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, mixing with the taste of salt and copper in Cato's throat.
The air in Stone Bridge Academy was thick with tension, the kind that could only be felt before a crucial test of strength and skill. Cato stood at the courtyard's center, gripping his sword tightly. The cold metal was a familiar weight, but today, it felt heavier. Across from him stood Marcus, his closest friend and now his final opponent. The day had come for their ultimate test—a duel deciding who would be honored as the academy's top graduate and volunteer for the Hunger Games.
The courtyard, usually filled with the sounds of training, was eerily silent. The other cadets stood at the edges, their eyes fixed on the two combatants. Cato felt their gazes like a physical weight. He knew what was expected of him: to fight, to win, to prove himself worthy of the honor and burden of being a Career. But as he looked at Marcus, he saw not an opponent but a friend—a brother in arms.
The drill master's sharp and authoritative voice cut through the silence. "Begin!"
The clash of swords rang out, a sharp sound that seemed to echo off the stone walls. Cato moved instinctively, blocking Marcus's strikes, his body reacting on muscle memory alone. But his mind was elsewhere, tangled in a web of conflicting emotions. He knew Marcus well enough to predict his moves, just as Marcus knew his. They had trained together for years, perfecting their techniques side by side.
"You're hesitating," Marcus panted, his voice laced with frustration. "Stop holding back, Cato. You know what's at stake."
Cato's jaw tightened. He did know. He knew all too well. But knowing didn't make it any easier. He parried another strike, pushing Marcus back.
The two continued their deadly dance, swords flashing in the midday sun. Cato felt every impact reverberate through his bones, every parry a reminder of the stakes. But more than the physical strain, the emotional toll weighed on him. Marcus's face, usually so open and friendly, was now a mask of grim determination. Cato could see the fear in his eyes—the same fear he felt in his own heart.
A sudden, fierce attack from Marcus forced Cato onto the defensive. Blood tricked down Cato's arm.
The crowd around them seemed to blur, the world narrowing down to just the two of them and the deadly game they were playing. Marcus's strikes were faster, more desperate, as if he were trying to drive home a point. Cato blocked each one, but he could feel the intent behind them. This wasn't just a fight; it was a plea.
"Fight me, damn it!" Marcus shouted, his voice cracking with emotion. "If you don't, they'll kill us both for this failure!"
Cato's grip on his sword tightened. He knew Marcus was right. In District 2, failure wasn't an option. To hesitate, to show weakness, was to invite death. But how could he bring himself to harm the person who had been his confidant, his partner, his friend? The thought was unbearable.
But then he saw it—a moment of hesitation in Marcus's eyes, a flicker of something softer beneath the determination. Was it doubt? Fear? Whatever it was, it gave Cato the opening he needed. With a swift movement, he sidestepped Marcus's attack and swung his sword, the blade connecting with Marcus's arm.
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.
Marcus looked up at Cato, shock, and pain etched on his face. Cato's breath caught in his throat as he watched his friend fall to his knees, clutching his side. The world seemed to hold its breath with him.
"Cato..." Marcus whispered, his voice weak. "You did it. You won."
Cato rushed to Marcus's side, catching him as he slumped forward. "No, Marcus, don't..." He could feel the hot, sticky blood on his hands, the life slipping away with every shallow breath Marcus took.
Marcus looked up at him, a faint smile on his lips. "It's okay," he murmured. "You did what you had to do. I knew... we both knew this was coming."
Tears blurred Cato's vision. "I'm sorry," he choked out, his voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."
Marcus shook his head slightly. "Don't be... promise me something."
Cato nodded, tears streaming down his face. "Anything."
"Win," Marcus whispered, his eyes locking with Cato's. "Win for both of us."
With that, Marcus's eyes closed, his body limp in Cato's arms. The world seemed to fall away, leaving only the crushing silence and the weight of Marcus's final words. Cato held his friend close, his tears mingling with the blood that stained the courtyard floor.
The drill master's voice shattered the silence, cold and final. "Victory to Cato, House Marcellus."
The cadets around them erupted in cheers, but Cato barely heard them. He looked down at Marcus's lifeless form, feeling a hollow ache in his chest. He had won, but it felt like the worst kind of loss.
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. The room was filled with laughter and congratulations, but he felt detached, as if he were watching from a distance. 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.
He excused himself early, unable to bear the false cheer any longer. As he walked through the darkened corridors of the academy, he found himself drawn to the courtyard where it had all happened. The moonlight cast long shadows across the stone, the scene hauntingly peaceful.
