Cato Hadley was no stranger to nightmares. He'd been haunted by them his entire life, since the moment he heard his father's palm smacking his mother's face at the age of 4. Over time, his nightmares took on a more brutal form. Instead of scary monsters that looked like his father, he saw his worst fears come to life in front of him. He knew that no matter what, if he died tomorrow or 60 years from now, his only moments of peace would be torn apart by reality.

Yes, he knew about nightmares. He knew what caused them, why his mind was trying to cope, what to do to calm himself down. He knew he had to take big, deep breaths to slow his breathing. He had to clench his hands into fists until his nails left his palms bloody to ground himself back to reality. He knew that he had to sit on the floor of a cold shower in order to turn the shaking from fear into shivering from the cold.

So, there he sat, taking deep breaths, clenching his fists as hard as he could, on the floor of the Capitol shower with freezing cold water raining down on him.

What he didn't know was whether the water on his cheeks were tears or from the shower. He didn't know if the way his entire body shook was from fear or the frigid water. He wasn't sure if the pain in his palms was doing anything to cleanse him of what his mind had just created, even as he watched the delicate streams of red flow across the floor to the drain.

He desperately wished to return to the moment right before he fell asleep, the way he thought he was so anguished by missing Katniss's closeness, the way he believed that her heartbroken face would be the worst thing to haunt him tonight. Now, he sat with a loosened grip on reality. He felt his heart ripped to shreds at the way her screams had echoed in his ears. His eyes were glazed over as the first rays of the morning sun fell in though the window.

He pried his hands out of the fists they were balled in and grabbed the first bar of soap he could find. Of course, the Capitol had laid out a selection for them to use. He started scrubbing his entire body, rubbing until the bar of soap started to deform in his hand and his skin was raw. He focused on the suds that formed, the way the soap burned the fresh cuts in his hands, the grooves that formed in the bar as he held it so tightly it started to mold to his hand.

You could use every bar of soap in this shower… hell, this entire building. There's no way to wash away what you saw.

He ignored his negative thoughts, pulling his still-shaking body upright and turning the water to burning hot. His skin was bright red by the time he stepped out of the shower, the light, pale pink of his scars contrasting against his raw skin.

He was just finishing getting dressed when Brutus knocked on his door.

"Come in." he answered, slipping his shirt over his head as the man walked through the door.

"You certainly know how to take a long shower boy. Zinea was about to come in here and drag you out so we weren't late." Brutus stood in the doorway, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Cato. The younger man knew that he could see the remnants of last nights horrors, either on his face or by his red, splotchy skin.

"Ah, I see. You'll be smart to use some of whatever you've got going on in your private session. Pain is one of the best things to feel while swinging a sword, remember?"

Cato turned and studied Brutus. He knew there was more than what met the eye to the man, a lot of hidden emotions resided in him. He knew the man could be empathetic; he had seen it when he told him about Katniss for the first time. But now, since he watched as the older man tried to comfort Katniss, tried to make himself less intimidating to ease her fear, called her 'little one', Cato saw a softness to Brutus he didn't know the man was capable of. Now, the victor stood in front of him trying to comfort him from a nightmare in his own way. If he thought it was possible at the moment, Cato would smile at this development.

Instead, he nodded at the man and kept his face like stone as he answered,

"I plan on it."

He felt Katniss's eyes on his back as he sat in the room filled with tributes. He desperately wanted to turn around, see her face without all the bruises and cuts, see her smile at him, anything to ensure none of it was real. But at the same time, he was afraid of the look on her face. He feared it would be the same look she had when he vowed to die so she could live, the one he was never able to figure out. He was scared that she had noticed whatever Brutus had, whatever Clove did when she turned to him and whispered, "What the fuck is wrong with you today?"

He didn't even look at her, just shifted his gaze to the wall in front of him when he answered her.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Clove." His voice sounded annoyed.

"You're acting weird. And your skin is all red. And you look like you just saw a ghost or some shit."

What the hell is her problem? She's acting like she cares about me.

"Just drop it, okay." He kept his voice low, so none of the other tributes could hear their conversation.

"Whatever." She snarked at him, opting to spend some time glaring at the poor girl from 3 instead.

It was only a few minutes later when the mechanical voice called out his name. The second he entered the room, his eyes darted towards the dummies in a line across the far wall and the rack of silver swords that reflected the sharp, artificial light.

"You have 10 minutes to present your chosen skill." The voice of Seneca Crane echoed in the room. Looking up to where the gamemakers sat, he gave them all his most convincing smirk. They sat at the edge of their seats, their beady eyes following his every move. He allowed himself to slip into the Career persona he created and walked over to the swords.

The biggest one felt light in his hand even as his grip caused the fresh cuts on his palm to sting. Cato focused on the stinging pain and allowed everything he felt to come to the surface as he took his first swing.

Within seconds, the first two dummies were nothing but shredded torsos.

He let the rage he felt at his father to bubble over the surface as he tore the next dummy apart. He thought about not only his dream, but his mother's tears and the way the whip felt across his back as he swung so hard that the stand holding the dummy to the wall came loose. Bolts previously tightened securely clattered to the ground.

The next one went out to the gamemakers themselves. He imagined their sly little smiles as they worked diligently, judging them, torturing children, creating traps to make their deaths a sport. This time, the head of the dummy came flying towards him as it came off. Cato took a step back and swung again before it could hit him; effectively sending it flying across the room in two, severed pieces.

The next dummy went out to President Snow, and all the members of congress who promoted the exploitation of the districts. Allowed starving people to work like dogs to feed their children, allowed children to be brainwashed in academies, allowed their peacekeepers to punish with death for petty crimes, allowed public floggings and torture for disobedience, allowed for the Hunger Games. And just like that, another dummy was shredded to pieces.

The last dummy was truly something special. He designated this one to represent all the pain and suffering Katniss had gone through. Her father's death, the starvation, mint leaves, the disgusting reality of living in 12, soggy, burnt bread being her first meal in weeks, hunting every day in the woods, risking severe punishment to avoid going hungry, her sister's name being called, her volunteering… all of it caused pain to rip through his chest. He heard himself let out a roar as he used every muscle in his body to swing. The stand was ripped from the wall, slamming to the floor as he brought the sword down on it again; leaving the remnants of the dummy a mangled mess.

His heart pounded in his ears as he stepped back from the now destroyed row of dummies. He turned to the gamemakers, giving them his most sadistic smile. This time it was real, he hoped they could see it in his eyes.

That's what I am going to do to you.

They sat with shocked looks on their faces, even Seneca Crane did not expect that level of violence from him. He had been going light during training, simply brushing up on his skills. He didn't allow them to see how he became top choice to volunteer until this very moment. The Academy's shining, golden student. The best of the best.

He dropped the sword to the ground, still staring at the head gamemaker as the clattering echoed across the silent room. He let the bloodthirsty smile fall from his face, allowing himself to show his true hatred for only a moment. The man in the bright green suit leaned back a bit as Cato's face twisted into a murderous look, he wanted them to see that he was deadly. He wanted to watch them shrink back in fear at him. He wanted them to believe he would be the most vicious competitor in the history of the games, so that when he revealed his true motives, they would never see it coming. Cato was vicious, yes, but not against his fellow tributes. He would fight like that for good, for love, not for their sick, twisted entertainment. He would show them, and the entire country that love will always win against fear. And then, they would look like the dummies below his feet.

Without a word, he turned and walked out of the room.