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In the blood-stained arena of the Hunger Games, Cato, a career tribute, grappled with the brutal reality that prowess and training offered no true guarantees of survival. This stark realization simmered in his mind, alongside the excruciating agony of his body being torn apart. For a warrior accustomed to the sight of blood as a symbol of conquest, the sight of his own lifeblood was a nauseating revelation of vulnerability.

His consciousness flickered, painting his final moments in a surreal, glimmering haze. Memories cascaded through his mind – snapshots of a life forged in the harsh crucible of District 2. He was the son of a Peacekeeper, a term that dripped with irony, for these men in white never knew peace, only the cold execution of power. The reflection of his own fear, magnified in the polished shields of their helmets, haunted him. In his district, brutality was not just accepted but rewarded, a grim reality that Cato had learned to navigate with cautious detachment.

Cato's respite from this world of unrelenting harshness came in fleeting moments with two souls: Clove, his district companion with deep brown eyes that once sparkled with life, now extinguished by the merciless hands of Thresh from District 11; and his younger sister, Clodia, whom he affectionately called 'Bird'. Bird, with her ash-blonde hair often in wild disarray, defying their mother's attempts at order, embodied a spirit untamed by the district's rigidity. She was a beacon of innocence, her presence marked by a trail of feathers and a mischievous grin. A simple metallic coil adorned her hair, its gemstone and feathers a testament to her unique spirit amidst the grayness of their world. In her, Cato saw a vulnerability that now, faced with his own mortality, pained him more deeply than the physical torment inflicted by the Capitol's engineered beasts.

The mutts, with their relentless ferocity, were a grotesque parody of nature, yet in their eyes, Cato fancied he saw a glimmer of familiarity, a fleeting reminder of past camaraderie. Perhaps it was the delirium of pain and exhaustion warping his senses, a common descent into madness that befell many tributes in the climax of these cruel games.

Lying there, Cato confronted his inevitable end. He had been a dead man walking since the moment he stepped off the podium into the arena. In his final act of autonomy, he silently begged Katniss Everdeen, the skilled archer from District 12, for a merciful end. The request was a simple, wordless plea – a 'please' that resonated with the acceptance of his fate. The last sound to grace his ears was the twang of a bowstring, a harbinger of the end of his pain, his descent into oblivion.

In his fleeting moments of peace, Cato recalled the nights before the Reapings, the nights when Bird would seek solace in his presence. Their last conversation, playful yet tinged with the shadow of the impending Reaping, echoed in his mind.

“These carry germs, you know?” Cato remarked, twirling a feather between his calloused fingers as Bird stirred beside him, her presence a small comfort against the looming dread of the Reaping.

“You carry germs because you’re gross,” came Bird's sleepy, muffled retort from beneath the covers.

“And yet, you don’t seem to mind my ‘grossness’, considering you’re in my bed,” Cato teased gently.

“Your bed isn’t gross. It gets washed, unlike you,” Bird quipped, her voice laced with a drowsy humor that belied the underlying anxiety of the Reaping.

These moments, once vivid and alive in Cato's mind, now faded into the indistinct murmur of unfamiliar voices and faces. This was no paradise, no inferno, but something far worse.

This was the Capitol's doing – a twisted spectacle where even the most skilled were pawns in a game far beyond their control.

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Stepping into my old room, I was struck by an eerie sense of unfamiliarity, despite everything being exactly as I had left it before the 74th Hunger Games. The walls, adorned with posters and trophies from my training, seemed like artifacts from another life, remnants of a past self that felt increasingly distant.

My mother lingered in the doorway, her eyes scanning the room with a mixture of nostalgia and sorrow. "Bird insisted we leave everything as it was, until you came back home," she said softly, her voice tinged with a melancholy that seemed out of place in our hardened district. "After we thought you had... died," my mother seemed to choke on idea I was dead as she continued to speak, "she couldn't bear to change anything."

I glanced around the room, taking in the meticulously preserved space – a shrine to a version of myself that no longer existed. Internally, I scoffed at the sentimentality of it all. 'Too emotional,' I thought, my mind's voice tinged with the harshness the Capitol's programming had instilled in me. 'Sentiment won't help you survive.'

Despite the room's familiarity, I felt like an intruder in my own space, disconnected from the memories it held. The trophies and accolades that once symbolized my achievements now seemed hollow, empty accolades in the face of the grim reality I had endured.

"I suppose it's nice to have things stay the same somewhere," I replied, my voice devoid of the warmth that such a statement should have carried. It was a mechanical response, a platitude that masked the turbulence of my thoughts.

My mother's expression faltered slightly, a flicker of hurt crossing her features before she masked it with a practiced stoicism. It was clear that the mother who had watched her son leave for the Hunger Games was not the same woman standing before me now. She too had been changed by the Capitol's cruel games, her emotional resilience worn down by the agony of losing a child, only to have him returned as a mere shadow of his former self.

In that moment, I realized the extent of the Capitol's reach. It was not just the tributes who were pawns in their game – our families, our loved ones, were also ensnared in the web of their machinations. The Capitol had not only reshaped us, the tributes, but also the very fabric of our lives back home. In my room, surrounded by relics of a bygone era, I stood as a testament to the Capitol's insidious power – a power that could break spirits and erode bonds, leaving nothing but hollow shells in its wake.

