Dudes, I've got to get something off my chest. I didn't want to update this story for awhile... and I didn't, but if anyone read my previous work or were with my other stories know that I can be gone much longer than like three weeks. However, it wasn't because I had a writer's block because truthfully I have semi-planned this story out, it's because I was angry - mad. Why? I'm mad because I had to end a relationship that I liked, that I was starting to grow on me. I am very grateful for you guys and you're awesome reviews... and if you want I'll start responding to all of you, but this is my story.

I wanted Peeta to come to his own conclusions about his feelings about Hannibal and Cato. I wanted him to discern childish love from real love and trust me when I say he was going to do that, but you guys forced my hand. The last chapter... I don't know... I had to end Hannibal's and Peeta's relationship somehow and quite honestly, it really couldn't be like "M'kay, dude, I feel nothing for you. We are over and done," no, because it wasn't like that. Their relationship was special. It had meaning.

-sigh- Bottom line. I am aware of this being a Cato and Peeta story, like seriously. I am the author after all. However, I did not promise that the characters would not fall for other characters nor did I promise that they would be exclusive only to one person. No offense to Twilight Lovers, but Peeta isn't going to be an Edward... meaning, he isn't going to remain the hundred-year-old virgin that hasn't dated or had sex with anyone outside of Cato.

Do not hate Peeta for being a human and liking others. Do not blame Hannibal for trying to remember that he's an adult and Peeta's a kid, he's fighting a moral code set by society. Do not feel annoyed with me for creating a story where characters are mere humans who cannot chose who they fall for. Please.

Disclaimers are on the other chapters... I don't feel like doing them today.

Hime-koi is an amazing beta who edited this long-butt of a chapter. Any mistakes you read are mine.

Enjoy or not.

Fragments

Chapter Ten: Chariots and Training

"Cato, darling, if you can just turn this way," a grating voice pleads. I don't bother to listen. I focus on the red and green flames on a tiny racecar. Its minuscule rubber wheels follow a pattern. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down on the expanse of leg not covered in my gladiatorial golden skirt.

"Cato, darling, it'll only take a second. It's imperative your face be powdered," the Capitoline accent screeches against my eardrums. I remain in my position, the plastic car moving at my will. Up and down. Up and down. Vroom, Vroom, Vroom. It's a guttural sound, low in my throat. Wrong. All wrong, I think. More childish and squeakier my vrooms have to be.

"Darling! The Chariots are in five minutes - up, up, up, darling. You want to be beautiful for your sponsors, right?" Idiotic question the wench has the balls to ask. I couldn't give two hoots about the sponsors. In fact, I want to be ugly for my sponsors and unprepared. If - When I win the Hunger Games, I will not be prettied up for a night. I will not be passed around like some prostitute. Up and down. Up and down. The wheels are beginning to leave imprints on my skin.

"Cato, darling, is it possible you're scared? The powder is non-toxic and it's been made for sensitive skin. There's nothing to worry about," her voice oil-like. I am not a child. I will not be patronized. Does she not understand I desire her to be gone? I want her vocal chords ripped out of her throat so she'll never have to ability to speak again. Up and down. Up and down. It's strangely calming. My nerves are shot. My nightmare has only begun.

"Cato, darling, two minutes! Why are you so fixated on such a plain thing? Here, I'll give it back after the Chariot Ride," her voice is like a chameleon, now it's sickeningly sweet. She's so fake it makes artificial look real. I hate her. She's bothersome. No matter how hard I wish, she won't die or disappear. Up and down. Up and down. My breaths go in and out. The synchrony is music to my ears. Up and down. In and out. Up and down. In and ou - repulsively thin appendages wrap around my wrist breaking synchrony. Another dares to lay their claim on my car.

I'm up on my feet, my blood racing. Does she dare? My gaze narrows on her alarmed face. I shake her feeble grip off me using the same hand to wrap around her throat. Pleasure flows through me. It's a perfect fit. How fragile Capitol people are. How much pressure, I squeeze ever-so-softly on her windpipe, does it take for them to, my hold is a teensy bit tighter - her face is a startlingly shade of bright purple, break? She frantically claws at my hand. Oh! How I can feel the air desperately fighting to move past the blockage.

