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
Virtus et Honos.
Strength and Honor.
The meaning behind these words blurred as blood trickled down Cato's arm. The pulsing numbness in his extremities and the ragged breath in his chest drove him onward. Their blades clashed beneath the colonnade, sparks flying like flint against steel. The balding Drill Master watched every calculated move with piercing eyes. Friends turned enemies, the victory of his final examination tasted bitter on his tongue, mingled with the salt and copper of his efforts.
Warm wetness splattered across Cato's face—like rain in a drought.
A metallic clang echoed through the courtyard as his opponent's blade fell. He felt a pang of shame watching the hulking mass crumble before him.
"Submit, Marcus. It's over—"
Marcus seethed, clutching his forearm as blood pulsed from his wound. Crimson droplets stained the white marble.
Desperation was etched on Marcus's face. He was a coiled viper, ready to strike, refusing to concede. After nearly an hour of battle, neither could afford to lose.
Cato moved with a flash of speed and crimson, plunging his blade into Marcus. Wetness trickled down his arm as their bodies collided on the ground beside the arena. A cloud of dirt swirled around them as Marcus's weight pressed down on him, a hand clamping around his throat. His pulse raced, vision spotting as the grip tightened. Desperation fueled his strength as he twisted the blade deeper into Marcus's core.
A choking gasp echoed Cato's struggle.
Marcus's grip lessened, wetness dripping onto Cato's cheek. He opened his eyes, seeing the light fade from Marcus's amber eyes. Blood trickled down Marcus's sculpted face, seeping between the cracks of his smile.
"Congratulations," Marcus whispered, his voice a fragile echo.
His body fell limp, breath ceasing.
A wave of crumbling relief shuddered through Cato as he shifted the body off him. Sitting up, he choked back a sob, his breath trembling with fear as he gripped Marcus's blood-caked hand.
The world fell silent as the unsettling realization of victory washed over him. Cool raindrops pelted his tarnished skin, camouflaging the tears flowing from his eyes as he cradled the lifeless hand.
No amount of water or tears could wash away his friend's blood that stained his skin red. No amount of training could have prepared him for the pain that ripped through his heart.
Cato's dorm celebrated his victory with a lavish banquet.
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 congratulations did little to console the numbness that took hold of him. The banquet food was bland to his tongue, and the wine left him parched. He found solace only in Marcus's token—a simple, smooth pebble of turquoise encased in a ring of polished steel hanging by a leather cord.
Cato kept looking around the room, hoping to catch a trace of Marcus's outline. Swirling his thumb rhythmically over the polished surface, he tried 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 the corners of his eyes as he gritted his teeth. He felt like he was going insane. The world he once called home kept on living, oblivious to his loss and pain.
He needed to escape the shifting bodies around him.
Cato slipped out of the room, running down the dormitory corridor. Venturing down the stairs, he made his way along the colonnade. His feet were silent against the cold stone as he slipped through a small door into 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.
Racing across the courtyard, he deftly parted the broken metal gate held together by rusted chains. He sprinted towards the trees as the gate swung open with a metallic creak. He ran until the Academy disappeared behind the thicket of 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. His fingers dug into the rough bark as a gentle summer breeze licked his tears dry. He stayed there for hours, trying to convince himself this wasn't some twisted fantasy. But as Marcus's token swayed in the breeze, 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 night, 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. He mimicked the motion, placing his right fist firmly upon the center-left of his chest, thumb facing outward. The precise posture as if driving a knife into his heart. He wished for a knife in his hand.
Anything would feel better than the hollow ache in his chest.
After the funeral, Cato was collected by one of the instructors for his final physical before leaving 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 and scar they inflicted upon his olive skin.
Usually, their words would throttle his ego or spark his anger, but now they fell upon deaf ears. His mind drifted aimlessly between despair and exhaustion as they prodded him, scraped him—putting a sword through him, or better yet, a bullet through his skull, was a welcoming thought.
He blacked out the whirlwind of the examination, finding the feeling return to his fingers as he sat in the back of the private shuttle. They had packed his belongings for him, tossing the duffle bags into the SUV alongside him.