When I met her eyes again, there was clear sense of pain and anger - my mother and I often struggled to hide our emotions and often were as subtle as a neon sign being burned into your retinas. The look she gave me, regardless of how warm she had tried to be, possible to call out to the son that was no longer there, was a clear indication of how she actually felt; I wish you had just stayed dead in that arena. And some part of me shared that sentiment like a genetic. 

As she left, I heard what could be considered the closest to a songbird outside. 

From the window of my room, I watched Bird, her presence a vibrant contrast to the muted colors of our district. She was surrounded by a gaggle of younger children, their faces upturned in rapt attention as she sang. Her voice carried a melody that wove a tale of a cunning canary outsmarting a fox – a narrative of wit triumphing over brute strength. The lyrics, clever and lighthearted, seemed to dance on the breeze:

"Outfoxed at every turn, the clever canary sings,
Dodging every snare, with the flutter of her wings.
In this game of chase, the fox may think he's won, but watch and see, the canary's just begun."

Beyond the circle of children, I noticed Glade, Clove's younger brother. He watched Bird with a protective gaze, his posture alert and vigilant. It struck me then how much Glade had grown, no longer the shadow trailing behind his sister, but a young man in his own right.

Clove was nowhere to be seen, a stark departure from the past when she and Glade were inseparable. Before the Hunger Games, they had clung to each other, their bond a sanctuary against the neglect of their parents. Now, that bond seemed fractured, another casualty in the Capitol's relentless campaign to reshape our lives.

I observed these changes with a clinical detachment, the emotional undercurrents registering in my mind like data points to be analyzed. The Capitol's programming had rendered my responses mechanical, stripping away the empathy that might have once colored my perception.

"In the dance of shadows, the canary twirled,
Outwitting the fox, in a world swirled.
With a song so sweet, and a mind so bright,
The canary shone, in the fading light."

The children giggled and cheered, reveling in the story's clever conclusion. Bird's performance was more than mere entertainment; it was a subtle act of rebellion, a testament to the power of intellect over force. The wires of my brain began suspecting something else was at play besides her stage presence but there was nothing to do as a peacekeeper ordered Glade back to work, yanking hardly on his shirt collar and practically dragging him back to his group. Normally, I'd have rushed out and made sure to keep Bird behind me in case he retaliated against her but by the time the peacekeeper had turned to face Bird, she had already snuck off into the busy streets of the district, leaving only a feather and a very exasperated peacekeeper behind. 

This is definitely becoming a problem.  I mused with myself, finding myself observing a familiar situation; during the games, we had attempted to hunt down one of the younger tributes - one of the only things Marvel managed to do successfully - Rue. Despite her small stature and 60-1 odds, a score of 7 and her age, she lasted fairly long before Katniss ever joined her. I couldn't help but compare Bird and Rue; they were young, they were cunning and they were painfully resourceful. How the Capitol underestimated both of them was trivial for such an elite government. 

Glade had hid the subtle smirk from everyone but me and it made me curious just the extent of his friendship with Bird had gone, so much so that he's more happy she escaped possible punishment than angry she left him to face twice as much - but the programming didn't allow my mind to slip much further into it, I had to worry about Katniss and those rats burrowing under District 13. 

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Dinner at home, once a familiar ritual, now felt like a performance in a play where I no longer knew my lines. My father's gaze weighed heavily upon me, a silent scrutiny that spoke volumes in its quiet intensity. The difference in the meal itself was stark; the richness and variety of Capitol cuisine had spoiled me, making the district's fare – a dubious amalgam of meat, vegetable-like substances, and something that was ostensibly egg – seem like an affront to the senses. Each bite was a struggle, a battle against the memory of finer tastes and textures.

Bird, typically the lifeblood of our family gatherings with her ceaseless chatter and vivacious energy, was uncharacteristically subdued. Her usual sparkle seemed dimmed under the oppressive presence of our father, her vivacity replaced by a cautious reserve. I couldn't help but wonder if her recent escapade, outwitting the peacekeeper, had somehow circulated back to our household, instilling in her a newfound wariness. The thought of her being reprimanded for her defiance, however justified, left a bitter taste in my mouth that had little to do with the food.

As I observed my family, the stark contrast between my parents became increasingly apparent. My father, with his muscular build and meticulously groomed dark brown hair, exuded an aura of rigid discipline. His eyes, the color of field grass, held a perpetual contempt, reminiscent of a predator lying in wait for its prey. In his presence, the air seemed charged with an unspoken tension, a constant reminder of the harsh realities of our district.

In contrast, my mother moved with a grace that belied the years etched on her face. Her ashen blond hair and eyes, shared with Bird and me, held a depth of emotion that spoke of weariness and an underlying guilt. It was a look that required close observation to fully comprehend – a subtle interplay of maternal love tinged with the sorrow of what our family had endured and lost.

The conversation around the table was a carefully choreographed dance of mundane topics, avoiding the elephant in the room – my miraculous return and the unspoken questions it raised. I participated mechanically, my responses measured and devoid of the warmth that once characterized our family interactions.

At one point, my father broke the silence with a pointed question, his voice cutting through the room's tension. "How's the training going?" he asked, his eyes fixed on me, searching for signs of the son he once knew.

I met his gaze, feeling the weight of expectation in his question. "It's... rigorous," I replied, choosing my words carefully. "The Capitol ensures we're well prepared." I added, the bitterness of the truth underlying my words.

He nodded, seemingly satisfied with my answer, but the unspoken understanding between us lingered in the air. We both knew that the training I referred to was unlike anything District 2 had ever offered. It was a regimen designed not just to hone physical skills, but to reshape minds and wills to the Capitol's liking.