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 sank to the ground beneath the willow tree, the cold earth grounding him. He pulled the ring from under his shirt, feeling its cold weight in his palm. He thought of Marcus's final words, the promise he had made. Win. But what did that mean now? Winning the Hunger Games seemed like a hollow victory, another step down a path that had already taken so much from him.
He sat there for what felt like hours, the cold seeping into his bones and drying his tears. The academy had trained him to be strong and ruthless, but it had never prepared him for the emptiness that followed. The stars above were hidden behind clouds, and the night air was biting against his skin. In the silence, Cato made a quiet vow to himself and to Marcus. He would win, not for the glory, not for the Capitol, but to honor the memory of the friend he had lost. He would survive, and maybe, just maybe, he could find some meaning in it all.
As the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, Cato left 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.
Leaving the procession, Cato felt a strange calm settle over him. He had a long road ahead, filled with dangers he could barely comprehend. But for the first time, he felt a spark of something within him—a resolve, a purpose. He didn't know what the future held, but he knew he had to face it, for himself and for Marcus.
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.
Finally, the world fell silent.
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.
The attendant brought the shuttle to a stop, unable to navigate the narrow cobblestone streets any further. Cato thanked him and unloaded his bags, feeling the midday sun beat down on his back. He stood at the entrance to Victor's Village, a neighborhood built to honor the district's past winners. The houses were made of sturdy limestone and dark wood, a symbol of the district's strength and resilience.
He approached the second house on the left, the place he had once called home. Setting down his bags, he knocked on the heavy oak door. Inside, he could hear the soft patter of footsteps, followed by the creak of the door opening. His mother stood there, her eyes widening in surprise.
"Cato?" Her voice was a mixture of disbelief and relief. She looked older, the lines on her face more pronounced, her once vibrant blonde hair now streaked with gray.
Cato nodded, trying to muster a smile. "Hey, Mom."
Before he could say more, she enveloped him in a tight embrace. He felt her tears soaking into his shoulder, her body trembling against his. "You're home," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion.
He hugged her back, the familiar scent of lavender and soap bringing back memories of simpler times. "I'm home," he repeated, though the word felt foreign in his mouth. The truth was, he felt like a stranger in his own skin, the events of the past weeks hanging over him like a dark cloud. For the first time in a long while, he felt a flicker of warmth, a small comfort amid his turmoil.
When he finally arrived at Victor's Village, seeing his family's house brought a mix of emotions—comfort and dread. As he stepped inside, his mother rushed to embrace him, her arms warm and reassuring.
The house was much the same as he remembered, though it felt emptier. His father was absent, likely still at the Peacekeeper Academy, and his younger sister, Octavia, was at school. The house echoed with a quiet that felt almost oppressive. His mother led him to the kitchen, where the smell of fresh bread filled the air.
"Sit down, please," she urged, motioning to a chair. "I made your favorite—braised lamb and roasted potatoes. A proper meal before... everything."
Cato sat, appreciating the effort she had made. They ate together, his mother asking questions about his training, his time at the academy, and the upcoming Reaping. The conversation was stilted, each question a reminder of the looming threat of the Games. He answered as best he could, but his mind drifted back to Marcus and their shared final moments.
After the meal, his mother brought out a small box. Inside were keepsakes from his childhood—photos, trinkets, and a small stone painted with a Lion's Tooth. He picked it up, a wave of nostalgia washing over him.
"I found this in your room," his mother said, her voice tinged with sadness. "You used to call it a 'wish stone.'"
Cato nodded, turning the stone over in his hand. "Yeah, Ouma gave it to me. She said it was for making wishes."
His mother smiled, though it was a sad, wistful smile. "Your Ouma always had a way of making things magical. She wanted you to believe in something good, even in this world."
Cato held the stone tightly, closing his eyes. He made a silent wish, though he knew better than to believe in such things anymore. Still, it was a small comfort, a link to a time when life had been simpler and less cruel.
That evening, the family gathered for dinner. The table was set with care, the aroma of home-cooked food filling the air. It was a rare occasion for the family to sit together like this, and Cato felt a pang of nostalgia mixed with anxiety. His mother had gone all out, preparing his favorite dishes—braised lamb, roasted vegetables, and fresh bread. The effort she put into the meal was touching, but it also heightened his awareness of the expectations resting on his shoulders.
Cato's father, a stern man with graying hair and a commanding presence, sat at the head of the table. He watched Cato with a critical eye, his expression unreadable. Cato's mother, seated next to him, tried to maintain a cheerful demeanor, though her glances at Cato were filled with concern. Octavia, oblivious to the undercurrents, was chattering happily, her excitement contagious.
"So, Cato," his father began, his voice gruff but not unkind, "how does it feel to finally complete your training?"
