A/N: Thank you to my reviewers who have their PM feature disabled: once and future and HeyyWhatsup and to my anonymous reviewers: anon, Scarlet, Anna, OneLiner, meredith and Cassie!
And for the first time in the Games, I feel warm and happy when Rue smiles back.
My business here isn't done yet, though. I turn back to the dying girl from District 8 with a grimace. I don't particularly enjoy the sight of blood, and this is going to be very messy.
Using the other knife I brought with me, I sever the girl's internal jugular in one swift stroke. She's already lost consciousness, but now she will bleed out in less than two minutes. I move away quickly; only the front of my jacket is sprayed with her blood.
The deed is done.
I walk back to the others, who are eagerly waiting for me. I survey their faces for any sign of suspicion, but they seem to be clueless of my meeting with Rue.
"Was she dead?" Cato asks roughly.
He's not going to like my answer, knowing that she was still alive and that he wasn't the one who dealt the deathly blow. My kill count keeps increasing against my will.
"She would have died eventually," I say, somewhat dodging his question. Hopefully that will appease him. "But she's dead now."
Sure enough, the cannon goes off. Soon, Rue can pick up the supplies and be on her way.
Clove eyes Cato warily, and I'm reminded of what she said about him getting angry. Fortunately, Cato only shrugs in response.
"The sun's starting to rise," Marvel says with a tone of uneasiness.
We don't have the advantage of surprise anymore; these goggles will soon be useless, and other tributes will be able to see us as easily as we see them. And when they see us out here, they'll realize we've left our supplies relatively unguarded. I don't see the girl from District 4 defending our loot from more than one other tribute.
"Let's head back to camp," Cato says, reading my mind.
This time, we set off at a run – a pace that I prefer because it means there won't be any talking along the way. Also, I don't have to worry about Cato wanting to hold my hand.
When we get back, I'm stunned to see the girl from District 4 curled up on the ground, sleeping. The good news is that all our supplies are still intact and accounted for, as far as I can tell. The bad news is that Cato is still in a foul mood, and he's not pleased with the slumbering girl.
Stomping his way over to her, Cato kicks the girl sharply in the ribs. Marvel winces, and I cringe inwardly, too.
"Ow," she cries out, waking up. Holding onto her side, she says: "What was that for?"
Not the best choice of words and certainly not what I would have said. Then again, I wouldn't have fallen asleep on my watch.
"Sleeping on the job," Cato snarls.
He delivers another blow, and it brings tears of pain to the girl. One more kick, and he might hurt her beyond recovery.
"I'm sorry," she sobs. "I got tired."
Again, not the explanation I would have given. It's a terrible excuse. She should just own up to it and then shut up because at this rate, she's not going to make it another hour in the Games. I don't know how she has such a knack for angering Cato.
"What do you think we were doing?" Cato shouts. "Taking a nap in the woods? We killed another tribute while you slept. You're completely useless."
He's about to kick her again, and likely fatally injure her, when I speak out.
"Hey, all our stuff's here, so there's no harm done," I say.
Cato turns to me, his fists clenched. He's breathing heavily, and I can tell he doesn't care, that he wants to lash out on this girl. I can see in his eyes that he wants to kill her.
He's angry, and I mean really angry, just like what Clove warned me about. I've never seen him like this. When he was mad at me, he didn't hurt me physically, though he did corner and kiss me. Somehow, even now it seems like he's holding back, like he's trying hard to keep his emotions under control for me. But why? I'm certainly glad he hasn't entirely lost it. Part of me hopes I never have to witness that.
"We're going to need someone to guard our supplies when we go out again so she's going to need the rest of her ribs," Clove adds dryly. It seems she wants to pacify Cato as much as I do. "Besides, she's not going to make the same mistake again. Isn't that right?"