"Hopefully," he responded, the contempt and annoyance of his tone made it difficult not to roll my eyes, "Maybe this time, Clove can figure out how to get her small ass up a tree and you won't feel the need to monolog when faced by two starving kids and a bow and arrow." 

"It was the heat of the moment." I protested slightly, agitated as my brain attempted to recede back to the arena despite the blockade installed by the Capitol. They really didn't want me to think about it, for whatever reason. 

"Made for great T.V." My father commented, coldly, he was about to speak again before my mother interjected. 

"We're just glad you're home, sweetheart." earning a glare from my father as her tone wept with maternal affection that any normal person might see as comforting, but the only response I could give was a forced smile and an attempt not to cringe away as she gave my shoulder a gentle pat. It was odd, feeling so homesick for a home that I was in, but those thoughts were quickly subsided by my sheer contempt for Katniss again; she cheated her way out of the system and got to go lead a rebellion, I followed the rules and did my job and where did that get me? looking at my parents like they were complete strangers. 

She took everything from me. It wasn't fair. 

Thoughts of various gruesome ways I could have and planned to end her in the arena and if I ever got my hands on her became like sickly lullabies when I finally got to sleep, allowing my consciousness to fade, knowing that the sunlight would bring an even worse fate. 

In District 2, the lessons of survival were taught with a brutal honesty. The art of killing, the finesse of subduing an opponent, and the craft of tying knots – these were the skills we were ingrained with, skills that were as much a part of us as breathing. And in the harsh reality of our district, 'keeping the peace' was often a euphemism for a display of force and dominance.

As I shoved the smaller figure to the ground, his body hitting the dirt and stones with a dull thud, there was a detached part of me that acknowledged the brutality of the act. A push was indeed tame by our standards, especially when I noticed Clove at my side, her hand resting casually on the knife sheathed at her waist. Her eyes were sharp and calculating, ready for any sign of rebellion or resistance.

The boy we had cornered was no more than a pawn in our mission – a suspected rebel, his presence in the district a threat that needed to be neutralized. Clove and I worked with a cold efficiency, extracting information with a mix of intimidation and physical persuasion. The boy, his face a mask of fear and defiance, eventually broke under the pressure, divulging details that sealed his fate.

The execution that followed was a public spectacle, a grim reminder of the Capitol's power and the consequences of dissent. The boy was led to the center of the district, his hands bound, his steps faltering. A makeshift stage had been erected, and as he was forced onto it, the crowd gathered, their faces a mix of curiosity, fear, and in some cases, a morbid fascination.

The executioner, a figure garbed in the impersonal uniform of the Peacekeepers, read out the charges in a voice that resonated through the silent crowd. The boy's crime – aiding the rebel cause, a treason against the Capitol. The sentence – death, to be carried out immediately.

As the executioner raised the weapon, a hush fell over the crowd. The air was thick with tension, the moment stretched to an almost unbearable length. Then, with a swift, practiced movement, the deed was done. The boy's body crumpled to the ground, lifeless and the back of his head bloodied from the bullet, his final moments a stark testament to the Capitol's ruthless justice.

In the aftermath, Bird emerged from the crowd, her steps hesitant but determined. She approached the body, her hands trembling as she sprinkled bread crumbs over it – an old District 2 tradition, a final act of respect for the departed. Her fingers lingered over the boy's closed eyelids, her gesture a silent prayer, a farewell to a soul lost in the turmoil of our times.

This act of compassion did not go unnoticed. A Peacekeeper, his face a mask of authority and disdain, grabbed Bird roughly by the arm, his grip tight and unyielding. Instinctively, I moved forward, my steps quick and purposeful.

"Let her go," I said, my voice low but firm, a command rather than a request. The Peacekeeper turned to me, his eyes narrowing in recognition and perhaps a hint of wariness.

"She's showing sympathy for a traitor." he growled, his grip on Bird's arm not relenting.

"He's still a person." Bird protested before I interjected, 

"It's just an old tradition, she meant no harm by it." 

There was a moment of standoff, a silent battle of wills between us. Then, reluctantly, the Peacekeeper released Bird, pushing her towards me. I caught her in my arms, feeling her slight tremble against my chest.

"Are you okay?" I asked, my voice softening as I looked down at her. Bird nodded, her eyes still fixed on the lifeless body of the boy.

As we walked away from the scene, the weight of what had transpired hung heavily between us. Bird's act of defiance, however small, was a flicker of resistance in the face of the Capitol's overwhelming power. And in my intervention, I had stepped out of the role the Capitol had crafted for me, if only for a moment. Surely, I'd be punished for it but my only thought seemed to be about getting Bird home as I moved her away from the stand and practically dragged her away from the crowd as my head began screaming about the possible reasons Bird had done such a thing: she was either disgustingly empathetic, or, she was a traitor. 

I thought back to the boy for a moment, how he had died without so much as a name - much like some of the other tributes in that arena. Sure, you saw their faces in the projections but you never knew their names, it was always 'Boy from District 5', 'Girl from District 6', they only cared if you won and even then, you'd just be known as 'Victor of whatever game you won', never a name. We weren't given names from anyone outside the district you came from, we were just numbers and bodies, statistics. 

What a shitshow. 

I had come up with a name for the boy in my head - I had killed him, even if indirectly, so I should at least give him the dignity of a name; Ciprian. 