Cato shrugged, focusing on cutting his lamb into neat pieces. "It feels... different," he admitted, carefully choosing his words. "It wasn't what I expected."
His father nodded, his gaze sharp. "Training is only the beginning. The real test will come in the arena. You need to be prepared for anything."
His mother shot him a quick, warning look, but his father continued, undeterred. "You've done well so far, but don't let your guard down. The Capitol expects strength from District 2, and you must deliver."
"Yes, sir."
Cato swallowed; his father's words heavy on his chest. He glanced at Octavia, who was listening intently, her eyes wide. She looked at him with such unfiltered admiration that it nearly broke his heart. He wanted to be the hero she saw, but the events at the academy had shaken him to his core.
Octavia, sensing the tension, spoke up. "Cato, will you teach me how to fight? I want to be strong like you!" Her voice was filled with eagerness, her innocent enthusiasm weighing against the gravity of their conversation.
Cato smiled at her, though it felt forced. "Maybe when you're older," he replied gently, ruffling her hair. "For now, you just focus on being the best little sister."
She pouted, but her eyes sparkled. "Promise?"
"Promise," Cato said, trying to inject warmth into his voice. He looked at her, taking in the way her eyes lit up and the smile that curved her lips. She was so full of life, so untouched by the world's harsh realities. In her, he saw the innocence he had lost, and it filled him with a fierce protectiveness.
The conversation shifted to lighter topics, with Octavia sharing stories from school and their mother asking about the food at the academy. Cato answered as best he could, but his mind was elsewhere. He couldn't stop thinking about the upcoming Reaping when he would have to volunteer and officially enter the Games. The pressure to perform and live up to his family's and district's expectations felt suffocating.
His mother noticed his distraction and reached out, placing a hand over his. "Cato, we're all proud of you," she said softly, her voice filled with emotion. "No matter what happens, remember that. We're proud of the man you've become."
Cato looked at her, seeing the love and concern in her eyes. It was a small comfort, but it was enough to ease the tightness in his chest momentarily. "Thanks, Mom," he murmured, squeezing her hand.
After dinner, Cato helped his mother clear the table while his father retired to the study. Octavia followed him around, chatting excitedly about her day and the plans she had for the summer. He was surprisingly happy, and her light-heartedness was a balm to Cato's weary soul, and he found himself smiling more genuinely as he listened to her.
As they finished cleaning up, Octavia tugged on his sleeve. "Cato, can we go look at the stars like we used to?"
Cato hesitated, then nodded. "Sure, why not?" He grabbed a couple of blankets, and they headed outside, laying them on the grass in the backyard. The night was clear, the sky dotted with countless stars.
They lay side by side, looking up at the sky. Octavia pointed out constellations, her voice filled with awe and wonder. Cato listened, her voice a soothing melody in the quiet night. He turned his head to look at her, seeing the pure joy on her face, and felt a deep pang in his chest.
"Octavia," he said softly, "you know I won't always be around, right? There are things I have to do... responsibilities."
She turned to him, her eyes serious. "I know, Cato. But you'll always be my big brother. And no matter what, I'll always look up to you." She reached out and took his hand, her small fingers curling around his. "Just promise me you'll come back."
Cato felt a lump form in his throat. He knew the odds, the dangers he would face, but he couldn't bear to see her lose her innocence, to see the light fade from her eyes. "I promise," he whispered, though he couldn't be sure if it was a promise he could keep.
They lay there in silence for a while, holding hands and watching the stars. For a moment, Cato felt a sense of peace, a connection to his family that grounded him amidst the chaos of his emotions. He knew that whatever happened, he would fight with everything he had, not just for survival, but for the people he loved.
As they finally stood to go inside, Octavia hugged him tightly. "I love you, Cato," she whispered, her voice small but earnest.
"I love you too, Octavia," he replied, his voice thick with emotion. He held her close, memorizing the feel of her in his arms, the warmth of her love. It was moments like these that made everything worth it, that reminded him of what he was fighting for.
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, Cato lay awake in his room. He stared at the ceiling, his mind a maelstrom of thoughts and emotions. Unable to sleep, he got up and wandered through the quiet house, finding himself in the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water, but his hands shook, spilling some on the counter.
His mother entered, her face lined with concern. "Couldn't sleep?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Cato shook his head, looking down at the water dripping from the counter. "No," he admitted, his voice thick with emotion. "I can't stop thinking about... everything."
She moved closer, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "You don't have to talk about it if you're not ready," she said, her tone understanding.
But Cato felt the words bubbling up inside him, a tide he could no longer hold back. "I killed him, Mom. Marcus... he was my friend, and I killed him. I didn't want to, but I had to. I had to be strong."
