Cast:
Alexander Ludwig as Cato Marcellus
Josh Hutcherson as Peeta Mellark
Jacob Elordi as Marcus
Isabelle Fuhrman as Clove Valentius
Jane Fonda as Cornelia Felix-Marcellus, Cato's Grandmother (Ouma)
Emma Watson as Ophelia Daytide
Jack Quaid as Marvel
Leven Rambin as Glimmer
Mason Dye as Reef
Marie Avgeropoulos as Luna
Chris Hemsworth as Cyrus Marcellus, Cato's Father
Uma Thurman as Lucia Marcellus, Cato's Mother
Mckenna Grace as Octavia Marcellus, Cato's Sister
Morgan Freeman as Titus, Mayor of District 2
Jonathan Van Ness as Angel
Karamo Brown as Eros
Tan France as Samuel
Antoni Porowski as Gabriel
"Strike Hard. Strike Fast. Strike True."
The meaning behind these words was lost as blood trickled down Cato's arm. The pulsing numbness of his extremities and the ragged breath in his chest spurred him to continue. Their blades met beneath the colonnade, sparking like flint against steel as the peering eyes of their balding Drill Master watched their every calculated move. Friends turned enemies, the victory of his final examination lingered on his tongue, mixed with the taste of salt and copper born from his endeavors. A trickle of wetness splattered across Cato's face— warm like the rain he craved during this drought. A metallic clang echoed throughout the courtyard as his opponent's blade fell.
Cato felt ashamed watching the beautiful, hulking mass crumble before him. Marcus seethed, clenching his forearm as blood pulse from his wound. His crimson trickled onto the ground, staining the white marble. He could read the desperation on his rival's face. He was a viper, coiled, ready to strike. But, after battling for nearly an hour, Marcus would not concede. No, he wouldn't allow himself to be bested so easily. This battle meant too much to both of them.
Cato felt his body shift in a flash of speed and crimson as he plunged his blade into the boy. He felt wetness trickle down his arm as their bodies collided on the ground beside their arena. A cloud of dirt swirled around them as Marcus's weight came down upon him, his hand catching his throat. His pulse raced, feeling the grip tighten around his throat as spots plagued his vision. He felt himself losing consciousness as he twisted the blade into the teen's core. A choking gasp met Cato's desperation. He felt Marcus's hold lessen as wetness dripped onto his cheek. He opened his eyes as the light faded from the pools of amber hovering above him. Blood trickled down Marcus's sculpted face as the crimson essence seeped between the cracks of his smile.
"Congratulations,"
Marcus's body fell limp as his breathing ceased. A crumbling relief shuttered throughout Cato as he shifted the body from atop him. Sitting up, he choked back a sob. His breath was ragged, trembling with fear as he gripped Marcus's blood-caked hand. The world around them fell silent as the unsettling realization of Cato's victory washed over him. He felt the patter of cool raindrops against his tarnished skin as the sky above wept. The pelting droplets camouflaged the tears flowing from his eyes as he cradled the lifeless hand in his own.
No amount of water nor tears could wash away his friend's blood that stained Cato's skin red. No amount of training could've prepared him for the pain that rippled from his heart as it was ripped from his chest.
Cato's dorm celebrated to congratulate him on his victory. He was a Legionnaire now—a chosen tribute of District 2, the highest honor beneath being a Victor. In two days, he would be bestowed the honor of volunteering for the 74th Hunger Games, where he would bring glory to his District.
He sat idly at a table for a long time. The hollow smiles and thankless thanks did little to console the numbness that took control of him. The banquet was bland to his tongue, and the wine left him parched. He found solace in Marcus's token. It was a simple, smooth pebble of turquoise held within a ring of polished steel hung by a leather cord. He kept looking around the room, wanting to see a trace of his outline. He swirled his thumb rhythmically over the polished surface, trying to calm his racing mind. Everything around him moved at hyper-speed while he sat still. Words became incomprehensible, distorted by the sheer speed at which they were spoken.
Tears pooled in his eyes, gritting his teeth. He was an outcast in the world he once called home. Did they not understand his loss? Did they not understand his pain?
Cato needed to escape the shifting bodies around him. He slipped out of the room, running down the dormitory corridor. He ventured down the stairs, making his way along the collonade. His feet were silent against the cold stone as he stole into a small door of one of the many courtyards. Night had fallen over Stone Bridge Academy, but he had to duck beneath the dining hall windows where the instructors lingered about.