Ciprian was born in the same district he died in, aiding rebels that surely wouldn't know he was gone - or maybe they did, maybe someone out there was waiting for him to return and would weep over the loss. He wasn't ugly by any standards, so surely someone at least had interest in him. 

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Once home, the façade of safety quickly shattered. Our father, always a strict disciplinarian, was a storm of fury over Bird's act of defiance at the execution. His anger was a palpable force, filling the room with a tension that was both suffocating and terrifying.

Bird, her earlier bravery now replaced with a vulnerable apprehension, braced herself as our father advanced. His hand struck with a force that echoed through the room, the sound a stark and brutal reminder of the price of disobedience in our household.

The beating was merciless, each blow delivered with a calculated fury that spoke of deep-seated anger and a rigid adherence to the Capitol's doctrine. Bird, her small frame overwhelmed by the onslaught, crumpled under the force, her cries muffled by the sound of flesh against flesh. A calloused hand violently tugged the zipper on the back of her shirt down, showcasing her bareback open and vulnerable. 

Then came the whip, its leather tail cutting through the air with a vicious hiss. It landed on Bird's back with a sickening snap, the sound punctuated by her sharp intake of breath. Again and again, the whip descended, each lash a cruel stroke that tore not just at her skin but at the very fabric of her spirit.

Through it all, Bird was forced to recite a District 2 mantra, a chant of loyalty to the Capitol. Her voice, broken and trembling, struggled to form the words, each syllable a testament to her pain and the indoctrination that our district was subjected to.

"The strength of the mountain, the will of the stone, we stand with the Capitol, never alone." which became less that of words and became a mixture of sobs and whimpers that made it even more difficult to make out what she was exactly staying besides the occasional 'stop', 'sorry' and 'dad' as the red welts only grew like vines, decorating her small frame.

I stood there, watching the scene unfold with a detachment that bordered on apathy. The Capitol's programming had numbed my emotions, rendering me a cold observer to my sister's suffering. There was a part of me, buried deep beneath layers of conditioning and manipulation, that screamed to intervene, to protect Bird as I once would have without hesitation. But that part was silenced, suppressed by the cold logic and ruthless survival instincts that now governed my actions.

As the beating finally ceased, Bird lay on the floor, a broken figure, her back a canvas of welts and bruises. Our father's heavy breaths filled the silence, his anger spent but his message clear – defiance would not be tolerated, not in our family, not in District 2.

In the aftermath, as I helped Bird to her feet, her eyes met mine, searching for a trace of the brother she once knew. But what she found was a stranger's gaze, a look that offered no comfort, no empathy, only the cold acknowledgment of the reality we now lived in.

I began to wonder how often our father had reverted to these punishments - if that came as almost as natural as breathing did for those who were Peacekeepers. It wasn't hidden in the district that Peacekeepers often had higher domestic violence - or just cases of violence - than the regular citizen of Panem. You could throw a stone and hit a violent Peacekeeper, who would then probably publicly execute you for threats against an official. 

Dinner carried a drowning weight.

Our family sat around the table, each of us entangled in our own silent battles. The meal passed in a hushed quiet, the only sounds the clinking of cutlery and the occasional forced exchange of mundane conversation.

Bird, her back still raw from the lashing, sat quietly, her usual vivacity dimmed to a mere shadow. Her eyes were downcast, a veil of pain and resignation shadowing her features. Our father, having expended his rage, ate with a mechanical detachment, his earlier fury replaced by a cold, unsettling calm.

As for myself, I partook in the meal with a detachment that had become my norm. The Capitol's conditioning had instilled in me a sense of disconnection from the world around me, including the familial bonds that once held such importance. Each bite of food, each interaction, felt like a step in a choreographed dance of pretense, a performance in a play where I was both actor and audience.

The tense quiet of the dinner was abruptly shattered by the arrival of a Peacekeeper. He entered with an air of authority, his uniform a stark reminder of the Capitol's ever-present control. My family tensed, a collective unease settling over the table as the Peacekeeper approached.

He addressed me directly, his voice devoid of any warmth. "We have intelligence on Katniss Everdeen's whereabouts," he stated, his words cutting through the room like a knife. "You and Clove are being deployed to assist in her capture, Glimmer and Marvel will be awaiting your arrival at outskirts of District 8."

The room fell into a deeper silence, the gravity of his words hanging heavily in the air. Katniss Everdeen – the girl on fire, the symbol of rebellion, the thorn in the Capitol's side, the brat who I blamed for my current predicament – was now within our grasp.

I nodded, acknowledging the order with a calm that belied the turmoil of thoughts racing through my mind. This mission was not just another task; it was a pivotal moment, a chance to strike at the heart of the rebellion, to prove my loyalty to the Capitol.

As the Peacekeeper left, the semblance of normalcy that had pervaded our dinner dissipated, replaced by a palpable sense of urgency and anticipation. My family regarded me with a mix of fear, pride, and something else – a dawning realization of the role I was to play in the unfolding drama of the Capitol's power play.

In the silence that followed, I excused myself from the table, my mind already shifting to the mission ahead. The hunt for Katniss Everdeen was more than just a pursuit; it was a chess game, and I was one of the Capitol's key pieces.

Retreating to my room, I began to mentally prepare for the deployment. The training, the conditioning, all of it had led to this moment. As I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I felt a sense of purpose sharpen within me, a focus that pushed aside any lingering doubts or emotions.