"Darling," I say. "Can it be that you're scared? No worries though. Everything will be alright, darling," I grin at her, punctuating darling every time the word slides across my tongue. Her freaky reptilian eyes are starting to bulge. A little more...

"CATO! PUT HER DOWN!" Brutus. I give the hag a sinful smirk and slam her down to the ground. I stand above her as she struggles to sit up on the pristine linoleum, spluttering and coughing. Massaging her precious neck, I sneer. Spineless bug. She glances at me through her freakish neon-light hair that glows. She scrabbles back on the floor, trembling all the while. I take a mocking step forward and she screams in pure terror. A hand is her saving grace; it catches my shoulder forcefully, and drags me back.

Push. I'm back in my metal chair, this time glancing up at a heavily tanned man with several scars running down his face and thinning black hair coupled with muddy brown eyes. He's packed, but he definitely isn't as strong as me. Perhaps in his heyday he might've been. "Yes, Brutus?" I try to play innocent, my little car pocketed under all my gaudy decorative armor.

"Innocent is a not a look you can pull off, Cato," Brutus growls and I laugh. He's right. I'm anything, but innocent. I corrupt the incorruptible.

"Your point being..." I yawn in his face, a blatant show of disrespect. He gets all huffy and puffy and rigid. I doubt that he'll start a fight with me. He isn't nearly as strong as he used to be. I could take him down in an act of pure strength.

"You nearly killed her! What were you thinking!" He hollers and clear spit flies in my face. I don't blink. It doesn't intimidate me. I couldn't fathom why he's angry. My stupid stylist doesn't matter. I'm sure they can replace her easily. I'm the one they really care about. Have you ever heard of the Hunger Games with only 23 tributes in the Games? No. You haven't.

"I wasn't thinking about anything. She touched my token and I reacted. Next time, maybe she'll ask permission before she touches other things. I thought it was a universal lesson all adult-figures taught to children," I say simply. In fact, I have a brilliant idea. "Darling," I address my shaking stylist in the middle of the room. She inches away further but there's nowhere to go. "Have you learned your lesson? You don't touch what's not yours," I coo.

Her eyes dart from side to side, a sign of fear. However, she's not answering. No, No, No, that won't do. I click my tongue disapprovingly. "Answer me. Have you learned you lesson?" I'm whispering but my voice fills the whole room.

"Y-Y-Yess," she whimpers. Her dyed orange lips are pulled into a frown and they're quivering. Poor baby. I snicker.

"See." I turn my attention back to Brutus' shocked face. "She's learned her lesson," I say with an amiable tone. Brutus shakes his head, but doesn't bother to say anything. He just stands there in front of me. I'm fine with that. I twist my chair around, viewing myself in the mirror. My flaxen hair is spiked in a hundred different directions, a brilliant red outlines each piece. I'm dressed in some sort of gladiator outfit, a fake sword with the District 2 Insignia on its handle at my side. I admit to myself I look the Greek God Ares, the feared god of war.

Awesome. I grin at my image before facing Brutus yet again. He's staring at me, this time in such an odd way, his facial expression is blank but his eyes say it all. He's disgusted by my attitude and the way I hold myself. I'm arrogant and cruel like any real Career. I laugh uproariously and he stares at me in confusion. "Attention, Attention, all tributes are to report to their chariots immediately. All tributes are to report to their chariots. Thank you!" the invisible intercom tells us.

I get up, brushing pass Brutus. "You haven't seen me at my worse and I don't think you want to. Remember that, Brutus," I call over my shoulder as I exit the styling room to my destination.