Though she is undoubtedly in a world of pain, she nods furiously. Poor girl. I hope for her sake that Cato didn't injure any of her internal organs, though it would be evident by now. She's walking on thin ice, her usefulness quickly wearing out. Like the girl who lit the fire, she is mostly at fault. I suppose that, though we exerted more energy, her job was much more boring, hence her falling asleep. But it's no excuse for stupidity. She's not going to last much longer here if she can't keep up with the rest of us.
Cato is still scowling, but he walks away from the girl, kicking a cooking pot from the pile of supplies instead. Better the pot than the girl. Somehow, Clove and I have managed to stave off a disastrous tantrum. With his temper, Cato is a lot more frightening than I thought.
Since the altercation is over, it's finally time for the rest of us to get some sleep. Cato volunteers for the first shift to watch over us and the supplies. It's clear that he's still seething with anger and isn't anywhere close to tired. I don't know how he does it. He's relentless, his energy never wavering. I may be the best hunter here, but I'm exhausted.
My sleeping bag is laid out between Cato's and the girl from District 4's. I'm not exactly thrilled about sleeping next to Cato. Who knows if he's going to try to make a move or something while I'm asleep? But it's better than being in close proximity to Clove, Glimmer or Marvel. I don't have to worry about Cato slitting my throat in the middle of the night. Nor do I have any concerns about the injured girl next to me, who isn't going to be able to stand up on her own, much less lift up a knife to kill me.
"Can you breathe?" I whisper to her.
We're out of earshot from the others, who have fallen fast asleep. I don't doubt though that they're all light sleepers.
"What?" she says.
The girl seems surprised that I'm talking to her and especially that it's not in a demeaning way. Unlike the others, I want to help her because I pity her. But at the same time I don't want the others to see me talking to her. I can't associate myself with her because she is careless and could bring me down as well.
"Do you have any difficulty breathing?" I ask.
I've seen my mother treat people with broken ribs before. It's not like a normal broken bone, like the femur, that you can set with a cast. There's really not much you can do for a broken rib. Fortunately, surgery isn't necessary unless the rib is completely crushed or a lung has been punctured. Otherwise you just let the rib heal on its own.
"No, it just hurts a lot," she whispers back.
"Good," I say. "That means your lungs haven't been punctured. Sleep on your back and not your side."
She nods in return and thanks me for saving her life.
"Don't thank me," I say because I don't want this girl depending on me. She's not a survivor, and she's in over her head. "You're alive because he thinks you're still useful. Make sure not to fall asleep again when it's your watch or else that will change."
I wake up, startled by the sound of a stampede – running footsteps, yells and cries. I get up and frantically look around me, but the other sleeping bags are empty. Where is everyone else? What is going on? Somehow I'm all alone.
I grab my bow and arrows, which are lying next to me, and rush to the outside of the Cornucopia.
I gasp at the sight before me and am paralyzed in fear. There they are – all the tributes, all 23 of them, running towards me with axes, swords and knives, yelling at the top of their lungs. Even the Careers are with them – Cato, Clove, Marvel, Glimmer, and the girl from District 4.
They're all coming for me.
Panicking, I reach into my sheath for an arrow and shoot down my first victim, Foxface, right through the neck. She falls to the ground, her red hair cascading down around her shoulders as the blood pours out of the grotesque hole in her neck.
I continue to release arrow after arrow, one after another. My arm is sore, and I begin to grow tired. Surely my sheath must be empty by now, but somehow it seems to refill on its own. Every time I reach back, my fingers find an arrow. And my enemies keep coming, never quite reaching me and yet never completely dying.
I scream at them to stop, to leave me alone. I don't want to kill any of them! But they continue sprinting towards me, their faces twisted into cruel, hungry expressions. And so I have to kill them over and over again.
Crying, tears streaming down my face, I kill Peeta, Rue, Cato – all of them. In the end, the grass surrounding me is a sea of red, and there are dead bodies strewn everywhere.
I collapse onto my knees, sobbing. I can taste the saltiness of my tears, the bitterness of victory. I did it; I won, now let me go home.