I slept like a rock that night, the idea of splitting that girl's spine was almost relaxing as I fell deeper and deeper into a state of unconsciousness. I welcomed the dawn as I slung my bag over my shoulders and made my way out of the home, not sparing my 'family' a second glance or even a goodbye as I made my way to the aircraft, Clove following behind me with a similar amount of eagerness in each step. 

Deployed once again alongside Clove, we were a duo of silent efficiency. Words were unnecessary; our training and shared experiences in the Hunger Games had honed our ability to communicate through mere glances and subtle gestures. The mission had transformed us into instruments of the Capitol's will, our personal histories and emotions secondary to the task at hand.

Joining us were Marvel and Glimmer, rounding out our contingent of Career tributes, earning myself a sense of deja vu, as we approached the outskirts of District 8, a district now ravaged by the seeds of rebellion and the Capitol's harsh retribution, an unspoken tension simmered among us. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and the distant echoes of conflict, a constant reminder of the war that had torn our world apart.

In the midst of our strategic planning, I couldn't help but notice something off about Glimmer. Despite her attempts to mask it, there was a hesitation in her movements, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. The tracker jacker venom had left more than just physical scars; it had eroded a part of her, leaving behind a vulnerability she fought hard to conceal. I watched her, my observations detached yet acute, cataloging the subtle signs of her inner turmoil. 

Wonder if you're going to be the first one down...again. I thought curtly, I wouldn't have been shocked if she was. Glimmer, like her namesake, was more of a show-horse than anything useful in the arena and in battle, sure she had the same amount of training as we all did but she was still groomed to be nothing more than a pretty face. Something for the Capitol to gawk at and hunger for - made me almost envious that her fashioned job was to be something to cherish and love, while District 2 kids were the snarling dogs the Capitol would utilize. Though, I do remember a victor from District 4 who had managed to become a national pretty-boy but that was a one off. Supposed it mattered more what kind of creeps wanted you bent over a table vs who wanted a personal guard-dog. 

It made me wonder what would have happened had Clove or I won the games? What if Bird had gone in? 

I shook my head to free myself from those thoughts for a moment. They weren't needed for the task currently, they were useless thoughts. 

As we moved through the ravaged landscape of District 8, the destruction wrought by the rebellion and the Capitol's response was evident in every charred building and every fearful glance from the district's inhabitants. We were invaders in a land that had once been part of our nation, now alienated by the chasm of war.

It was during one such reconnaissance that fate presented me with an opportunity I had been craving – a chance encounter with Katniss Everdeen and her team. Hidden in the shadows, I observed them with a hunter's patience, my every sense attuned to their movements and conversations.

Hatred for Katniss simmered within me, a potent, visceral emotion that had been nurtured by the Capitol's programming and my own sense of betrayal. She was the symbol of the rebellion, the mockingjay that had ignited a fire across the districts, challenging the Capitol's supremacy. To me, she represented everything that had gone wrong with my life – the lost glory, the manipulation, the transformation into a pawn for the Capitol's games.

As I watched her, the hatred coalesced into a focused desire for retribution. Every fiber of my being ached to step out of the shadows, to confront her, to make her pay for the upheaval she had caused. But my training held me back, a cold, calculating voice reminding me of the mission, of the need for strategy over blind vengeance.

In the dim light, I studied her – the way she moved, the way she interacted with her team. She was a fighter, no doubt, but she was also a symbol, a beacon of hope for those who sought to defy the Capitol. And in that moment, I understood the depth of the Capitol's hatred for her. She was more than just a rebel; she was a threat to their very existence, a threat that I had been tasked to eliminate.

Retreating back into the shadows, I rejoined Clove, Marvel, and Glimmer, my hatred for Katniss a burning ember in my chest. The encounter had been a stark reminder of the mission's stakes, a reinforcement of my resolve.

In this war-torn landscape, amongst the ruins of District 8, the lines between friend and foe, right and wrong, had blurred into a murky gray. I was a weapon of the Capitol, a tribute transformed into a hunter. And in this hunt, I had but one target – Katniss Everdeen, the girl who had become my nemesis, the embodiment of all that I had come to despise. The slow burn of hatred within me was a constant companion, fueling my determination, sharpening my focus. In this game of shadows and deception, I was ready to play my part, to fulfill the role that had been forced upon me, no matter the personal cost.

Chapter Text

The air was tense with anticipation as we, the career tributes, prepared for our ambush on Katniss and her group of rebels. The environment of District 8 provided a backdrop of destruction and despair, the remnants of buildings serving as grim sentinels to our impending attack. Our steps were measured, silent – the result of rigorous training and a shared history of violence and survival.

As we neared their position, every sense was heightened, every muscle coiled in readiness. The moment of confrontation was imminent, a culmination of the Capitol's orders and our own ingrained desire for victory.

The attack was swift, a blur of motion and sound. I launched myself at the nearest rebel, my movements a seamless blend of power and precision. The clash of our struggle was a chaotic symphony, punctuated by the grunts and cries of combat. In a fluid motion, honed by countless hours of training, I overpowered the rebel, my hands a vice of unyielding strength. The finality of the act, the cessation of struggle, was both familiar and numbing – a reminder of the arena, of the life I had been forced into.

It was then that Katniss's eyes met mine, recognition flaring in her gaze. For a moment, time seemed to freeze, our shared history in the Hunger Games hanging between us like a specter. Her expression, a mix of shock and horror, mirrored the tumultuous emotions that churned within me. But that moment of stillness shattered as an arrow pierced my shoulder, its sudden impact jolting me back to the brutal reality.