It takes no more than ten minutes to get to the chariot area. Random people are tending to white horses along with cleaning and polishing chariots. My attention immediately latches onto District One's chariot. It's encrusted in precious gemstones, all very shiny and clear. District One's girl, Glamour... Glass... Glitz... whatever her name is, bats her eyelashes at me flirtatiously. I smirk at her, giving her a none too subtle once over starting with her legs and ending at her viridian eyes. She giggles like a schoolgirl, completely ignoring her partner who's seething.

'You mad, bro? Come at me then.' I mouth over to little chump, pointedly ignoring the middle finger he sends me. I make my way over to my chariot, which is designed for what I assumed ancient Grecian or Roman times to go with our theme. Clove is already in her place on the cart, taking the left while I take the right. She notices me when I step alongside her, rocking our transportation.

"You're late," she spits.

"The parade hasn't started. I'm fine," I reply back.

"Humph," she grunts and crosses her arms, looking away from me. I don't bother to say anything else to her. I know I'm not late and I know she's not really mad over that. She's jealous because I decided to respond or rather indulge in Ms. Barbie's advances. The chariot lurches forward as the giant mental doors burst open, District One goes first and the crowd is deafening even from where we are.

We're outside in a few seconds, it's surprisingly hot since its nighttime, but I guess that's because of the hundreds of lampposts that surround us. Behind those lampposts sit thousands of people dressed up ornately, screaming our names, raving for us to win their bets. I nudge Clove sharply in her side, nodding at her weapon. She glares at me, but reluctantly follows my lead. She raises an elaborate chain-scythe and I raise my sword. The crowd chants our name as we wave around our props. My heart beats wildly and I let out a war cry.

Clove and I are Ares and Enyo, gods of war. The orange banners, which hung on the lampposts blow with an invisible wind and our fearsome image flickers on it. This is what I'll look like when I come out of the Hunger Games, victorious. I raise my weapon once more and the crowd goes wild yet again. I think I've gained tons of sponsors. The Games are surely in the palm of my hand.

Peeta, I'm co - the thought stops in mid transit. The crowd is overwhelmingly loud. I lower my fake weapon and share a look with Clove. She's just as confused as I am, the chariot carries over to a weird space where there's a large castle-tower thing and the President sits at its balcony. Ba, I don't care about that. My eyes wander over to the fluttering banners on the lampposts; District Twelve Trash replaces our previous images. I'm offended. How dare the Capitol think worthless coal was better than - again the thought stops.

They're on fucking fire. I struggle to school my features but really, it's fascinating. Bright, orange, flames lick at their tight black suits. It streams behind them and admittedly, it makes them look fierce, competition for us. Immediately a sneer crosses my features, competition. Has my mind betrayed me? Since when has District Twelve ever done anything remotely noteworthy in the Games? Pfft, they'll die in the bloodbath. I'll make sure of it.

My hands clamp on my eyes when the Capitol audience shows their enthusiasm yet again. Their hands are intertwined, held high in the air; faux confident smiles decorate their faces. The Capitol loves romance and District Twelve apparently provides that. I cross my arms, eyeing the chariot as it pulls into the lot as the others. District Twelve's slag doesn't bother to even look even my direction, but the boy does.

His azure gaze is smoldering, he's cocky and challenging. He knows he's won over the crowd and he's rubbing it in my face. The smirk curls on his lips and he crosses his arms. Does he want to be the first one to die by my hands? I fix him with my worst glare, but he isn't even fazed. His eyes are wide and his mouth drops open, yet he isn't scared. He's mocking me.

President Snow is talking and for now, my attention turns away from the District Twelve boy. The President jabbers on and on about the honor it is to be in the Games, fight for your lives, win to win, and show the Capitol your worth. Panem, it's just as boring as it is on TV. He sits down and dismisses us afterwards. The Chariots roll to another opening near the tower thing, the room we finally settle in is huge. All the chariots manage to fit in there along with everybody's stylists and mentors, or rather mentor in Twelve's case.