His mother's eyes filled with tears, and she pulled him into a tight embrace. "Oh, Cato," she murmured, holding him as he trembled. "I'm so sorry. I know how much this must be hurting you."
He clung to her, feeling like a child again, seeking comfort and solace. "I feel so lost," he confessed, his voice breaking. "I don't know who I am anymore. All I see when I close my eyes is his face."
His mother stroked his hair, her voice soothing. "You're still my son, Cato. You're a good person, no matter what. The Games... they change people, but you can't let them change your heart. Remember who you are, and why you're doing this. For us, for Octavia. And for yourself."
Cato nodded, though the guilt and confusion still weighed heavily on him. "But what if I can't do it? What if I'm not strong enough?"
She pulled back, looking him in the eyes. "You are strong, Cato. Stronger than you know. And you're not alone. We're here for you, no matter what happens. Just promise me you'll hold onto who you are, and not let the Capitol turn you into something you're not."
He swallowed hard, feeling a lump in his throat. "I promise," he whispered, though he wasn't sure he believed it himself. But his mother's words gave him a small measure of hope, a lifeline to hold onto in the darkness.
Cato's stomach lurched violently, and he barely made it to the toilet in time. The harsh retching left him weak and trembling, the sour taste lingering in his mouth. He leaned heavily against the cool porcelain, the sound of the running shower masking the sounds of his distress. The warm water poured over him as he stepped into the shower, offering temporary relief to his stiff muscles and churning thoughts.
He wiped the fog from the mirror after stepping out, the cool air of the bathroom hitting his damp skin. As he splashed cold water on his face, he studied his reflection—pale, drawn, with dark circles under his eyes. His once fierce, unyielding expression now seemed hollow, the eyes staring back at him dull and haunted. He tried to summon the anger and ferocity that had shielded him at the Academy, but all he felt was an overwhelming sense of despair, the weight of loss pressing down on him.
He fumbled for the eye drops, trying to soothe his bloodshot eyes. His hands shook slightly as he applied them. A knock at the door startled him, the sudden sound breaking the silence.
"Yes?" he called out, his voice more strained than he intended.
His mother's voice, gentle yet tinged with concern, came through the door. "Breakfast is ready."
"I'll be out in a minute," Cato replied, though the thought of food made his stomach churn anew. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He needed to compose himself before facing his family. They couldn't see the cracks in his facade, not now.
He quickly fixed his blonde hair, applying some wax to tame it. As he leaned on the sink, his reflection stared back at him—a visage that seemed far removed from the image of a victor or a Legionnaire. His golden skin looked sickly, the bags under his eyes a testament to sleepless nights.
"Get it together, Cato," he muttered under his breath. "Virtus et Honos, Virtus et Honos, Virtus et Honos."
Once a source of strength, the mantra felt empty now, echoing in the silence like a hollow promise. The glamour of the Academy seemed a distant memory, overshadowed by the reality of Marcus's death and the burdens he carried.
Another knock interrupted his thoughts, sharper this time. "Cato? I've laid something out for you," his mother said, her voice softening. "Come downstairs whenever you're ready—your father is going ahead."
He heard her footsteps fade away, leaving him alone once more. He glanced down and realized he had been gripping the sink so tightly that the marble had cracked. A small shard had embedded itself in his palm, and blood oozed from the wound. Cato pulled it out, the pain sharp but oddly grounding. He quickly bandaged the cut, the sting a stark reminder of his reality—a painful but necessary anchor to the present.
He dressed quickly in the light blue button-up shirt and black slacks his mother had laid out, the clothes feeling strangely constrictive. He slipped on a pair of black oxfords and tucked Marcus's token beneath his shirt, the smooth stone a comforting weight against his chest. It was a tangible connection to his past, a reminder of what he had lost and what he had to fight for.
As he descended the stairs, the smell of breakfast greeted him—pancakes, muffins, and fresh fruit. His mother and Octavia were already seated at the dining room table, both dressed elegantly in pale gold fabric dresses. The sight of them brought a lump to his throat; they looked so hopeful, so proud. He felt a surge of protectiveness and a pang of guilt. How could he burden them with his fears and doubts?
The color of the dresses reminded him of butter, a taste he hadn't savored in a long time. But the thought of eating turned his stomach. He accepted a glass of water instead, taking a small sip as Octavia chattered excitedly about her latest school project. He noticed crumbs on her dress and a smudge of blueberry on her cheek, evidence of her enthusiasm for breakfast.
His mother noticed his lack of appetite and gently prodded, "Are you hungry? You should eat something."