Pain exploded through my body, a white-hot lance that seared through flesh and bone. I stumbled, my focus momentarily scattered by the intensity of the injury. The rebels, seizing the opportunity, moved with a coordinated efficiency, their actions a testament to their training and resolve.

The world spun, a maelstrom of chaos and confusion, as we were subdued. Blows rained down, each one a hammer of retribution, until darkness mercifully enveloped me, swallowing the pain and the din of battle.

When consciousness returned, it was to the sterile environment of District 13's medbay. The stark white walls and the hum of medical equipment were a stark contrast to the battlefield's chaos. I lay there, disoriented and weakened, the pain in my shoulder a dull throb compared to the sharp agony I had felt before.

Voices filtered through my foggy consciousness, the words slowly coalescing into coherence. It was a conversation between Haymitch and Katniss, their tones laced with urgency and fatigue.

"We can't just execute them, Katniss," Haymitch's voice was a gruff whisper, a hint of his usual cynicism softened by a weary resignation. "They're pawns, just like you were. The Capitol's twisted them into what they are."

Katniss's response was tinged with a mixture of anger and despair. "I know that, Haymitch. But after everything they've done... how can we just forgive them? Cato, he..."

Her voice trailed off, the unspoken words hanging heavily in the air. I could sense the turmoil that wracked her, the conflict between her desire for justice and the understanding of our shared victimhood under the Capitol's regime.

Haymitch sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of unspoken truths. "It's not about forgiveness, it's about what's right. Killing them won't end this cycle. We have to be better than the Capitol, better than what they've made us all into."

Their words struck a chord within me, stirring something that lay buried beneath the layers of conditioning and manipulation. For a fleeting moment, I glimpsed the shadow of the person I might have been, the person I could have become had the Capitol not twisted me into their weapon.

Despite how close I came to considering the possible act of breaking free, there was truly no reason to. I still hated Katniss, her voice felt like someone had taken two hot pins and jammed then into my ears - which would of still been preferable than listening to her. How she could have been possibly beloved by anyone was a mystery to me. 

"Our mole in District 2, what was his name?" I heard Haymitch inquire, his tone holding a frail sense of hope that the boy had survived his ordeal - he had not. 

"Valere," Katniss answered sullenly, "He didn't make it, other moles said he had been executed... I don't doubt these four had something to do with it, either." an accusation that drowned in truth. We had executed that boy, indirectly, but Katniss shared the blood, smearing her own hands with the red crimson of that boys final moments. 

"Shame, the boy wasn't any older than sixteen. Waste of the youth, but what else is new for the Capitol." Haymitch let out a sigh as a long forgotten heaviness filled my chest, making the attempt at remaining 'unconscious' difficult. It was easier to dehumanize your targets, you didn't care who they were, just as long as they were dead. But Valere wasn't a distant name, no. He was the youngest child of one of the many victors of District 2 but lucked out with being in a District that had hour long reapings than the other districts. 

From what I remember, he was never snarky or arrogant, despite his status as victors child. He was a quiet boy with soft brown hair and a smile that could steady a heart attack, and eyes that looked like they belonged more to District 4 than they did District 2. It made sense why he chose to become a rebel - when the Capitol purges your family, you're less likely to freely serve them, unless you were a mutt. 

I wondered if the Capitol might try to execute my mother and Bird should I fail my objective. I didn't care much for my father but the idea of Bird, someone who had watched her brother get treated like a chew toy and a lab rat by the Capitol, lying dead somewhere in District 2 because I once again failed to kill Katniss Everdeen was enough to instill a sense of dread within me. I needed Katniss dead and I needed her dead now. 

And this time, there would be no dogs, no Thresh and definitely no Peeta to stop me.

Chapter Text

Finnick Odair, the victor of the 65th Hunger Games, renowned for his charm and prowess in the arena, had a perceptiveness that set him apart. As he entered the medbay, there was a calculating look in his eyes, an awareness that belied his typically easygoing demeanor. He approached my bed with a casualness that seemed out of place in the sterile environment of the medbay.

"Cato, I know you're awake," he began, his voice tinged with a knowing confidence. "You can act as good as you climb a tree."

Ah. So I wasn't living that down either, even in the purgatory state I found myself in. 

I remained still, my eyes closed, clinging to the pretense of unconsciousness. But Finnick was not easily dissuaded. He pulled up a chair and sat beside my bed, his presence a silent challenge to my feigned state.

"You know, I've heard a lot about you. The fierce Career from District 2, almost a victor, became mutt-food," he continued, his tone conversational yet probing. "And now here you are, playing dead in District 13's medbay."

I remained silent, unwilling to engage, yet a part of me was curious about his intentions. Finnick Odair was a survivor, a player in the Capitol's games, much like myself. His reputation preceded him, a mix of allure and danger that had made him a favorite in the Capitol.

"It's interesting," Finnick said, leaning forward slightly, "the information we've been getting from the rebels in District 2. Valere, before he died, he shared quite a bit. Including some things about your sister, Clodia."

At the mention of Bird, especially her real name, a protective instinct flared within me, piercing through the veneer of detachment I had carefully constructed. My eyes flickered open, meeting Finnick's gaze with a cold intensity.

"What about her?" I asked, my voice betraying a hint of concern I hadn't intended to show.