Cato raced across the courtyard, shifting apart the broken metal gate held together by rusted chains with his deft fingers. His heart raced as the gate swung open with a metallic creak. He sprinted towards the trees, running until he lost sight of the Academy behind the trees and the rise of the hill. His heart slammed in his chest as he reached the top of the ridge, a place he and Marcus had spent much of their time together.
Cato hugged himself against the rough bark of the willow tree they used to lay beneath. The stars above bore witness to his grief as he unleashed it in a silent scream. A gentle summer breeze licked his tears dry as he stayed for hours, trying to convince himself this wasn't some twisted fantasy. But, as he played with Marcus's token, he was reminded that his dark dream was reality. He had killed his best friend. He had sold his soul to win.
Cato stayed on the ridge the entire evening, leaving at first light to attend Marcus's funeral procession. It was a simple event. His body had been cremated and placed in an urn to be sent to his family. The Drill Master and the instructors offered kind words that felt empty in Cato's ears. The funeral ended with a salute to self-sacrifice—the salute of a Legionnaire. Cato mimicked the motion, placing his right fist firmly upon the center-left of his chest, with his thumb facing outward. The precise posture you would take if you were driving a knife into your heart. He wished for a knife in his hand. Anything would feel better than the hollowed pitting that ached within his chest.
After the funeral, Cato was collected by one of the instructors for his last physical before he left Stone Bridge Academy. The flickering fluorescent lights burned his bloodshot eyes as they stripped him of his uniform. The physical was meant to be dehumanizing. They noted every flaw, every scar they inflicted upon his olive skin. Yet, their words did nothing to shake him. He already felt dead inside- putting a sword through him, or better yet, a bullet through his skull, was a welcoming thought.
He blacked out the whirlwind of an examination, finding the feeling return to his fingers as he sat in the back of the private shuttle. They had packed his belonging for him, tossing the duffle bags into the SUV alongside him. He was returning home after eight years, and while he was excited to return, the dread of Reaping Day lingered in his mind as he found his eyes struggling to stay open as the gentle rocking of the cabin lulled him to sleep.
Cato dreamt of the halcyon days of his youth when he and his Ouma would hike near the mountains near the border of District 2. Cornelia was a marvelous woman- winner of the 25th Hunger Games. She was a formidable warrior who defeated her enemies with grace and courage unseen until her games. The weekends of his youth were spent with her whenever his parents would allow it. She was a woman of striking beauty and undeniable charisma. Her tall and slender frame carried grace and confidence, and her piercing blue eyes radiated a fierce intelligence and determination.
They woke up early one sunny morning and headed to the trailhead outside the Victor's Village. The air was fresh and crisp, and the trees were lush greenery. As they started on the trail, he would hop from rock to rock, pointing out all the exciting plants and animals. As they climbed higher and higher, the path became steeper and more rugged, but his Ouma kept a steady pace and encouraged him to keep going. They took breaks to catch their breath and enjoy the stunning view overlooking the valley of District 2, with colorful wildflowers dotting the mountainside below.
Finally, after hours, they reached the top—standing at the peak, taking a breathtaking view of the surrounding mountains and valleys. Ouma beamed with pride at his strength and resilience as they sat down to rest and shared some of the apples she had packed for the trip. He would gather her bundles of yellow flowers and tell her they were pretty, just like her. His Ouma called them Lion's Tooth because their leaves were jagged like a lion's. She gave him a flower she picked from inside a bundle of Lion's Teeth in the shape of a white starburst. She called them Wish Flowers, but she said the people of old called them dandelions.
"Our lives are never our own, Cato- they are threads of fate sewn together by someone else's hand. So, upon this flower, make a wish. Hold it tight to your heart and seal it with a kiss, and your wish might come true one day,"
He couldn't remember what he wished for because it was a long time ago, and only little kids believed in such things anyways.
Cato's eyes shot open from the shaking of the cabin on a bumpy road. He recognized the area as he looked out the windows. The golden stone and arid tundra marked his proximity to home. Yet, he wondered if he would see Cornelia. He stopped visiting her after he turned ten when his father entered him into the Stonebridge Academy for Gifted Youths. As the firstborn of her only child, he was destined to surpass Cornelia and become the patriarch of his family after volunteering and winning his Hunger Games.
He shuddered with worry as his mind lingered on thoughts of his father. He was a giant of a man, but he held no interest in becoming a Victor. So instead, he lived his life suckling off the teat of his Ouma's winnings, eventually landing a position as Head Peacekeeper at the Peacekeeper Academy. He wondered if his hand would sting the same as it did back then.
