Chapter Twenty
Warning: Cato's POV gets a bit graphic (and angsty)
Katniss
Leon is fairly bouncing in his seat with eagerness, his curly hair glinting in the late afternoon light. Hazel is sitting quietly beside him, her tan face drawn but determined. The only sign of her nerves is seen in her fingers, roughened fingers that tie and untie a short length of white twine in her lap. They are sitting in the apartments the Capitol has allotted them – the Penthouse. Katniss feels a surprising twinge of homesickness as she recalls the excitement with which Effie had presented the rooms.
She even misses Effie, of all people.
Her mind wanders back to these Games – who won the first Games? She curses for what feels like the hundredth time her lack of attention during the lessons at school. Cato would know – he's a veritable encyclopedia when it comes to the Games. Cato. She is suddenly all too aware that he is likely to be in the same building, just a few floors below her. What will she do when they meet? Will things be different? She isn't sure of anything anymore. If she had been asked a few weeks – no, even a week – ago that she would be have kis-have semi-amicable relations with the boy from Two, she would probably have punched the person for even suggesting such a despicable fallacy. And now?
"Hazel! Look! Real silk!" Leon's voice breaks through her thoughts, and Katniss looks up to see that Leon has risen to gather an armload of the delicate silken material of the ivory curtains. Hazel hesitates before standing to join him, walking over to the curtains and reaching a tentative hand out. She just brushes the smooth fabric with a fingertip. A look of wonder passes over her face as she cups her hands so the fabric pools gently in her palms, a sea of shining white against sun-bronzed skin dotted with calluses.
Katniss feels another pang as she surveys her two Tributes. They are young. She doubts either of them has ever killed anything before – not even Hazel with her false bravado. They are from Twelve and are thus already at a huge disadvantage in terms of sponsors and physical strength. Hector is already out there attempting to gather potential sponsors before the grand ride through the City Circle. These Games are slightly different; Katniss recalls how she was immediately whisked from the cool darkness of the train and into the cavernous jaws of the prep room. This year there is a half-day's space between the arrival and the presentation.
A soft knocking comes from the grand glass doors leading to the elevator. Leon and Hazel freeze, and she throws them what she hopes is an encouraging look before walking over to the door, her bare feet gripping the cold marble as she takes each step.
Step.
Who could it be?
Step.
Is it already time for the prep team to drown Hazel and Leon in a choking smear of paint and glitter?
Step.
She takes a quick glance out the window – no, the sun is far too high for it to be time yet. So who is at the door?
Step.
She grabs her bow from its resting spot on top of the glass foyer table – just in case.
Step.
She nocks an arrow smoothly, her fingers sliding against the smooth metal. She feels better armed.
Step.
She wonders when she stopped flinching at the idea of wounding a human being.
Step.
The frosted glass rises above her, a foreboding wall of ice that does not melt before the girl on fire.
Her hand reaches out and grabs the cool doorknob.
"Who's there?" she asks, wincing a bit when her voice catches on the last word.
A pause. Then-
"Cato."
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Cato
This is a bad idea. Why is he even here? He should be back in his rooms on the second floor, helping Clove keep an eye on the terrible two. And yet…he had found his mouth forming a weak excuse about scouting the area, which Clove had distractedly accepted as she proceeded to slap Ajax for attempting to flirt with her. His feet had carried him to the stairs and his legs had moved him up ten floors until he'd reached the top.
What is he even going to say when he sees her? He pictures her stormy gray eyes and the way her dark hair flies around her face when she looses an arrow. Something – nerves? – shivers down his spine. Then he catches a hold of himself and frowns. He is Cato Alexander. He does not feel nervous about anything – not even, no, especially not something as trivial as this.
A confident smirk slides onto his face just as the icy glass whispers open.
Her gray eyes meet his, and he catches his breath for a second. Then he leans against the doorframe casually, his arms folding loosely across his chest, as he surveys her. She has a new scratch on the bottom of her left jaw. He pushes down the urge to hunt down whoever had hurt her, instead forcing his gaze off of her face and onto the apartments – identical to his – behind her.
Two pairs of startled eyes gaze back at him from by the wall-length window. Cato reflexively sizes them up with clinical detachment. Male. Fourteen. Strengths – he's skinny and his legs appear relatively strong – a long distance runner. Weaknesses – not used to his body, uncoordinated, and, from the nervous way he keeps twitching, more likely to freeze at the first sight of blood than run to safety. Dead.
The girl is next. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Strengths – a glimmer of intelligence in her eyes, and she soon loses her expression of shock. Control over her emotions. He notes her broad shoulders and the determined way she's clenching her hands into fists at her sides. Weaknesses – she's the type who keeps everything bottled up until the right person comes along to push her buttons. And, from the way she's positioned her body slightly before Leon's, she's beginning to develop an attachment to the boy. Attachments get you killed. Dead. But this is a more hesitant dead…he notes with detached amusement that she's attempting to stare him down now. Maybe she'll last four days, five if she gets enough help. She was still dead, though. They all were. It was just a question of when.
