A/N: Prim's finally older. Let the games begin.

Song Suggestion: Blue Foundation – Eyes on Fire (Zeds Dead Remix)

Updated: 1/20/22

A Killer is the Best Dancer

Four years later

Cato's tribute won the games, a lethal boy named Vixor. He killed most of his opponents with a huge club, including a fourteen-year-old boy from district twelve.

Prim dreaded district two winning these past years, mainly because of the victory tour. Four years of games and death, and Katniss had been forgotten. She was just another name amongst hundreds of dead. The sting of the people's forgetfulness had a twofold effect on Prim—now Cato didn't have to fulfill his promise. He could kill her, and no one would care.

There was one reprieve—she hadn't been invited to this year's victory speech and subsequent celebrations. Most of the town people were going to be forced to sit and watch a murderer give a speech bragging about killing their children. The poorer folk were going to participate in a far more enjoyable endeavor—a dance. Yulemass, to be specific, a tradition held every seven years to alleviate the sticking cold and to court a future spouse. With the Town Hall occupied, Yulemass was going to be located in the Hob, the only other large, covered expanse of ground.

Prim stood in front of their treasured mirror, struggling to get the best view in between the mottled spots and cracks along the reflection. She tried not to think of Cato. That he resided so close. That his body breathed within the same district.

Instead, she tried to gather the correct amount of excitement for her fist Yulemass. The last time she had been too young to participate. When she was younger, it had been all she could dream about. In fact, her dream had included a certain dark-haired man named Gale. In her dream, he'd do all the typical romantic stuff: ask her mother's permission to escort her, take her arm-in-arm, twirl her amongst the snowflakes, and end the night with a kiss.

The reality was far from the dream. Instead of Gale, she had his younger brother, Rory, to escort her. And though he wasn't bad on the eyes, he wasn't her dream. He tended to pick his nose, and he sometimes smelled like cheese.

He was also her best friend.

She sighed, touching her hair. Her mother had curled it and braided it into a beautiful halo around her head—just like Katniss before she left.

A knock sounded at the door, and she tried not to sigh in disappointment again. Rory didn't wait for anybody to answer and barged right in.

He whistled when he saw her, giving a gigantic wink with his puppy dog eyes.

"Looking good, Hot Cakes."

"Please refrain from calling me that."

"Anything you say, Sweet Cheeks."

Prim grimaced. "I'm not sure which name is worse."

"Well, I'll continue to call you names, Honey Bee, until you get your wonderful bottom out the door." He leaned against the mantle in an arrogant way, wiggling his eyebrows while staring at her said behind.

Rory contained none of the stoic, silent mystery his brother did. In fact, he was quite irritating most of the time. She wondered on a constant basis why she spent so much time with him. Most of the community thought they had a thing, just waiting for the day when they'd fall madly in love. Many of the girls at her school hated her for that fact, since he wasn't bad looking with large brown eyes, expansive shoulders, and a trim waist.

He should have been a great alternative to Gale, but she never felt butterflies in her stomach with Rory. And she knew Rory didn't like her in that way either.

"Come on, you look fabulous." He walked up behind her, glancing over her shoulder into the mirror.

She gave a little twirl in her dress. It was an ugly thing, a hand me down from her mother, patched up in the back and let out a little in the bust. It used to be a pretty pale blue, but it faded with time and sun. Besides that, it came up two inches above her socks, at an awkward length on her shin.

"Alright…" She sighed into the mirror again. "There's nothing more I can do."

She hoped it would be enough to catch Gale's attention.

Later that Night

The Hob smelled of rotting squirrel, but someone attempted to make it presentable with a strand of string lights, a table of meager donated food, and plastic sheeting to close it off from the bitterness of winter.

She and Rory arrived when the party was in full swing. Most of the food had been scavenged by hungry hordes of children, and someone slipped alcohol in the punch. Many of the teenagers danced with half-glazed expressions. The breath of the inhabitants made a fog with the piercing cold.