I rip off my chest plate and dump it in front of my stylists, briefly winking at the one who dressed me for my Games. I push passed Enobaria, Brutus, and Lyme settling on him. He's talking to his District partner; they're comfortable with each other, touching arms and all smiley, and happy. Almost makes me hurl. He jerks his head in my direction, the same smirk plastering his face. We hold each other stares before the girl calls his name, walking away.

"Roti!" He winks and goes on his merry way.

Roti, huh? He was the first on my list to kill.

"Most tributes die of hunger, poison, cold, and the natural elements rather than being killed off by other tributes. The purpose of the training room lies there. Learn everything you can within these three days and maybe you shall die a painless death," she says apathetic. Her curly black hair is tied into her bun and she bares no emotion on her chocolate face. I feel a certain amount of respect from her; she is unlike any Capitol scum I've seen so far.

"You may go," she releases us to the training room. The lower Districts rush toward the stations with frantic faces, they're vermin, the lot of them. Three days of training. What good will that do? I've had fourteen years of training over them.

"Train with your best weapon, learn how to build shelter, create fires, and properly clean animals -," I command the Pack for this year games. District Four isn't included this year; they're nothing but prepubescent weaklings.

"Hey! Who died and made you leader of the pack?" The One boy dares to interrupt me. He holds his arms over his chest, sniffs and raises his head. I wonder… what do I expect to see from this second-rate, spoiled tribute?

"Marvel, I believe your name is," Clove beats me to it, turning to face the kid. "Watch your tongue around Cato here, lest you find yourself on the floor, tongueless!"

"Who are you, shrimp? I could beat you with my hands tied behind my back," he sneers down at Clove.

Clove, however, brushes her dark hair back. "A mere silly boy trying to play adult games. You're going to get yourself killed," she warns, walking away.

"I'll be at target practice," Clove tells us flippantly. I nod over at her direction, happy that at least someone follows orders. The blond chick I still don't know the name of, grins at me. She skips over to my side, her hands trailing my arms. I'm in no mood at the moment for her.

"Tell me what you wish for me to do, Cato," she whispers into my ear. A shiver travels down my spine. I pull back from her, this moron... has she no will to survive? Does she think I'd drop all training to have a two-minute hump? I don't even know her name. "We can get out of here," she still goes on, her hands traveling lower and lower until I grab her wrist in an unbreakable hold.

"Bow and arrows. Go and practice," I command. She stares at me horrified as if she expected me to truly take her request. "Go." She draws back from my person and I breathe a sigh of relief. She mutters something that I do not bother to catch, scampering off to do what I told her. "Good girl," I say under my breath, praising her like a dog, and that is what she is. At last, it comes down to the kid and I. He glares at me, I'm sure, at what he thinks is viciously, but my baby brother Trajan can glare better than that and he's four.

"You glare at me, do you not have to balls to speak your true thoughts?" I jab at the kid. He grinds his teeth and takes a step forward. I can smell his putrid breath and the stinky cologne I recognize as the Capitol's. "Jabberjay caught your tongue, Ms. Prissy?"

I hold his puny glare with a calm gaze of my own. He poses no threat to my person. Ms. Prissy whom stands before me is barely recognizable as dirt beneath my worn leather boots. I turn away from him, it's clear that he would try nothing. My destination is weights. A stride forward; it's sudden. Ms. Prissy jumps on my back, his arms wrap around my throat. My expression does little to change as I hunch ahead, grabbing his shirt and throwing him forward.

He tumbles onto the hard ground and I'm sure everybody is staring at us. I couldn't care less. Ms. Prissy is lucky he is my ally. He tries to sit up from the ground, but I move too fast for him. I press a boot carelessly on his chest, pinning him to ground where he belongs. "Ms. Prissy," I tsk. "Is that all they taught you in District One? How to be arrogant and not know when your superiors stand before you?" I laugh like Ms. Prissy has told me the funniest joke.