I look up into the sky and down comes the hovercraft. Except it doesn't pick me up. It lands and Prim, my mother and Gale emerge, walking towards me with disappointed faces.
"Why did you do it Katniss?" Prim asks me quietly. "Why did you kill everyone?"
"I had to do it!" I plea. "I had to – to win for you."
"You're a murderer, Katniss," Gale shakes his head. "No one from District 12 would ever stoop as low as joining the Careers, but you did. You did, and then you killed them all."
"Murderer," my mom whispers.
"Killer," Prim says.
"He would have killed me if I said no," I cry. I'm choking on my words; I'm drowning in my tears. "I had to do it. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry…"
"Wake up, Katniss," a voice whispers in my ear.
Someone is shaking my shoulder.
My eyelids flutter open, and I gasp for air. What's going on? I look around and there's Cato standing above me, very much alive. Was it all just a dream? The others are snoring in their sleeping bags. I'm not alone. It was only a nightmare.
I rub my face and realize that it's streaked with real tears. Cato definitely just saw me crying. That's humiliating.
"Bad dream?" he asks.
To my surprise, there's no hint of arrogance or sarcasm. If the others witnessed this, they would never let me live it down. All my credibility would be washed down the drain by my crocodile tears.
"Uh, yeah," I croak, feeling quite embarrassed.
"Here, I know what will help," Cato says, extending his hand to me. Then, smirking like the Cato I know: "Or are you still not willing to hold my hand?"
Though Cato terrified me with his brutal beating of the girl from District 4, he's only been kind to me so far. And for some reason he hasn't made a single comment about seeing me cry. I was probably thrashing around, too. Hopefully I didn't say anything embarrassing. Prim tells me I do talk in my sleep sometimes.
So I take Cato's hand and let him help me up. He has huge hands that feel coarse and calloused. I am a doll in comparison to him. He could crush my bones so easily.
I hastily let go and follow Cato outside.
I watch him as he reaches into the food pile and pulls out a paper packet. Cato then retrieves a thermos full of water that he must have boiled earlier, still piping hot I gather from the rising steam. He pours some of the water into a tin cup, opens the packet, which is full of brown powder, and adds it to the water, mixing the concoction with a spoon. I'm not quite sure what this is – some kind of tea that is supposed to calm me down? I've never seen tea leaves crushed into such fine powder before.
"Drink this," he says, handing me the warm cup. "Be careful though. It's hot."
I eye the cup warily.
"What is it?" I ask hesitantly.
Is he trying to drug me? He wouldn't be so blatant about it, unless that's his ploy.
"It's hot chocolate," he chuckles. Apparently he finds my paranoia amusing. Sorry I have a hard time trusting a guy who nearly beat one of our allies to death. "Kind of like what they had in the Capitol. It's made of cocoa powder with sugar instead of pure melted chocolate. There's not much chocolate lying around here, but this stuff tastes pretty good. I had some earlier."
It takes me awhile to comprehend what is happening. Did Cato really just make me hot chocolate? I must still be dreaming.
I blow on the steaming drink and carefully take a sip. It does taste a lot like what I had in the train on the way to the Capitol, except less rich. It's calming.
"It's good," I say. "Thanks."
Cato shrugs in response. I suppose the words 'you're welcome' don't exist in his vocabulary.
"What was your dream about?" he asks, watching me carefully as he pours his own cup of hot chocolate.
I'm not the most social person, but I'm guessing that telling him I dreamt of murdering everyone here over and over again isn't the best conversation material.
"I can't remember," I lie.
Cato takes a swig of his drink. I have some more of mine; the warmth trickles down my throat, soothing my nerves. I wish we had this powder back home. This could double for a meal.
"You kept apologizing in your dream," he says. "And you were crying."
He sounds uncomfortable. I'm not quite sure why Cato wants to talk about this. And with that comment he has essentially confessed to watching me sleep.
