Hello, everyone! At long last, I am posting again! Geez, between finals and the holidays, I thought I would never get this chapter written. As it is, it's been quite a while, and for that I apologize-thank you for your patience! It doesn't help that I had the most unbelievable, infuriating case of writer's block! (that being said, this chapter may be a little rough...)
Anyway, thanks again to everyone who has stayed with me! I hope this chapter is suitable, and I hope to start regularly writing again...? Well, here's to hoping. Now, enjoy chapter 13!
I don't even bother trying to sleep that night. Since arriving in the capitol, the nightmares have become progressively worse with each passing night…so of course, the night before the games offers a point of culmination that I don't want to consider. I'm avoiding my own imagination, as it has, regrettably, allied itself with my fears. So as I lay in the dark of my room, stare up into the blackness, I attempt to remain in denial. It's the easiest way to combat the knowledge that when the sun rises over the glistening dead fish that is the capitol, it may be my last chance to greet the morning.
Unfortunately, my meditative state of mind only carries so far. Within an hour of gazing into the static gloom, the darkness becomes suffocating. My imagination no longer confines itself to my dreamscape, but attempts to run rampant over my eyes, open and staring as they are. The specks of colored static ever-present in complete darkness move, conglomerate into faces: people from home cry for me; the strange shapes and colorful garb of the capitol float in twists and deformities like something ghoulish from one of my nightmares. Finally, the faces of the tributes race through the darkness and are cut down to fall in puddles of bloodied dirt. I don't have to picture any more to know whose weapon struck the blow.
With a jolt, I leap from the bed, narrowly avoid smacking my forehead against the low ceiling of the boat-style cot. I can't stay in the room a second longer…my breathing has escalated alarmingly, parallel to my heart's racing tattoo. The gasps that escape my lungs are the only sound in the room, and as I make my way haltingly toward the door, they seem to rise in volume until they are screams ringing in my ears. They don't stop until I'm gagging on them. Don't stop breathing.
The world feels unbearably chaotic as I stumble into the narrow passage between my room and Oscar's, feel my way through the sunken living room. I trip on the steps twice, the thuds muffled by the sounds of my growing panic, before I manage to reach the door to the apartment. Each district gets its own floor…but the rooms are strategically spaced apart, connected by a string of halls that, to a cynical mind, take up majority of the actual tower. Convenient passageways for capitol guards to reach the tributes should something happen. There was a year when I was young that two tributes from the same district tried to kill one another in their rooms.
When, at last, I break into the halls, it seems the world freezes for a moment. All is silent, illuminated by ice-blue lights that flicker from the walls. It feels like I'm under water, somewhere utterly clean, frigid. I imagine this must be what the legendary Arctic waters look like. Eventually, however, the world comes creeping back to life. My breathing reaches my ears in shallow, slow waves; my heart hammers persistently, as though losing strength as it tries to escape its ribbed cage.
I couldn't say how long I stand in the hallway, back rigid, gaze anchored on nothing, equidistant between the walls. It's light…and blue. It reminds me of the portholes of the Bobber. My heart has finally quieted, so I begin strolling aimlessly through the halls. Foot after foot of the same blue, blank walls. I can't tell if it's comforting or suffocating, but anything is better than going back to the darkness in my chambers.
I round a corner, and the door to my room disappears, leaving me trapped in a labyrinth of ice. I take a deep breath, find a smile almost dawning on my lips. Completely alone, my mind stays determinedly away from thoughts of tomorrow, the arena…I am back at the shore of the Bay, toes brushed by the scalloped, blue tongue of the ocean…
"Four." I whirl around so fast it's a wonder my head stays on my shoulders. As it is I'm sure I'll suffer whiplash later. Standing perhaps five feet away from me, bathed in blue, Cato offers a light grimace.
My first reaction is confused anger. Completely jolted from my blissful imaginings, I stride toward him, fists clenched. I refuse to recognize that he towers at least a foot over me, or that if push came to shove he could break every bone in my body without breaking a sweat. I glare up at him.
"What are you doing here?!" I demand in a fierce whisper. He shrugs, looks away and, to my surprise, takes a halfhearted step back. His hand rubs the back of his neck, scruffs through his hair as though the answer lies buried there. I lower my proverbial hackles, sheath the fangs and wait for his explanation, assuming he's not here to kill me in my sleep.
Finally, his eyes flick back to mine, and for the first time I notice the pallor in his face, caused by more than the blue mood light. His hands, down at his sides now, fidget nervously, and his eyes only pause on mine briefly before flicking about the space. I frown—this isn't the fierce career that dominates the training arena. It's not even the bitter teenage boy I talked to on the roof.
"I just…I needed to get away." He mumbles. I don't say anything in response to that, merely raise an eyebrow. What could he escape by coming to the fourth floor? Surely it was better for him down with the rest of the mechanical careers.
He must read something in my face, because Cato lets out a heavy sigh, turns to lean against the wall, head down. I wonder if that sigh contains every molecule of oxygen in his system, because once it's released he seems to stop breathing. I turn away, uncomfortably between emotions. Of course, I'm relieved to have my blue silence back…but after a few moments, it grows tense, and I can feel Cato's eyes burning holes in my back. I release a sigh of my own, turn back to face him.