Finnick studied me for a moment, as if weighing his words. "Valere spoke of her... her defiance, her spirit. Seems she's quite the symbol in District 2, much like Katniss here. She's rallying people, Cato. Against the Capitol."

The news hit me with an unexpected force. Bird, my sister, a symbol of rebellion? It was a role I had never envisioned for her, yet it made a twisted sense. Her act of defiance at the execution, her compassion amidst the brutality of our world – it was the kind of spark that could ignite a fire in the hearts of those oppressed. I had also never looked at her the same way many had viewed Katniss - the contrast was evident enough, Bird was a performer, Katniss was a soldier. Those two things cannot be comparable. 

Finnick's gaze was unwavering, his eyes holding mine. "You have a choice, Cato. You can keep being the Capitol's weapon, or you can be something more. Both sides have uses for you, the only difference is one won't kill your sister if you fail a task or because they're having an off day. Don't you think Bird deserves to live in a world where she won't fear being given a death sentence every year of her life until she's eighteen?" 

I didn't respond, but there was that same itch again when I thought about Bird being possibly harmed again - though, this time, my anger towards Katniss seemed to waver. Cracking as I tried to justify how this might be her doing but... she didn't make the games, she didn't start the games in the first place and she wasn't the one who- 

No. My objective is to kill Katniss, regardless of how deep her involvement goes. Failure to do so will result in immediate termination. 

As Finnick's footsteps receded, the medbay settled back into its rhythm of quiet efficiency. Nurses moved between beds, tending to the wounded with a practiced calm. The air was filled with the subtle beeps of medical equipment and the muted sounds of healing.

Finnick's next conversation, this time with Glimmer, drifted into my range of hearing. Glimmer, the first of us Careers to fall in the arena, now seemed to be emerging from the Capitol's programming. The irony of it wasn't lost on me; in the arena, she had been the first to succumb, and here she was, leading the way back to some semblance of self.

"Glimmer, how are you feeling?" Finnick's voice was gentle, his usual charm dialed back in the face of her evident confusion and disorientation.

"It's like waking up from a really bad dream," Glimmer replied, her voice tinged with a vulnerability that had been absent in the arena. "I remember... bits and pieces. It's all so fragmented."

Finnick nodded, his demeanor patient. "That's to be expected. The programming they did on you was extensive. But you're safe here, in District 13."

Glimmer sighed, a sound of both relief and apprehension. "My family... I have a little brother, Topaz. He's mute. I need to get back to him."

Topaz, I thought, another one of those grandiose names from District 1. Despite the gravity of the situation, I couldn't help but find a trace of dark humor in the flamboyance of the naming conventions in our fellow Career district.

Finnick's response was reassuring yet realistic. "We're doing what we can to get information about the districts, to help everyone we can. But for now, you need to focus on recovering. The better you feel, the sooner you can get back to your family."

Their conversation continued, but my thoughts were elsewhere, reflecting on the revelations about Glimmer and her family. The Capitol's programming had stripped us of our identities, turned us into weapons. Yet here was Glimmer, emerging from that fog, a reminder that beneath the conditioning, we were still human, still capable of love and concern for others.

I did distinctively remember Glimmer mentioning Topaz in the arena during the day, and in her interview, though with the transparent garment she had meshed around her body, I highly doubt anyone was truly listening and not just looking at her. That thought made me cringe about how we were often paraded - quite literally in chariots at one point - around for the Capitol's amusement like show dogs. Glimmer had quite literally been spray painted silver. Spray painted. Not dressed, not made to give the illusion, just painted. 

She was only seventeen and the entire nation had seen parts of her that she had to show in order to guarantee survival - again, something the Capitol did. Not Katniss, not the rebels, the Capitol. 

The sobering realization was quickly dashed as my brain felt like it might explode out through my nose, biting deep into my lips and stifling a groan of pain from the internal torture, unseen by everyone in the room. 

Failure was not an option. Immediate termination. Immediate Termination. 

Chapter Text

Finnick's attempts to engage me in conversation were met with my stubborn silence, a wall I had erected not just against him, but against the world that had betrayed me. It wasn't until Haymitch Abernathy, victor of the 50th Hunger Games, approached that I found myself compelled to respond.

Haymitch's approach was different from Finnick's, less polished and more direct. He pulled up a chair beside my bed with a weary sigh, his eyes reflecting a lifetime of battles both in and out of the arena.

"Cato, I'm not going to sugarcoat it," Haymitch began, his voice gruff. "I've never had much love for Career tributes. Always thought you guys had it easy, all trained up and ready for the kill, painfully arrogant. But maybe I was wrong. About being ready for the kill, you're definitely an arrogant little shit with an ego."

His words were blunt, yet there was an underlying current of empathy, a recognition of our shared experiences as pawns in the Capitol's games. I remained silent, but my attention was focused on him, on the unspoken understanding that seemed to hang between us.

"You know, after I won the Quarter Quell, the Capitol... they killed my family, my girlfriend." Haymitch continued, a distant look in his eyes. "Winning the Games, it doesn't spare you. It just paints a bigger target on your back, especially if you make the Capitol look stupid."

The revelation struck a chord within me. Despite the differences in our backgrounds, our experiences were mirrored in the cruelty and manipulation of the Capitol. Haymitch had suffered, just as I had, just as all of us who had been thrown into the arena had.