"I probably dreamt of my family then," I reply.
That much is true.
Cato is silent for a few moments.
"You volunteered for your sister," he says.
It's not a question, but a statement.
"Yes," I say.
What does he want to know?
"Why do you worry about her? She has her mother," Cato says.
He only mentions my mother, not my father. He must have watched the tapes of the reaping and realized my father wasn't around. If Cato remembers such a small detail, just how long has he had his eye on me?
I don't know how I feel about telling Cato details of my personal life. Except there is no one else to talk to around here; the other Careers aren't great for conversing with, to say the least. And for some reason, I want to get some of this off my chest. Cato has been strangely kind, not a word I would normally use to describe him, and it's only fair that I try to open up in return. I'm sure it's what our audience wants.
"My father died in a mining accident – an explosion," I say. This will surely garner sympathy from the Capitol citizens. "After that, my mother fell into depression, and I had to take care of her and my sister. If I die, I'm afraid my mother won't be there for Prim."
What I really mean is that I think my mother is going to fall into depression again, if she hasn't already, and neglect Prim as she once did. Gale is there to help my family, but I feel an immense pressure to win this because I could provide such a better life for them, all of them, and I need to be there for Prim while she's growing up. Gale is great, but I'm her older sister.
Cato doesn't say anything at first. For once, I can't read the expression on his face. He seems thoughtful, like he's trying to work out a difficult arithmetic problem.
"You're used to taking care of people," he says.
Again, not a question, but a statement. He's trying very hard to decipher my underlying motives.
"I suppose," I shrug.
I'm obviously not the coldblooded killer that he is, but at the same time I'm apparently quite capable of killing. So I'm not quite sure why it matters that I take care of my family back home. I don't know where this conversation is going.
"Is that why you helped her?" Cato nods towards the girl from District 4.
I stiffen at his question. So this is what he was getting at. Did he somehow hear our conversation? That's impossible. Cato must still be angry with me for intervening.
"Like Clove said, we need someone to guard the supplies," I say.
It's a half-truth, but I'm a terrible liar, and Cato knows it.
"That's not why you helped her," he says, though it's not in an accusatory tone.
I'm irritated that Cato is so keen on cornering me into telling him my secrets. He's searching long and hard for my weakness, and he's onto it. He could make my life very miserable if he finds out about my compassion for my victims. I'm sure he could make it so that I never sleep another night.
"Why does it matter?" I snap.
Cato raises his hands in mock surrender, as if his intentions are benign, his questions innocent. He's acting like I'm overreacting, except I'm not.
"I'm just trying to understand you," he says. "You saved Peeta and the girl. Why? And why them?"
If only he knew I saved Rue, too.
I want to shout at him, to ask him why he wants to understand me, to tell him I don't know how he can break someone's ribs one second and make me hot chocolate the next, expecting me to simply tell him about my dreams, my personal life, my thoughts. And to top it off, I'm positive he's only pretending to care because he's supposed to be in love with me, when in reality he's trying to figure out the best way to destroy me.
"Why did you save me?" I retort. It's not fair for him to call me out like that. "Help me understand you. Why me and not anyone else?"
That shuts him up real quick. He looks away, tugging at the grass around him. It's clear he doesn't have an answer.
But then he speaks.
"I don't want you to die," Cato says quietly. "Everyone else could drop dead for all I care, but I don't know. You're…you're good."
Good? Good at what, protecting my sister from my mother? Good at killing people?
"The others, they think this is all fun and games," Cato continues, and I detect a note of disgust. I'm surprised to hear him say that because Cato has been joining in on all the cheering and jeering. "The way they act, you'd think they're back at school. They're not even that good – they don't hold a candle to you and me. I do what I have to do to keep them in line because for now they're somewhat useful. I pretend to like them, but I really can't stand them. It's like every second I'm around them I'm resisting the urge to wring their necks. They just don't get it, you know? They don't have it in them to win. You and I are here for one reason and one reason only: to win."