Lover boy? Dead, still-burning metal coiled in his chest.
The boy from 6? Dead, freckled skin crushed under the weight of his fist – his fist that can't leave his body, can't can't can't –
The boy from 10? Dead, a slash of steel kissing his chest, his hand again, holding the metal, splattered with the red that won't go away –
He can feel their ghosts pressing against him. Cold, dry hands scratching at his skin, crawling up his legs, his chest, his arms-
Brutus's snide voice whispers into his ear, saying, "Disgrace. Disappointment" as his words coil slowly around his neck, gripping tighter and tighter until his throat is constricted. He turns wildly, searching for someone – anyone to hit, something physical that he can fight –
But he is alone. No, not alone. He has an army of ghosts to contend with and eighteen years of brutal training that cannot hope to prepare him for enemies that only he can see.
A harsh, almost-desperate sounding growl rises up in his throat, accompanied by the acrid taste of bile. His surroundings are blurred, hazed by the empty mouths and gutted throats that burst as soon as he looks at them, moving closer, closer, always closer.
He's starting to panic, years of training vanished. He tries in vain to center himself, to turn off his emotions until only Cato the machine is left. But the ghosts are there with rasping hands and empty eyes, and he is no match for such attacks.
He is distantly aware of someone shouting his name, but the ghosts are pressing closer and he can feel his heart speeding up, pounding as if it wants to wrench out of his chest and flee from the desecrated soul that is within him-
But he cannot escape. He has the blood staining his fingers his hands his eyes his mind and there is no –
A torrent of cold water slams into his head, and the ghosts hiss before retreating slowly. He jumps, shaking his head wildly as he scans the room. He's back in the apartments now. Gray eyes look at him worriedly, soon followed by a straight nose, olive skin, and a mouth that's set in a grim line as his vision returns.
"K-Katniss?" he rasps.
She glances over his shoulder at something – probably the two Tributes, his mind registers vaguely – before setting her jaw and reaching out to grip his arm. He flinches automatically, his fist curling into a fist. She notices the motion – of course she does, for the girl on fire misses nothing – but chooses to ignore it, pulling him forward through the doors and into the empty hallway containing the elevator.
"What were you thinking?" she hisses vehemently, but he can see the concern that still shines from her eyes. "Hazel and Leon can't know that we – we…we know each other well enough to visit each other's apartments. Mentors aren't supposed to be friends. If sponsors hear that two has a weakness for twelve – " He bristles automatically – Cato Alexander does not have any weaknesses. He pushes away the last of the ghosts with that thought.
She continues before he has the chance to protest. "Yes, I know you don't have a weakness for twelve, but how do you think it will look to your Sponsors? I have no idea who your Tributes are, but are you willing to cast away their lives so easily?" Then she takes a deep breath, looking a bit sorry for her outburst.
He stiffens. This was definitely a bad idea. He neither needs nor wants her pity.
"Cato…you froze. Are – are you okay?" She clearly feels uncomfortable. Well, he'll take her out of her misery.
"I did not freeze. Careers don't-" he begins coldly. He does not feel anything. He is merely a machine that cannot be affected by attacks on the mind, for metal and bolts do not feel.
"-don't freeze, I know. But Cato – Careers don't exist in this time period. There are no Careers, no training academies, nothing but the fact that you have two lives depending on you. I want to get back too – you don't think I want to see Prim again? To forget that this whole nightmare ever happened? But the fact is, we are here now. And now there are two children whose lives rest on your shoulders, and I have no idea how to be a Mentor or pretend to be friends with gaudily dressed puppets who make me want to vomit but I sure as hell am going to try my absolute best," she says forcefully. He pauses. The metal is breaking down, ripped apart by the merciless blunt of her words.
Ajax and Ophelia, as annoying as they may be, are two lives that he will not let the Capitol rip away. So he nods slowly, meeting her eyes levelly. He swallows his pride and says, "You're right."
An almost-comical expression of complete disbelief passes over her eyes briefly before it's replaced by one of cool indifference. He resists the urge to laugh, instead continuing, "Thank you."
Now she can't hold back her surprise. Well, while he's systematically destroying every semblance of respect that he's earned as a Career, he might as well go all the way.
So he leans forward and brushes a stray tendril of hair from her high cheekbone. He holds the dark curl up to the artificial light of the hallway, wondering briefly at its softness. Then he lets it fall and smirks at the way she's frozen in place.