"In District Two, they beat the knowledge of subordination in you, and you are my subordinate in every way. At this moment, I could fuck you raw like a bitch for everyone to see. That'll teach you, or," I use my heel to dig into his diaphragm, he draws a sharp intake of breath and he fights to breathe yet again. "I could kill you, right here and now. I don't want a weakling in my ranks." He tries oh so desperately to lift my foot off of him and respond; I simply add in more force. The panic on his face nearly causes my dick to harden. I want the joy in killing. I want to feel the overpowering burn of pleasure to course through my veins at the feel of destroying someone else's life as easily as I would a bug's.

"So, what's it going to be Ms. Prissy - me fucking you in front of everyone here or you dying like a helpless animal? I'm fine with either," I say, increasing my foot power. I can feel his chest trying to rise and fall, the way he struggles to breathe. His eyes tell of panic, for someone to help him, to save his meaningless life from me.

"Pl... eas... e," Ms. Prissy rasps and I let up the teensiest bit.

"Speak up!"

"Please... I... s-so...r.. ry," he splutters.

"For what?" I prompt him, leering over his pitiful form.

"Di... s... obe... yiiing... you," he chokes, squirming under my hold, still trying to suck in air to his depraved lungs. I study his useless form for a minute, really wondering if he would be any use to the Career Pack. It only takes a moment, but I decide as an act of mercy to let him live. Touchy-feely blondie most likely can't do jack, but Ms. Prissy could still be of use. My foot retracts off his chest and he coughs horribly, breathing in deeply. I bend down and pick him up by his shirt, he may stand a few inches taller than me, but I doubt the height difference does anything to boast his ego or lessen the frightened look in his eye.

"What are your skills?" I inquire.

"Spears," he answers breathlessly.

"Good, go to the track and run twenty," I tell him, letting go of his shirt. He stands, subtly shaking.

"B-But," he stammers.

"Ms. Prissy, I believe I gave you an order. Do I have to force you?" I question, the underlying tone of warning is clearly heard. He shakes his head rapidly and goes to the track area, he never turns back to take a glance. Good boy. Doggy number two was trained without much of a hassle. Twenty pairs (not including Ms. Prissy, Clove, or Barbie) of eyes follow me as I go to the weight-lifting station, I don't bother trying to scare them off or anything. I've already rooted a deep seed of fear in all of them. Fear is a weapon I could use to my advantage.

At the training station, the person or whatever, stands far away from me listing off what I have to do and the best form on how to do so. He never makes eye contact with me (a sign of submission) as he hands me heavy discs and weights. I set the weights down, and some of the discs but one. I position myself in a traditional stance set to toss when a deep voice makes me sag. "Mind if I join you?"

I turn to the voice straight to my right, in the other lane. He already has his own sets of weights and such. Roti immediately comes up in my mind, the District Twelve boy. I play uncaring though, "Who are you?" He raises a white-blond eyebrow, that stupid smirk still on his face.

"Aww, Cato, I'm hurt. You don't remember me, dear old Roti?" Roti says in such a manner that makes me want to punch him in the face. He's still mocking me.

"Do you have a last name?" I ask calling somebody by their given name is a form of respect. Why would I want to respect someone that will die as soon as the timer goes off? I don't.

"Mellark," he says after a few moments of silence. The disc slides from my hand and drops onto the ground with a heavy thud. Mellark, that can't be. In Panem, there's only a clan name unique to one family. So, how in the world can this rat have the name Mellark? No one, but my Peeta has that last name. Peeta hasn't mentioned any siblings or his life before he came to District Two. Then again, I haven't asked.

"Mellark," I repeat and he nods.

"Do you have any siblings?" I ask him sharply, he doesn't answer, just nods. His smirk by now has diminished until there was nothing left. "Tell me who they are," I barely restrain myself from saying anything about Peeta. I need answers and he has to be the one to give them to me.

"What's with the sudden interest?" He says defensively.

I shrug. "When I travel around the Districts after I win, I would like to know what families my opponents come from," I respond, indifferently. He eyes me for a while. His stance shifting into tired and defeated. I don't comment on that. In all Districts, we understand family.