Cato thought about his mother— the failure of a seamstress with a kind smile who found herself looking after Cato's sister. Octavia was eight years younger than him. A child filled with adventure and curiosity, much like him. Cato's father confided with him on their family's insurance policy— if Cato failed, Octavia would bring honor and glory to their family name. Cato wondered if he hit her the same way he beat him. His heart fluttered as the shuttle descended the road to his home. The attendant stopped the shuttle, unable to proceed down the cobblestone streets. He thanked the man, unloading his bags as quickly as he could. As the midday sun beamed down upon him, he shuffled into the Victor's Village. The community was made from the finest limestone and lumber, honoring the Victor's called these dwellings home.
Cato stopped at the second house on the left, setting his bags down before rapping the brass knocker on the door. There was a pause as he could hear the shuffling of feet. His mother's ocean eyes were lost in his as he watched the tremble in her arms consume her. Cato engulfed her fragile frame in a warm embrace, feeling her warm tears soak into his shoulder as she sobbed. His eyes burned as he tried to push away his tears. He felt so relieved to be in her arms.
It made him feel safe.
Cato was thankful his father wasn't home when he arrived. However, he was forever grateful that Octavia was. He was surprised to see how she had sprouted. Cato remembered her being so little; now, she stood just above his waist. Her blonde locks had gotten so long that his mother had to tie them into a heavy braid. She told him stories about her school-age friends and how they'd play 'Capture the Hill' on the same mountain he and his Ouma used to hike. Her tender voice comforted the grief that swelled in his chest.
Cato, Octavia, and his mother spent the afternoon enjoying a picnic in their meager garden. His mother looked thinner than he remembered. Her cheekbones were very prominent on her fresh face. It had been eight years since Cato had shared a meal with them. He remembered the times they would visit the Academy. His father would pry into his training while his mother sat silently. Her bruises were always hidden underneath a fine layer of makeup and fake smiles. Octavia was never there. That way was better, always away at school or with a friend. They didn't want her to see Cato bloodied and bruised from the training he received.
After a few hours, his mother broke away to prepare dinner leaving Cato and Octavia to themselves in the garden. The corners of his mouth tugged into a small smile as he tried to cherish these idle moments with her as they lay on the grass, looking at the sky of the setting sun blend into a warm array of oranges, reds, and pinks. The colors seemed brighter today than they did his past few days. He had forgotten how it felt to feel. He felt something press against his cheek that tickled his skin.
"Here, Cato, it's a wish flower,"
He smiled at her as he sat up, accepting the bursting floret. "You know, when I was your age, Ouma told me these flowers were magical. When you pick the flower, you make a wish and hold it tight to your heart. Then, you seal it with a kiss, and your wish might come true one day,"
Octavia gave him a pout as she crossed her arms. "Well, make your wish already! Mine won't come true anyway,"
"And what would you wish for?"
Octavia's eyes lowered as they danced across the wish flower in her brother's hand. "For you... not to leave tomorrow."
The smile slowly faded from his face. Her words were like salt in the open wound of his heart.
He pressed the flower in his hand against his chest. The petals' bristles tickled his lips, pushing them against it. Then, in a breath, the flower exploded- scattering against the distant breeze. He turned, wrapping his arms around Octavia and kissing her forehead gently.
"Don't worry. I'm going to win,"
Tears welled in her blue eyes as he looked down at her. She wiped them away gently, using her arm to dry the snot running down her nose. "What did you wish for?"
Her snotty face brought forth a laugh from his throat. "I can't tell you, or it won't come true,"
It wasn't long before their mother called them into the house for dinner. Cato would never tell Octavia, but he wished he would win. For her. For his Ouma. For his mother. For his District, and most importantly for Marcus-
Cato's mother prepared a miraculous feast in honor of tomorrow's Reaping. It was braised lamb with roasted potatoes and garlic string beans. While his mother's cooking was delicious, he couldn't focus on eating. His stomach turned in knots as his father boasted about how proud he was of him volunteering tomorrow and how he would bring great honor to their family. His father's deep, commanding voice echoed through the halls of their dining room as he gorged himself on Cornelia's wine reserve. He was a terrible drunk, but tonight he seemed in good spirits with the Reaping tomorrow.
Cato picked around his string beans with his fork. "Is Ouma going to be at the Reaping tomorrow?"