After eight years, he was returning home. The dread of Reaping Day lingered in the back of his mind as he struggled to keep his eyes open. The gentle rocking of the cabin lulled him to sleep.
Cato dreamt of the halcyon days of his youth when he and his Ouma hiked near the mountains at the border of District 2.
Cornelia was a marvelous woman—a victor of the 25th Hunger Games. She had been a formidable warrior, defeating her enemies with unparalleled grace and courage. Her striking beauty and undeniable charisma were legendary. Tall and slender, she carried herself gracefully and confidently, her piercing blue eyes radiating fierce intelligence and determination.
The weekends of his youth were spent with her whenever his parents allowed it.
One sunny morning, they woke up early and headed to the trailhead outside the Victor's Village. The air was fresh and crisp, and the trees were lush with greenery.
As they started on the trail, Cato hopped from rock to rock, pointing out all the interesting plants and animals. As they climbed 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.
After hours of climbing, they reached the top. Standing at the peak, they took in the breathtaking view of the surrounding mountains and valleys. Cornelia beamed with pride at his strength and resilience as they sat down to rest and shared some apples she had packed for the trip.
He would gather bundles of yellow flowers and tell her they were pretty, just like her. She called them Lion's Teeth because their leaves were jagged like a lion's.
She used to give him a flower 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 anyway.
Cato's eyes snapped open as the cabin shook on the bumpy road.
Peering out the window, he recognized the familiar landscape of golden stone and arid tundra, marking his proximity to home.
Thoughts of Cornelia flooded his mind. He hadn't visited her since he turned ten and entered Stonebridge Academy. As the firstborn, he was destined to surpass her, become the patriarch, volunteer for, and win the Hunger Games. He knew she advised the Gamemakers, and a flicker of hope remained that he might see her before the Games.
Shuddering at thoughts of his father, Cato remembered the giant of a man who held no interest in becoming a Victor. Instead, he lived off Cornelia's winnings and became Head Peacekeeper at the Peacekeeper Academy. Cato wondered if being struck would still sting as it did in the past or if it would even happen now that he was a Legionnaire. He couldn't recall the last time he'd been hit.
His thoughts turned to his mother, a seamstress with a kind smile who cared for his younger sister, Octavia. Eight years his junior, Octavia was adventurous and curious, much like him. Cato's father had confided in him about their family's insurance policy—if Cato failed, Octavia would bring honor and glory to their name. He wondered if his father treated Octavia the same way he had treated him.
As the shuttle descended toward his home, Cato's heart fluttered. The attendant stopped the shuttle, unable to proceed down the cobblestone streets. Cato thanked him and hurriedly unloaded his bags.
Under the midday sun, he entered the Victor's Village, built from limestone and lumber, honoring those who called it home. Stopping at the second house on the left, he set down his bags and knocked on the door.
Footsteps shuffled inside before the door creaked open slowly.
She had aged since he last saw her, her blonde hair tied back in a bun, dressed in denim jeans and a cream-colored long-sleeved shirt. Her makeup couldn't hide the dark circles under her eyes.
"Yes, can I h—"
Her voice caught as she recognized him, her arms trembling as their eyes met.
"Cato...?"
He nodded, relief washing over him. "Hey, Mom—"
Before he could speak, her fragile frame enveloped him in a warm embrace. Her tears soaked into his shoulder as she sobbed, and he struggled to hold back his own.
"I'm home," he whispered, his hands finding comfort against the soft fabric of her shirt.
For the first time in a long while, he felt safe.
Part of Cato felt thankful his father wasn't home when he arrived, but he cherished the presence of his mother and Octavia. They spent the afternoon enjoying a picnic in their garden. Cato was taken aback by how much Octavia had grown. He remembered her as a little girl; now, she stood just above his waist, her blonde locks long enough to be tied into a heavy braid by their mother.
Octavia told him stories of her school-age adventures, including games like 'Capture the Hill' on the same mountain he had hiked with Cornelia. Her tender voice eased the grief swelling in his chest.
As the hours passed, Cato noticed his mother's frailty more keenly. Her cheekbones were prominent, her collarbone visible beneath her shirt collar. A yellowing bruise on her wrist caught his eye as she cleared their picnic table.
