would look at me like a screaming toddler instead of a serious competitor.
Better to save my fits of temper for the arena, where they can do some good.
Every surface seems to shine in the building we've entered. The tiled floor reflects the fluorescent lights perfectly, doubling the amount of light in the corridor. Sunlight slants in from the windows on the west side. All the reapings take place at two in the afternoon, but since the recordings are staggered throughout the day, it's feasible to watch them all. As we walk, I consider this. There are some things to be gleaned from the reapings, like what I've picked up from my fellow tribute so far, but nothing I can't discern within minutes once we arrive at the Capitol. Maybe I'll check in at the end of every display, to learn the names and faces of the people I'm going to kill.
At that thought, the flutter of unease I felt before stirs again in my stomach. I've killed livestock before, in my training. Mostly pigs, because they're closest in physical structure to humans. I've even bloodied some of my trainers in preparation for these games.
But I have never killed another person.
I swallow the lump rising in my throat, glad only one camera is following us now, and we're concealed by the box of Peacekeepers. Every moment of weakness I show is a lost sponsor. I must remain in control of myself, at least until I've proven myself in the Games.
Maybe it's better if I don't watch the other reapings. Give myself some time to calm down instead.
We reach the end of the corridor and turn. Almost immediately, this hallway opens up into a vast chamber filled with couches and chairs. Pushed against the wall to my right is a massive desk, made of some expensive lumber. The secretary looks away from a TV screen as we enter. Though I can't see what's on, I know what she's watching. There will be only one program to watch for the next few weeks.
"You will stay here until your family comes for their final goodbyes," says one of the Peacekeepers. From the ornate badge on his shirt, I can tell he's higher ranking than the rest. Not the Head Peacekeeper, perhaps, but close. Few are trusted to escort the tributes anywhere. "You may bring one token into the arena to remind you of your district, but no weapons."
As if I didn't know that. I'm already wearing my token anyway—a bolt my father brought from work last week to represent to military power of our district. Molded for a stun gun, it's the closest thing I can get to a real weapon without breaking the rules.
I nod, as does Clove, a few feet away. In some districts, the tributes are separated at this point, because farewells tend to draw out tears. But in District Two, tributes are expected to remain composed through the whole thing, even this part. Tributes remain together to remind each other that the games have already begun, that there is no time for tears.
Fine with me.
It takes several minutes for my parents to show up, even though they arrive before Clove's family. My mother is weeping openly when she takes my hands in hers. "You'll be just fine," she chokes out, twin trails of tears running down her cheeks. Her body gives a little shake, and then she's sobbing in earnest.
I lean forward and hug her. Even though I've been training my whole life, the possibility of me actually getting chosen has been so remote, I've gotten complacent. I haven't distanced myself from my parents as I should have. When I hear her crying, my eyes prick with something like sympathy.
But I don't cry. Even kids from the weaker districts know not to cry. What would they think of a tribute like me, weeping when I should be smiling?
My mother cries for a while longer, only managing a few words at a time. Once I realize she's not going to pull it together in the limited time we have, I try to comfort her. "I'll come back for sure. I'm more prepared for these games than anyone."
She sniffs, coming back to herself a little bit. Her eyes, the same piercing blue color as mine, flash to my father. There's something almost wary in her eyes, as if she wants to speak her mind, but doesn't dare say whatever it is in front of him.
And then I know: my mother has never wanted me to participate in the Hunger Games.
My father shifts his weight to his other foot, looking irritably at the TV. It's replaying my walk up to the platform. After a few moments, he becomes engrossed in the program.
My eyes slide back to my mother, begging for her honesty. She returns my gaze with a broken smile.
"The games turn everyone into a monster," she whispers.
I remember a dozen earlier games, the drastic transformation from calm or excited tributes to savage killers, and nod. "Yeah, I know."
Her body shakes, and for a moment, I think she's going to lose her composure again. I realize I've slid out of her embrace and have gone back to just holding her hands. I squeeze her palms a little tighter between my fingertips.
After another glance at Father, she manages to speak again. "So what are you going to do about it, Cato?"
Do about it? What does she mean? I'm going to do what I was trained to do. I'm going to wipe out the weaker competitors, then turn on the other trained tributes, just like our district does every year. Her question confuses me for several seconds so that, when I finally answer, the word sounds forced and uncertain. "Win."
"You'd better," my father says. I turn to him and see the reflection of the TV screen in his eyes. "And if you want to do that, you have to do better than this." He jerks his chin toward the screen. "You look like a robot. Put more ferocity into it. I've seen you do it in training."
I nod because this is exactly what I'd been thinking about a moment ago. He's right—my looks and strength will get me some sponsors, but if I want to get showered with gifts like most District Two tributes, I have to develop a memorable persona. "I will."
My father approaches and rests a callused hand on my shoulder. From what he's told me, he volunteered for the Games every year from the time he was eligible until he passed the age limit. I suppose I must be living his dream right now. "You're going to win. Just hold your temper until the games start—the last thing we need is for you to get disqualified for fighting with another tribute."
I have to resist the impulse to roll my eyes. I haven't lost my temper since I was eleven, when I threw one of my practice swords out the window after the wooden blade splintered during a sparring match. I have to consider the surge of anger I felt at the Peacekeepers a moment ago, but I'd kept that under control, too.
It's a rare day when my father irritates me. Most of the time, he understands me better than Mom. He understands the pressure I face, having volunteered for the Games so many times himself. But he should know how well I've kept my temper lately.
"Okay," I say.
He nods once. Just then, the Peacekeepers tell them they have one minute left to finish their sentiments. Without warning, my mother catches me in another tight hug and starts sobbing into my shoulder. "My boy, my little boy . . ."
"It's okay, Mom. I'll win, and then I'll come back."
From the corner of my eye, I see Clove glance at me. Her green eyes are sharp, like the point of a dagger. She gives an almost imperceptible nod, and I know she's thinking the same thing.
Which means, even if we team up, she'll kill me whenever she sees fit.
Which is exactly what I plan for her.
My father pats me on the shoulder again as the Peacekeepers order them out of the room. And then I'm alone in a room with a girl who plans to kill me as soon as she gets the chance.
It's not exactly the best time to make conversation, but there won't be many opportunities, and if I can get her on my side now, I'll have more time to win over the other useful tributes once we get to the Capitol.
Before I can say anything, though, she speaks. "I want to form an alliance with you."
Well, that makes things a lot easier, I think, reclining in my chair. "Yeah? And why would I team up with you?"
Irritation flickers across her face, as if she can't believe I wouldn't see how useful she is as a teammate. I simply arch one eyebrow and wait for her to answer.
She turns away from me and pulls something from her pocket. I see of glint of silver before she throws the object twenty meters across the room. When it hits the wall, it sticks, and I get a good look at it.
It's a throwing knife, with two blades extending out from a central point. One blade has almost vanished in the sheetrock, while the other points back at Clove like an arrowhead. I imagine the knife burying itself between someone's shoulder blades and smirk.
It would seem the odds are definitely in my favor.
* Cato's first name means "good judgment" in Latin. Since Cato isn't the kind of person to dwell on names, his thoughts don't delve into this in the text, so I put it here. Additionally, his last name, Talaith, means "crown." I thought this was fitting because, of all the tributes Katniss faced in the arena, Cato was sort of the king of the antagonists.