His mother shook her head, wiping her lips with a napkin. "Cornelia's in the Capital, darling. I'm sure she'll see you before the games start."
His mother was right. He remembered her letters detailing her time in the Capitol. He was sure she wouldn't be back until after the games, but he was hopeful he would see her one last time. Maybe she would make him feel better about this whole thing. Cato excused himself from the table, wishing to avoid his father's drunken rantings about the coming day. He hoped sleep would help calm the knots tying in his stomach. He kissed his mother and Octavia goodnight before receiving his father's congratulatory 'pat' on the back.
Sleep did not come quickly to him that evening. Instead, he dreamt of Marcus and how they used to run through the forests surrounding the Academy. He remembered his hearty laugh, which brought his lips to a smile. The glimmer of light in his eyes when he grinned. The way his brow furrowed when he was being stubborn. The tenderness of his drunken lips on his. The emptiness of his eyes when Cato killed him.
Cato's stomach lurched, emptying its contents into the toilet. He was thankful the sound of the running shower would mask the sound of his embarrassment. The warm water soothed his stiff muscles as he brushed away the sour taste from his mouth. Stepping out, he wiped the fog from the mirror. He splashed cold water onto his face to calm his flushed cheeks. He desperately fought to put up his walls like in the Academy- no fear, no emotion. He needed to crave that ferocity- that anger, but all he felt was despair panged by loss.
A knock at the door startled him momentarily as he finished drying himself. "Yes?"
His mother's deep and resonant tone, with a hint of raspiness, broke the silence. "Breakfast is ready,"
"I'll be out in a minute!" he called out. Cato's stomach was still in knots, so food was the last thought on his mind.
He needed to pull himself together before he showed his face around them. He quickly fixed his blonde locks with some hair wax, leaning his hands against the sink. His reflection was a sad, pathetic one. Not one of a victor- or a Legionairre.
"Get it together, Cato," he told himself. "Strike hard, strike fast, strike true. Strike hard, strike fast, strike true. Strike hard, strike fast, strike true,"
His mantra from the Academy felt meaningless. The facade of its glamour was nothing more than a ghost, haunting him like Marcus's lifeless stare. The words bring him back into focus as another tap at the door causes him to snap.
"What now!?"
His mother's voice returned as he heard the sink crack beneath his grip. "I laid something out for you. Come downstairs whenever you're ready- your father is going to run ahead,"
Cato heard the footfalls of her distant steps as he loosened his grip on the cracked marble. The shards fell to the floor as he felt a warm trickle from his left hand. He pulled the chip from his flesh, tossing it in the trash beside him. The pain radiated from his palm as he quickly wrapped his hand in a nude bandage. The pain was a welcoming reminder that he was alive. Every other emotion he had experienced until now was dull in comparison.
He changed into a light blue button-up shirt and black slacks his mother had set out for him before sliding on a pair of black oxfords. He placed Marcus's token beneath his shirt as he headed downstairs. He found his mother and Octavia sitting at their dining room table. She had a basket of assorted muffins on the table. They were both wearing elegant dresses made from a smooth, soft, and lustrous fabric in a pale gold hue. The color reminded him of butter, something he hadn't tasted in a long time.
Cato pushed the muffins aside, accepting a glass of water from the table. Octavia had crumbs covering her dress and blueberries staining her cheeks as his mother carefully wiped her face, turning to Cato with a sad smile.
"Are you hungry? You should eat-"
His stomach turned as he cut her off, shaking his head. "I'm fine. We should head out. They'll be starting soon,"
They found themselves walking from Cato's home along the cramped limestone streets of District 2. The morning of the yearly Reaping had arrived. It was a wonderful holiday within District. Dancers and singers lined themselves against the basalt buildings, praising the tributes and the glory of the Capital. Cato and his family walked through a bustling market selling luxury goods, meats, and cheeses, leading them into a grand courtyard before their Justice Building.
It was an immense building crafted from dark, volcanic basalt. It contrasted dramatically against the light, creamy white limestone pillars surrounding it. Bright red banners hung from the structures below the camera crews that were perched like vultures on top of the rooftops. Peacekeeper sentries were posted throughout the square, directing those signing in to separate from those watching in the stands surrounding the courtyard.
Cato watched as they were corralled tightly into space before realizing it was time for him to leave. He turned toward his mother as she wrapped him in a slight embrace. He felt himself clinging to her but forced himself to break away. He could see the worry in her eyes, but she knew the price their family must pay for the privilege they'd been bestowed. Octavia turned away from him, gripping his mother's hand. He knew he had disappointed her with his leaving and tried not to let it bother him. She was too young to understand his burden, and he hoped she never had to.