It had been eight years since Cato had shared a meal like this with them.
Memories of their visits to the Academy flooded back—his father probing into his training, his mother silent but ever-present, her bruises concealed beneath makeup and forced smiles. Octavia was usually absent, either at school or with friends. They shielded her from seeing Cato bloodied and bruised from his rigorous training. But in their household, neither pain nor pretense were strangers.
Later, as his mother left to prepare dinner, Cato and Octavia remained in the garden. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he cherished these quiet moments with her, lying on the grass, watching the sunset paint the sky in vibrant orange, red, and pink hues. The colors seemed more vivid today than they had in recent memory.
A soft touch against his cheek startled him.
"Here, Cato, it's a wish flower," Octavia said, offering him a bursting floret.
He smiled, sitting up and accepting the flower. "You know, when I was your age, Ouma told me these flowers were magical. You pick one, make a wish, hold it tight to your heart, seal it with a kiss, and maybe your wish will come true someday."
Octavia pouted. "Well, make your wish already! Mine won't come true anyway."
"What would you wish for?" Cato asked gently.
Octavia's gaze dropped to the wish flower in his hand. "For you... not to leave tomorrow."
The smile faded from his face. Her words struck a chord deep within his heart.
Pressing the flower against his chest, he felt the bristles of the petals against his lips. In a breath, the flower exploded, scattering on the breeze. Turning to Octavia, he tenderly wrapped his arms around her and kissed her forehead.
"Don't worry. I'm going to win," he assured her.
Tears welled in Octavia's blue eyes as she looked up at him. She wiped them away gently, using her arm to dry the tears and snot on her nose. "What did you wish for?"
Her tear-streaked face brought a chuckle from him. "I can't tell you, or it won't come true."
Before long, their mother called them inside for dinner.
Cato would never admit it to Octavia, but his wish was for victory.
For her. For Ouma. For his mother.
For District 2, and most importantly, for Marcus.
That evening, Cato's mother prepared a lavish feast, anticipating the Reaping tomorrow. Braised lamb, roasted potatoes, and garlic string beans filled the table. Although his mother's cooking was exquisite, knots tightened in Cato's stomach as his father boasted about Cato's upcoming volunteering and how it would bring great honor to their family.
His father's booming voice filled the dining room as he indulged in Cornelia's wine reserve. He was a harsh drunk, but tonight, with the Reaping approaching, he seemed in high spirits.
That was a good thing, wasn't it?
Picking at his string beans with his fork, Cato asked, "Will Ouma be at the Reaping tomorrow?"
His mother shook her head, dabbing her lips with a napkin. "Cornelia's still in the Capital, dear. I'm sure she'll see you before the Games begin."
Internally deflated, Cato tried not to get his hopes up too high. He knew Cornelia could reassure him about the impending Games. At least, he hoped so.
After half an hour of poking at his plate, he excused himself from the table, eager to avoid his father's drunken ramblings about the next day. He kissed his mother and Octavia goodnight before enduring his father's congratulatory slap on the back.
Sleep didn't come easily that night.
Instead, Cato dreamed of Marcus and their carefree runs through the Academy's surrounding forests. He recalled Marcus's hearty laugh, the sparkle in his eyes when he smiled, and the furrow of his brow when he was stubborn.
And the tenderness of his lips when he was drunk.
And the emptiness in his eyes when Cato's blade pierced his chest.
Cato's stomach lurched, emptying its contents into the toilet. He was thankful for the running shower, its noise masking his embarrassment. The warm water eased his stiff muscles as he rid himself of the sour taste in his mouth.
Stepping out, he wiped the fog from the mirror and splashed cold water on his face, trying to calm his flushed cheeks. He struggled to summon the ferocity and anger that once shielded him at the Academy— no fear, no emotion. But today, all he felt was despair, fueled by loss. He attempted to regain composure by applying eye drops to soothe his bloodshot eyes.
A knock at the door startled him just as he finished drying off.
"Yes?"
His mother's raspy voice broke the silence. "Breakfast is ready."
"I'll be out in a minute," he replied, though thoughts of food churned his stomach.