A fantastical beat—the latest song snatched from the capital—pounded out a melody. Not too loud. The party wasn't illegal. In fact, it was encouraged for breeding purposes. But no one wanted to tempt a city filled with peacekeepers, especially ones sent with the victory tour.

They found a group of grade friends hovering uncomfortably together in the corner, shifting from foot to foot. Prim stayed in that position for most of the night, but Rory didn't. He left her thirty minutes in to get cozy in the corner with Minda Parkerton. Some date he was, she wanted to snort with derision.

Her eyes searched the crowd for the first hour for a familiar shock of dark hair. But she gave up after that, trying not to feel down when Gale refused to show up.

"May I have this dance?" A boy from her class named Trenton asked.

She used to have a small crush on him when she was younger, but as he got older a terrible case of acne plagued him, and he lost two of his front teeth in mining accident. However, he still had the most beautiful green eyes.

His eyes crinkled into slits with a close-lipped smile when she said yes. Trenton's hands were sweaty when she grabbed them.

Again, her night turned into a bit of a disappointment. She tried to twirl, like in her dream, but Trenton kept stepping on her toes.

"Sorry," he muttered with a red tint to his cheeks.

She gave a half-smile back, attempting to hold her wince of pain.

That was about the moment she felt it—a tiny prickle at the back of her neck. An instinct as old as the world. One of survival, of imminent danger.

She was being watched.

Amid a slow turn, she twisted her neck to the side for the source. It came from the corner with an intensity that scared her.

Cato leaned against a metal pole, arms crossed, with a cold smirk.

Prim's heart stopped. Trenton stepped on her foot again with the pause, but she barely felt it. She considered bolting, but only for a moment. How could she outrun him or escape? In the quarter quell, he chased down an athletic victor from District 4 to disembowel him with a crudely sharpened branch. What chance did she have against him when she could barely make it down the street without gasping for breath?

He took a step, and she demanded her legs to not collapse. And then he took another, and she pleaded with her heart to keep silent. With each subsequent step, she prepared to meet the man who would send her to death. He walked with purpose, striding with an unhurried pace, knowing she wouldn't run. The crowd started to hush as he walked through the mass of bodies. They parted with gasps, leaving a wide space for him to move. Prim didn't blame them. He was one of the most feared men in Panem. The victor of two games, the murderer of twelve people, and the mentor of monsters. He could have them all dead with a whim, and who would care? They were just slum rats from district 12.

She kept his stare, even with multiple turns, until he stood before her and Trenton.

"May I cut in?" It was a demand cloaked as a question.

The music screeched to a halt, and Trenton startled, wrenching back and almost losing his footing. Their bodies disconnected as he backpedaled. He didn't waste time to meld into the crowd.

"I'll assume that's a yes." Cato laughed. "The prince charming gave up awfully quick on the damsel."

He moved, and she winced. But he didn't hit her. He held out his hand in a welcoming gesture, giving a little wave for Prim to take it. Prim stared at the venomous fingers. Should she take it? She was confused by his motives now. Did he want to dance or kill her or both?

It seemed the entire room held its breath, waiting for her decision.

Stand your ground. Gale's voice during training whispered in her mind. Show no fear.

She lifted her hand up, and his fingers closed around hers. They were warm and rough. He gave a small side-smile as if pleased with her action. With a tug, he pulled her tight against him, placing her hands on his shoulder and gripping her to him with fingers made of steel. He began a rotation without squishing her feet like Trenton. Instead, they glided.

The music started back up again, and the people around them began moving, slowly, giving the dancing couple a large berth.

He bent his head, hair brushing against her ear.

"Hello, little bird."

They danced one whole song in silence, though it seemed louder than silence. The music choice was a heady, quick song with a deep thump thump of bass which vibrated her bones, and it didn't match their slow, steady rotations or the tension. The muscles in his arms tightened when her hand wandered to the edge of his shoulder.