They trailed from his vision as they disappeared into the masses. He signed in with the Peacekeeper ledger feeling their pen sting, drawing his blood upon paper. His name flashed on their screen.
"Cato, House Marcellus. Stone Bridge Academy. Legionnaire."
Legionnaire- a symbol of his glory within Stone Bridge Academy. The mark of a murderer- one that condemned him to his fate as a tribute, as a victor. A token of Stone Bridge, the highest-ranking male and female students were granted priority when volunteering for the Games, so much so that it was written into the Districts' law. No one dared challenge the status of a Legionnaire- or they might find themselves at the end of a barrel or wrought with chains.
Cato found himself crowded with the eighteen-year-olds, many of which he was familiar with from his time at Stone Bridge. They all exchanged nods of deference, acknowledging Cato as their Legionnaire—the best of the best. The best District 2 had to offer.
His attention turned toward the makeshift stage that had been erected, which held three chairs, a podium, and two large glass balls, one for the boys and one for the girls. His eyes gleam at the boys' ball. Six of those little slips had his name written on them.
Not that it mattered here. Not in this District.
Mayor Titus, a tall, distinguished-looking man with a commanding presence, filled the first of the two chairs. He was tall and slim but had a muscular build. His face was angular, with high cheekbones and a distinctive square jawline. Beside him sat Ophelia Daytide, District 2's escort, a slender woman with a slim and petite frame, her heart-shaped face fresh from the Capitol with alabaster makeup, cotton candy hair, and a dress made to look like a butterfly. They murmured to each other and then shared a look of concern at the empty seat. Their mentor was missing.
Just as the town clock struck noon, the mayor approached the podium.
"My Friends of District Two, in anticipation of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, I welcome you to a wonderous Reaping Day!"
Joyous applause and cries of celebration echo throughout the immense Venetian courtyard.
"This Day, like The Games themselves, provide us a chance to reflect on the costs of our violent rebellion long ago and to be grateful for the kindness shown to us by the Capitol. It's a time for both repentance and thanks. We, the citizens of District Two, take great honor in preparing a new class of victors. Legionnaires- bred to bring glory and honor as tributes of our District. We thank them for their honorable sacrifice,"
Mayor Titus' eyes met Cato's as he rendered the Legionairre's salute. His fellow tributes, the watching masses, and Cato mimicked the motion. He clutched his hand against the empty pit where his heart was once held. He had already sacrificed one of the things he held dearest to him. Now, he was being asked to sacrifice himself for home and honor. Was this what it meant to be Legionairre?
Mayor Titus took his seat as Ophelia Daytide strolled up to the podium- a vision of grace and serenity. Her voice calmed the doubt in his chest as he loosened his grip, allowing his hand to fall idly by his side.
"Welcome, champions of District Two. Happy Hunger Games!"
It was time for the drawing: a comical but necessary show. Even in District 2, they were bound by the rules and laws of the Capital.
"Ladies first!" said Ophelia before crossing over to the glass ball with the girls' names. She reached deep into the ball before pulling out a slip of paper. The crowd is silent with anticipation as she crosses back toward the podium, smoothing the slip of paper before reading out the name in a clear voice.
A woman's voice calls out, silencing Ophelia. "I volunteer as tribute!"
An eruption of cheers and applause echoed throughout the courtyard as a short, thin brunette took to the stage in an elegant red dress with beaded sequins. The cries halt for only a moment allowing Ophelia to introduce the tribute. Her name was Clove, and she hailed from House Valentius. A Victor's house like his own- except her parents made something of themselves instead of draining the wealth from their Victor. He remembered her parents both being architects. She was three years younger than him and was considered a prodigy amongst her peers, so much so that they named her the female Legionnaire for this year's Reaping.
Ophelia's hand dug into the men's bowl with a smile. "And now, for the boys!"
Cato cut her off before she could speak, dragging out as much enthusiasm as he could muster.
"I volunteer as tribute!"
His body felt numb as the adrenaline pumped throughout every inch of it. The crowd's screams became a deafening ring as he forced a smile, approaching the stage. Ophelia beamed at him as she gripped his and Clove's hands, raising t the air. They turn back to face the crowd as the anthem of Panem plays.
"May the odds forever be in your favor!" She cried out.
Cato's smile fell as his icy stare scanned the crowd. Because the odds had not been very dependable of late.