Cato shook his head, cutting her off more brusquely than he intended. "I'm fine, Mom. We should head out soon. They'll be starting soon." The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but he couldn't stomach the idea of eating. Not when his insides felt like they were twisted in knots.
His mother gave him a searching look but didn't press further. Octavia, ever the bright spot in the room, reached out to hold his hand. Her small fingers wrapped around his, and she looked up at him with wide, earnest eyes. "Cato, can you tell me about the Games? Are you going to win?"
Cato forced a smile, squeezing her hand gently. "I'll do my best, Octavia. But it's not about winning; it's about making our family proud." His voice cracked slightly, betraying the storm of emotions he was trying to keep at bay.
Octavia nodded, her eyes shining with admiration. "You're already a hero to me, Cato. Just promise you'll come back."
The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He knew the odds; he knew the dangers he would face. But seeing the faith in Octavia's eyes, he couldn't bear to disappoint her. "I promise," he said, his voice firm despite the uncertainty gnawing at him. He reached out to gently wipe the blueberry smudge from her cheek, feeling an overwhelming need to protect her innocence and belief in him.
The walk to the Reaping was a blur of noise and color. The streets of District 2 were alive with festivities, vendors selling goods, and people celebrating. For the citizens, it was a day of pride and honor, a chance to showcase the strength of their tributes. But for Cato, the cheerful atmosphere felt jarring, a stark contrast to the turmoil inside him. The nostalgia of past Reapings, when he watched with eager anticipation, had lost its shine.
Octavia held his hand tightly as they navigated through the bustling market, her small hand comforting. They passed stalls selling luxury goods, meats, and cheeses, eventually arriving at the grand courtyard before the Justice Building. The building stood imposing with its dark volcanic basalt and creamy limestone pillars, banners fluttering under the watchful eyes of camera crews.
Cato found himself corralled with other eighteen-year-olds, and his fellow tributes from the Academy nodded at him in acknowledgment. The weight of their expectations pressed down on him; he was the pride of District 2, the chosen Legionnaire. He forced himself to stand tall, projecting the confidence and strength that everyone expected from him, even as doubts gnawed at his resolve.
His attention shifted to the makeshift stage where Mayor Titus stood, tall and commanding. Beside him, Ophelia Daytide, the Capitol-born escort, was a striking contrast with her alabaster makeup, cotton candy-colored hair, and butterfly-themed dress. The sight of them filled Cato with a mix of resentment and resignation. This was the beginning of his journey to the Capitol and to the Games, where his life would be on display for the entertainment of others.
Mayor Titus stepped forward to the podium as the town clock struck noon.
"My friends of District Two, on this Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games Reaping Day, I welcome you!" His voice boomed across the courtyard, met with applause and cheers from the gathered crowd. Cato clenched his fists, feeling a surge of conflicting emotions—anger, fear, and a grim determination.
"This day reminds us of our violent past and the kindness shown by the Capitol," Mayor Titus continued, his tone reverent. "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 joined in the Legionnaire salute, placing his hand over his heart. The gesture felt heavier than ever, symbolizing his sacrifices and the ones yet to come. As he looked out over the sea of faces, he knew that he had already given up so much—his innocence, his friend Marcus, and, perhaps, his life. Yet, he felt the weight of his father's expectations, his mother's silent support, and Octavia's unwavering belief in him.
Mayor Titus took his seat, and Ophelia Daytide stepped forward, her serene voice a practiced performance. "Welcome, champions of District Two. Happy Hunger Games!" Her words, though hollow, served to heighten the crowd's excitement.
The drawing began with Ophelia plunging her hand into the girls' bowl. The tension was palpable, the crowd holding its breath. But before she could pull a name, a voice rang out, strong and clear. "I volunteer as tribute!"
The cheers erupted as a brunette emerged, her confidence evident as she stepped forward. Clove, from House Valentius, a year younger but already a prodigy. Her eyes were sharply focused, and when they met Cato's, he saw a reflection of his determination.
Ophelia then moved to the boys' bowl, but Cato was ready. "I volunteer as tribute!" he called out, his voice carrying across the courtyard. A rush of adrenaline surged through him as he stepped forward, forcing a smile. This was his role, his destiny—he would not shy away from it.
Ophelia beamed, raising both his and Clove's hands. They turned to face the crowd as Panem's anthem played, the music echoing through the courtyard. "District Two, your Legionnaires! May the odds be ever in their favor!"
Cato's smile faltered as he scanned the crowd, catching sight of his mother and Octavia. Their faces were a mixture of pride and concern, and Octavia's eyes shone with unshed tears. The sight nearly broke him, but he held himself together, knowing he couldn't afford to show weakness now because the odds had yet to be very dependable as of late.