He had aged a little, but only in a way that lost his boyhood and transformed into a man. And the scar was still there, but it had faded with time, traveling in a thin silver line across his nose. She tried not to notice his handsome features, but up close they were hard to ignore and even better looking than on the television: a straight nose, clear skin, white teeth, icy eyes, and a spattering of tiny freckles only noticeable upon inspection. He wore a certain intensity that would be attractive if given a different motive besides death. Instead of attracting her, it cleared her mind of any confusion.

"You're all grown up," he said.

"That's what usually happens with passing time."

His hand dug into her hip, but he gave no other outward sign of response.

"I see you've gained some misplaced courage as well."

"Maybe that grows with time too."

He looked down his nose at her, giving her the feeling he was determining her worth.

"I almost didn't recognize you."

He didn't elaborate. She might have changed physically, but on the inside, she was still the same scared little girl staring up at him as he pressed her cheek against the goat shed.

"I've been watching you for hours," he said after many seconds of silence. She tried not to show how much that disturbed her, but it must have shown through anyway. She wasn't Katniss. She wasn't made for this game of deadly cat and mouse.

"And what did you discover?"

"You're still pathetically easy prey. My pinky finger could kill you. Yet still… it was fascinating to see the amount of terror you caused in people, despite your weakness."

"Terror?"

"Yes, terror. Why else do you think it took half the night for someone to find the courage to ask you to dance?"

He pushed her outward, making her body give a sudden twirl, then brought her back in a fluid movement. Her fingers rested on his chest. His heart thumped beneath her fingertips. She was surprised by how hard it beat, so furious it nearly bounced against his soft linen green shirt.

It made her wary, unsure of his motive. Why would he be nervous? Or was he excited?

"How did you get out of the victory celebration?"

"I'm no longer the victor. They no longer care when I leave or stay. Or where I go. I can wander all night, if I want."

The threat was barely concealed—there was no monitor for his behavior. No more Brutus to save the day.

Cato quickened the pace, flinging her out and bringing her back in. She hated to admit it, but Cato was a superb dancer, almost as good as the mythical man of her dreams.

"You're a good dancer for a murderer."

Cato's eyes focused on her mouth and then her neck.

"A killer is the best dancer. Didn't you know that? Death and war are very much a dance. They both require study of movement, placement of feet, and quick instincts."

She shuddered, and this time she knew he felt it and hated herself for it. It gave away any power she wanted to pretend to possess.

"Are you going to kill me tonight?"

He startled, looking at her again. Something sparked in his eyes. As if coming up with a plan.

"Your life has always belonged to me. What does it matter when I take it?"

That made her mad.

"I'd like to know what you plan for me."

"My plans… well, that depends."

He still wouldn't look her in the eyes, and it made her nervous and fragile like the little bird he claimed her to be. Like something terrible was about to happen.

"On what?"

"On your response."

"My response to wha—"

His lips cut her off.

She only stopped to notice their softness for a stunned second before pulling back and slapping his face. She felt the shock go up her arm and into her elbow.

He brushed his cheek with two fingers, staring at her with his head cocked to the side.

"Kill me if you must, but I'll be damned if I let you do that again."

Once again, the people around her gasped, and the music stopped. She expected for her neck to be snapped, but he surprised her with a smile.

"Both thoughts are tempting. I'll give you a moment to consider your next move."

Consider what, exactly? Confusion muddled her thoughts. It was a second chance. An opportunity to let him save face in front of a waiting crowd.

"You're revolting."

He let go of Prim, giving a small bow of acknowledgement of her decision.

"I'll be seeing you soon, little bird." He turned and took three steps before pivoting on his heel. His eyes glanced her up and down, and she squirmed under the scrutiny. "I'm looking forward to our future."

He walked past the plastic sheeting into the cold.

That's all it took to know her fate was sealed.