He needed to compose himself before facing them. He quickly fixed his blonde locks with hair wax and leaned on the sink. His golden skin looked pallid, with bags under his weary eyes. His reflection felt hollow, far from that of a victor— or a Legionnaire.
"Get it together, Cato," he muttered. "Virtus et Honos, Virtus et Honos, Virtus et Honos."
His Academy mantra felt hollow now, its glamour a distant ghost haunting him, much like Marcus's lifeless gaze. He refocused as another tap at the door snapped him out of his thoughts.
"What now!?"
His mother's voice returned. "I laid something out for you. Come downstairs whenever you're ready—your father is going ahead."
He heard her footsteps recede as he loosened his grip on the cracked marble. Shards fell to the floor, and he felt a warm trickle from his left hand. Pulling a marble chip from his palm, he tossed it in the trash and quickly bandaged the wound.
The pain served as a stark reminder that he was alive, unlike the numbness he had felt until now.
Changing into the light blue button-up shirt and black slacks his mother had laid out, he slid on a pair of black oxfords and tucked Marcus's token beneath his shirt before heading downstairs.
Descending the stairs, he found his mother and Octavia elegant in smooth, soft, pale gold fabric dresses at the dining room table.
The color reminded him of butter, a taste he hadn't savored in a long time.
Pushing aside the muffins, he accepted a glass of water, noticing Octavia's dress scattered with crumbs and her cheeks stained with blueberries. His mother wiped her face with a sad smile.
"Are you hungry? You should eat—"
His stomach turned, cutting her off as he shook his head. "I'm fine. We should head out. They'll be starting soon."
Leaving their home, they walked through District 2's cramped limestone streets. Octavia held his hand as they entered the city, the morning of the Reaping underway. In District 2, it was a festive occasion, with vendors selling goods, people singing and dancing in the streets, celebrating the tributes and the Capitol's glory.
But for Cato, the nostalgia had lost its shine.
Entering a bustling market, they navigated through stalls selling luxury goods, meats, and cheeses, leading to a grand courtyard before the Justice Building. Crafted from dark volcanic basalt with creamy limestone pillars, banners hung under watchful camera crews from its structure.
Cato found himself corralled with other eighteen-year-olds, familiar faces from his Academy days nodding in deference, acknowledging him as their Legionnaire— the best of the best.
The pride of District 2.
His attention turned to the makeshift stage where Mayor Titus, tall and commanding, occupied one of two chairs. Beside him sat Ophelia Daytide, District 2's Capitol-born escort, her appearance starkly contrasted with alabaster makeup, cotton candy hair, and a butterfly-themed dress.
Their mentors were absent.
As the town clock struck noon, Mayor Titus approached the podium.
"My Friends of District Two, on this Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games Reaping Day, I welcome you!"
Applause and cheers filled the Venetian courtyard.
"This day reminds us of our violent past and the kindness shown by the Capitol. It's a time for repentance and gratitude. We, the citizens of District Two, take pride in preparing new victors— Legionnaires, bred for glory and honor."
Cato rendered the Legionnaire salute, echoed by his fellow tributes and the crowd. Clutching his hand against his heart, he knew he had already sacrificed much.
Now, he was asked to sacrifice himself.
Mayor Titus took his seat as Ophelia Daytide ascended the podium, her serene voice calming his doubts.
"Welcome, champions of District Two. Happy Hunger Games!"
The drawing commenced, a theatrical necessity. "Ladies first!" Ophelia declared, plunging her hand into the girls' bowl.
A voice interrupted her. "I volunteer as tribute!"
Cheers erupted as a brunette emerged in a red dress, introduced as Clove from House Valentius, a year younger prodigy chosen as the female Legionnaire.
Ophelia then drew from the boys' bowl.
"I volunteer as tribute!" Cato's voice rang out, forcing a smile as adrenaline surged.
Ophelia beamed, raising his and Clove's hands. They turned to face the crowd as Panem's anthem played.
"District Two, your Legionnaires! May the odds be ever in their favor!"
Cato's smile faltered as he scanned the crowd. The odds had yet to be very dependable as of late.