Haymitch wasn't lying when he said Cato sees me as his number one threat. Now that Cato has admitted it, though, it doesn't make sense why he saved me. It doesn't explain anything. In fact, it only confuses me more.
"So then shouldn't you let me die?" I say sarcastically.
Cato shakes his head. Okay, I honestly don't get it.
"You don't understand. You and I are great together. Look at us – combined, we've taken out two thirds of our competition," Cato says. I can hear the enthusiasm in his voice. After a pause, he adds bitterly: "What would I do without you? Listen to Marvel's brownnosing, Glimmer's incessant chatter and Clove's bitchiness?"
Wait, is Cato saying that he needs me?
All of a sudden, I feel a pang of guilt for setting up an alliance with Rue behind Cato's back. I never realized that Cato detested the others as much as I do. He saved me because I'm all he has until the end, but I'm not dependent on him. I have Rue and Peeta. That's why he's so adamant about keeping me with him. It's why he won't let me go. And here I am plotting ways to get out of here.
For a moment, I can even share the same vision as Cato – the two of us hunting down the other tributes like oil and vinegar. I can picture Cato slaying people left and right without a second thought, his heart frozen to his victims. And me, the girl on fire, mercifully taking down my prey, yet being ever so efficient with my bow and arrows.
"What I don't understand is why you saved the two of them," Cato sighs in irritation. "They haven't killed a single person. And that girl over there wouldn't help you if you were in her place."
I notice he leaves out Peeta. Either Cato actually believes that Peeta is in love with me or he doesn't want to tip off our watchers that this love triangle might not be real.
"Peeta once saved my family. I owe him," I say. I don't know why I'm telling Cato this. It's so private, something that no one, not even my family or Gale, knows except for Peeta and me. "And as for her, I don't know… I'm just not like you."
"What do you mean?" Cato asks.
I have to figure out a way to say this without sounding too sympathetic and weak.
"She messed up – I get it," I say, though I really feel that no harm was done. I personally wouldn't have punished her for that, but then again I'm not Cato. "I would have… understood if you had simply killed her. There are six of us, half of everyone left, and so people have to go. I get that. But you saw me out there fighting. I shoot to kill and that's all. I don't have any desire to torture my victims. I'm a hunter, not a tormentor."
Cato considers my explanation for a few moments. The two of us sit silently, finishing our hot chocolate.
"You don't get any satisfaction out of your triumph, your victory? Don't you revel in the power?" Cato asks.
It's strange hearing Cato's side. There's this gap of understanding between us, though it's really a canyon. He can't fathom sympathy for our victims, whereas I can't begin to imagine taking pleasure in hurting others. And yet here we are, both of us trying immensely hard to put ourselves in each other's shoes.
"I'll admit that I felt…proud of my accomplishments," I say, for lack of a better word. I cringe at my admission, hoping my family isn't disappointed in me the way they were in my dream. They might hate me after this. I had buried the thought, not wanting to acknowledge it, but Cato is forcing me to be honest with myself. "But when we found that girl by the fire, and she was begging for her life, I felt sick. I don't take pleasure in people's suffering. I didn't feel remotely proud then. By starting the fire, she practically committed suicide."
Cato sighs and ruffles his hair.
"I agree that killing, or severely wounding, her wasn't an accomplishment," Cato admits. "I guess we're different in that way. I enjoy killing. I was made for this. You don't like it, but you're good at it, better than everyone else."
I nod. Agree to disagree. Cato trained all his life for the Games, while I was only focused on saving my family from starvation. Maybe if I had the same upbringing as Cato's, I would be a lot more like him, ruthless and unforgiving. Now that I understand where he's coming from and, to a certain degree, what goes on in his head, I can't dislike him the way I did before. He told me his true feelings and was honest with me, as I was with him. I didn't think it was possible, but I actually know him now, and he knows me.
Something has changed between us.
There's trust, understanding, and respect.