"What exactly are you escaping by coming up here?" I ask quietly. My voice sounds oddly choked—a remnant of my earlier stress. He stares at me for a long moment before looking back at the ground. Then he seems to deflate, sliding his back down the wall to sit on the floor, knees up to support his elbow, which in turn holds his hand up to cup his chin. I watch all of this with mild detachment. Something in Cato's mannerisms are making me nervous.
"I wanted to get away from the rest of the careers." He says at last. I shift; this is uncomfortable. I can't decide whether to sit next to him or remain standing. Maybe I could sit against the opposite wall? It feels strange to look down at him…
"Why?" I ask simply, finally decide to sit awkwardly a foot away from him. He shoots me an amused half smile, and I look away.
"You really think I want to spend the last night before the games surrounded by them?" he asks. I shrug.
"Why not? They're the same as you are."
"Exactly!" he scoffs. I shake my head slightly, not really understanding. Or perhaps not wanting to. He gives me a disbelieving look. "Come on, Four," he prods. "Would you want to spend tonight surrounded by people like me?" My return stare is pointed, and he chuckles awkwardly, rubs a hand over the back of his neck again. "Right…sorry for invading, I guess…"
I'm frowning at him again, trying to puzzle him out. Does he have multiple personality disorder, or something? There are just too many Cato's…
"Well, it's different for you, right?" I ask, wrap my arms around my knees, pull them against my chest. "I mean, for most of us, being surrounded by you guys is the equivalent of being dropped into a shipwreck swarmed by sharks." He quirks an eyebrow at me before cracking up. I frown.
"I suppose that's how you guys would see it," he rumbles through chuckles. "After all, we're trained for this. We learn early on that it's no big deal to kill someone. Hell, they're going to die eventually, anyway, might as well go out with a bang." His words are sharp, hard and cruelly mocking. But they're hollow, too, and I wonder how many times he's heard them. Suddenly the smile disappears from his face, again replaced with something that makes me very uneasy. My heart sinks to pound in my stomach, but I can't pinpoint the cause of my sudden anxiety.
"Well, aside from the training, we're all pretty well off until you get to district 9," I mumble, just to say something. He offers a thin smile.
"I guess."
"But the training makes a pretty big difference." He shoots me a look, trying to decide how serious I am. I quirk a grin, but I can't completely hide that I'm partially serious. How could I not be? There are reasons why the careers win as often as they do.
"It's never enough of a difference though, is it?" he nearly whispers. I frown, wait for him to continue. He shifts uncomfortably. "No matter how much we train, most of us will die. Only one winner, remember?" he laughs hollowly, and I wonder why on earth he would make such a gesture. After all, there's nothing funny about it…
"Well, at least you have a fighting chance." I mutter. There's a slight edge to my voice, because I think I've figured out why I'm so uneasy.
"Yeah…but how much better can that make anything? If I lose, I die." He swallows hard. "But if I win—if I live…" He looks at me, and I'm trapped in his gaze. I want to cry, scream at him and tell him to get off my floor and stop feeling sorry for himself. But mostly I'm sick to my stomach, because Cato—fighting machine, career—feels exactly the same way I do.
I glare at the floor. I don't want to know this. I want to think he and the other careers are cold, unfeeling killers. Why did he choose tonight to show me his humanity?
The silence stretches impossibly long, getting thinner and more brittle by the second. So when at last I have to break it, I feel like I shatter it.
"Do the other careers feel like that?" I ask so quietly it's a wonder he can hear me. Perhaps I'm hoping he doesn't—do I really want the answer? Thankfully, he shrugs.
"Who knows? That's part of why I had to get away from them, tonight. They all seem…calm. And I'm so…agitated; I can't stand the wait." I flinch away a bit—there's a touch of the machine in his voice. He cuts his gaze at me, offers a smile to balance out the hardness. More silence. "Do you have siblings?" He asks suddenly. For a moment I can't answer—where did that come from?
"Yeah—a younger brother," I answer at last, smile at the floor. "Brook. He wanted to volunteer for this madness…"
"You stopped him?" Cato's voice is…odd. I look at him out of the corner of my eye, wonder if he's insulted. After all, he volunteered.
"Yeah…he's only 15. No way was I letting him volunteer." I look at the floor. Is he mad? Then a huge hand covers my head, roughly musses my hair. I look up in surprise; Cato offers a broad grin, pats my head.
"Good move, four," he says. I find myself smiling with him, even laughing a bit through my anxiousness. I open my mouth to ask about his family.
"Tobi? What are you doing out here?" I freeze, whip my head around and stand quickly.
"Hey, Finnick…"
So, like I said, a little rough around the edges. I stopped and started this one an awful lot...it almost broke the story for me! But, well, it is the 13th...hopefully it will get easier from here! Anyway, hope it wasn't too disappointing...and I hope Cato isn't too...unlike himself. It was hard to get to the good stuff without making him soften up a bit...anyway, look forward to chapter 14 sometime this week!