"I have two brothers. Rye's the eldest, he's twenty-two. I have another brother. His name was Peeta; he was the youngest one. He would be sixteen," he says, turning away from me.

"He would?"

"He died when I was... I've got to go." He hurriedly walks away from me, his hair hiding his eyes. I just watch his movements, shrugging the Twelve's girl arm off of him, continuing on in an undefined trail. I have a sudden itch to tell him of Peeta. He's fine and happy. Safe.

I bite my tongue though my heart beats madly in my chest. If my little brother, Trajan, was suddenly taken away from me, I would want word of his whereabouts, but here in the Hunger Games, there is no time for niceties. I observe him a little longer his demeanor has significantly changed. No longer does he jest; he stands there lost, his head bent down. And then, as if lightening flashes, too quick to see where it originated from, he flies into a rage.

He's near the weapon station and he grabs a pistol from the table, a dummy in his hindsight. Almost everyone cowers to the ground as he screams, shooting nonstop at the dummy. The bullet races through the dummies' face and chest and if the dummy had been a real person it would be dead at the moment. He has an amazing aim for close-range. I only wonder about his aim from a distance. I don't much care how sick and disgusted he looks when he realizes what he's done. I'm only interested in his surprise power.

Two days I have to coax him into using his newfound ability, two days I have to persuade him to join the Career Pack by any means necessary.

"I hate to break it to you, Cato, my boy, but I'm straight as a lead ruler," Roti teases me as he rolls over onto his back. He's surrounded by fake grass in a training room where false targets pop up. His handgun lies innocently to his side.

"I'm bisexual. However, I wouldn't take such a scrawny boy to my bed. My cock has standards. You don't meet any one of them," I say with more of a teasing tone then I intend. Roti laughs and gets up from the ground; he puts his gun in his holster, coming to my side.

"Come now Cato, you've been watching me for these past three days. What is it that you seek? I'm all ears," he snickers as he cups his ear, waiting. He has nerve, had it been anyone else, they would be on the ground nose most likely broken. He's different. His personality vaguely reminds me of Peeta when we were younger and carefree. He's something of a personal joy to be around.

"Join the Career Pack. We need your skills," I say, frank. There is no use in beating around the bush. He backs away from me. He holds his hands up, shaking his head.

"I decline. We've become... friends these past few days. That's too much though," he replies. "I'm sorry."

"Sorries mean nothing," I say calmly, expecting that to be his answer. I can't really say I'm sorry for what comes next. "You love that girl, don't you? I can offer temporary protection from the Career Pack and the other tributes."

"Katniss is strong enough to take care of herself!" Roti yells, his fist curls up at the very mention of her name. So, he doesn't care to protect her from sure death. Alright, the boy is headstrong, better than Ms. Prissy and Barbie.

"Your brother then. I offer information on your younger brother. Peeta. Is that not his name?" I taunt. "I can give you all the information you desire. Simply join us until we break apart."

He's silent; a tremor runs through his body alike three days ago. There's only me and him and he wouldn't harm me. He is outclassed and I hold information that he holds dear. His face reveals it all, it's more expressive than I'm used to, but that's a fault that I could use against him when the time comes. "Peeta? He's alive? How do you know of him?" He fires, swooping in closer to me. His nose flares and his eyes grow bigger.

"The very same. He's alive and well, and how I know of him." I smirk beseechingly. "I'm not so sure I should tell you. Unless of course we have a deal..." I trail off.

"I'll join! I'll do anything, just tell me of Peeta, please," he says fervently. Too easy, I preen to myself. And he said that he'd do anything for me. I wonder if that includes killing off his partner. I shake my head, I am no seer. It's too early for these thoughts. I gave myself room to breathe. "Please, Cato!"

"Peeta lives in District Two, he's a close friend," I leave with that, offering no more. I move pass his shaken form. "Sit with us at lunch and forsake the girl. I'll give you other orders in due time," I say. He just nods. Perfect. He's right in my grasp and I intend for it to stay that way.

"See you," I nod in his direction, taking my leave.