He feels a bit of his old confidence returning. He has an immediate purpose now. A brief feeling of warm gratefulness fills his chest as he looks down at the girl who brought him back.
"Well, now that I've checked out the competition, I suppose I'd better get back down and report on my findings," he says lightly. That breaks her out of her reverie – she scowls, folding her arms over her chest.
He salutes her before turning on his heel and walking past the gilded doors leading to the elevator and through the comparatively plain door to the stairwell.
Just as he's about to push open the gray door, Katniss's voice rings through the hallway.
"Wait!"
He turns, eying her curiously.
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Katniss
Her cheek is still warm from where his fingers brushed it. She scowls inwardly at her foolishness before clearing her throat.
Cato will know the winner of the Games. But does she want to know? What if – as is most likely, a small voice whispers snidely in the back of her mind – Leon and Hazel aren't the victors? Will she be able to return and face them the way she had before when all she sees is the boom of a cannon and their faces projected on the hologram when she looks at them?
Her mouth opens of its own accord, and the words spill out before she can stop them.
"The Games. These Games, I mean. Who wins?"
He blinks before opening his mouth to respond. Then he shuts it again, his brows furrowing in confusion.
"That's odd…" he murmurs.
Her heart is pounding in nervous trepidation. "What's odd?" she demands impatiently. She's never been the most patient of people, and Cato's slow responses are making her feel like a rabid animal trapped in a trap that keeps constricting.
Cato meets her eyes, and a flash of understanding and – empathy? – flickers in his eyes, but it's gone in the next second and Katniss is left wondering if she had imagined it.
"It's…odd. I should know this. I've studied it often enough…but it's fuzzy. Like something has gone in and scrambled my memory," he explains.
She frowns, a mixture of disappointment and relief flooding her body.
"Do you think someone did – did do that?" it sounds a bit foolish to even be talking about someone going into a mind and deliberately messing up certain memories, but then again, they have just traveled back in time.
He scowls, clearly disgruntled at the idea of someone messing with his mind.
"Maybe. But who would have the ability to do that? And when?"
She has no answer. Neither does he.
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After Cato has left for his apartments and she has returned to her own and semi-successfully fended off the barrage of questions, she forces herself to focus on the matter at hand.
Hazel and Leon are both seated on the dark blue armchairs across from her, leaning forward to look at the crude diagram she's drawn. She points to the Cornucopia – a smeared blur at the center of the field – and says, "See this? This is where all the supplies will be piled. It will be very tempting to rush there. Do not go all the way in. I don't know what your competitors look like, but I'm guessing that most of them will have no idea what they're going in to. The Games are new. No one knows much about them. This will be your advantage. I will tell you everything I know."
"But how do you know?" Leon asks. She pretends not to have heard his question, instead jabbing at the Cornucopia again with her index finger.
"If your competitors don't look too fast, grab the first thing you see – at the very edge of the circle of supplies – and run as fast as you can away from it. As soon as the other Tributes gather their bearings they'll initiate a literal bloodbath. The Careers from One, Two, and maybe Four will take charge and probably guard the supplies for themselves."
This time it is Hazel who interrupts. "Careers?"
Katniss inwardly curses her slip – they can't know – no one – can know that they are from the future. If word got out, it would paint a giant, blood red target on their backs and then she'd never get home to Prim.
"Well, Districts One, Two, and Four are usually the favored ones, right?"
Hazel nods, a scowl creasing her pretty face. "Yeah. The cowardly ones who didn't help the…" her voice trails off as a stricken expression appears on her face. Katniss casts a glance over her shoulder for any eavesdroppers, but thankfully they are alone.
"They'll be the best fed and thus the strongest – the Careers," she explains, wondering in the back of her head if this is where the term first appears – if by some twisted way she is actually the creator of the word. The very idea unsettles her, so she pushes it down and focuses again on the map.
"I have no idea what the Arena will look like, but you can be certain that it will be difficult terrain. Water should be your first priority. Without water you'll be dead in-"
"Three days," Hazel finishes, a solemn expression in her eyes. Even Leon has lost his excitement, his still-developing face devoid of any enthusiasm.
"Dead," he says slowly. She looks at him worriedly; Leon is the one she is most worried about. He was the one who was most excited about the Games, the one who was still innocent enough to believe that the Capitol isn't capable of such horrors. Now that she's burst his illusions…
"So that's it, then. They're sending us in there to die." His voice is strangely level, and his eyes have a fevered glint to them.
"We are going to die." A half-strangled laugh bursts from his throat, and he is shaking, his limbs moving quickly, his knee bouncing up and down-
"We are going to die."
Author Note: First off – sorry for the (huge) delay between this chapter and the last! School caught up with me, and I didn't have any free time to write fanfic :( Anyway, thank you so much for your patience and for reading my story/reviewing! You guys make me so happy :)