His words stirred something within me, a conflict between the programming that had been ingrained in my mind and the emotions that were struggling to surface. I was a Career tribute, trained to kill, to be a champion of the Capitol. Yet, here I was, a victim of their schemes, just as Haymitch had been.

"I know what they did to you, to all of you," Haymitch said, leaning forward slightly. "The programming, the conditioning. They tortured you, didn't they?"

I could only muster a nod, my brain screaming between denial and a desire to be heard. I thought back to the a memory of having tracker jacker venom injected into my arm, the trick of the mind being the worst thing they've ever done; I saw my little sister, dead. She was dead on the ground, her blood dripping from my hands - I was the very thing my little sister feared in that moment, no matter how fake it may have been, the false reality truly feels like the current when you're holding a corpse of someone closest to you. 

Sometimes, when I fall asleep, I still see her lying there. 

As Haymitch spoke, I grappled with the turmoil within me. The cold, calculated part of me, the part that had been honed into a weapon, urged me to shut down, to retreat into the safety of detachment. But another part, a part that resonated with Haymitch's words, with the glimpses of humanity I had seen in Finnick and Glimmer, urged me to listen, to consider the possibility of a path different from the one the Capitol had set me on.

Haymitch's gaze was unwavering, his words a bridge across the chasm that separated our worlds. "You're more than what they made you, Cato. You're more than a Career tribute. You're a person, with your own mind, your own will. Don't let the Capitol define you."

His words hung in the air, a challenge and an invitation. In the quiet of the medbay, amidst the soft hum of machines and the distant sounds of a world in upheaval, I found myself at a crossroads. The path I had walked had been marked by violence and obedience to the Capitol. But now, a new path seemed to beckon, a path of self-discovery, of rebellion against the fate that had been forced upon me.

As Haymitch stood to leave, a part of me wanted to call out, to engage in this conversation that had opened a door to a world I had never considered. But the words remained unspoken, the internal struggle too raw, too new. For now, I lay in silence, contemplative. He turned to look at me once more. 

"You're welcome for convincing Katniss not to kill you, seems I have an odd knack for that. Don't make me regret it, kid, or I might be the one deciding to put you down." He said it in a way that sounded like it was almost teasing, but there was a dire hint of seriousness to it. It was odd, being given a second chance - but I'd never get a third, this was it. 

Chapter Text

You have a choice, Cato.

The occasional silence was a canvas for my memories, each one rippling through my mind like echoes across still waters. One memory, in particular, surfaced with a vivid clarity: a day in District 2 when I had been sent to retrieve Bird after she missed a training session.

I found her in a secluded spot, her small frame hunched over a grotesque creature – a dog, its skeleton distorted in a way that screamed of human interference, a twisted experiment on nature itself. Yet Bird, with a tenderness that seemed out of place in our world of brutality, was soothing it with gentle strokes and quiet hums. "You're alright now..." she whispered, her voice a balm to the suffering animal.

"The could be venomous," I muttered, reaching to pull her away, only to have my arm shoved aside with unexpected strength.

"It could be diseased and it'd still deserve to be soothed, Cato. Everybody deserves to feel loved before they go, at least." Her words, spoken over her shoulder as her eyes met mine, were a stark contrast to the harsh lessons of our upbringing. She returned her attention to the dying creature, whose labored breathing was gradually stilling.

That memory, so vivid and poignant, was a stark reminder of the schism within me. It felt as though my mind was being torn apart by two opposing forces – one pulling me towards the Capitol's indoctrination, the other towards a path of empathy and defiance, as exemplified by Bird's compassion. The internal struggle was a physical agony, a sensation of being ripped apart at the seams.

My stifled groans, a testament to the turmoil within, must have alerted the medics. I vaguely remembered them rushing over, their actions a blur as my consciousness wavered. The next thing I knew, a wave of numbness washed over me, a different kind than the one imposed by the Capitol's programming. It was the heavy, medicated numbness of morphling, administered to counter the effects of my seizure.

Haymitch's voice brought me back to the present. "You had a seizure, Cato. It's a common reaction when the programming starts to break. Marvel nearly concussed himself during his own episode. You were out of it, talking about your sister, about wanting to go home."

His words were a revelation, shedding light on the depths of my internal conflict. The seizure was a physical manifestation of my mind's rebellion against the Capitol's control, a violent rejection of their conditioning.

The longing for home, for the safety and familiarity of my old life, was a stark contrast to the cold, detached existence I had led as a Career tribute. Glimmer's reaction upon waking, her call for her mother, suddenly made sense. The withdrawal from the programming left us exposed, vulnerable, yearning for a sense of safety that had been stripped from us.

Lying there in the medbay, I was confronted with the stark reality of my situation. The Capitol had not only controlled my actions but had also sought to dominate my thoughts, my emotions, my very sense of self. But in the chaos of the seizure, in the unguarded moments of delirium, my true self had surfaced, revealing a yearning for something more than the role I had been forced to play.

The clarity that came with the morphling was a double-edged sword. It offered relief from the pain and confusion, but it also laid bare the truths of my existence – truths that I had been conditioned to ignore. I was not just a Career tribute; I was a person with desires, with fears, with a longing for a place and a life that had been taken from me. The Capitol, like it did all things, took that and ripped out the bits of me that weren't ideal for hunting down Katniss Everdeen - who, in my current state, was less of a monstrous villain and the target of all my wrath and more of another scared child that the Capitol had taken and shaped an image out of to better their own image of power and control. 

Katniss Everdeen's approach to my bed in the medbay was hesitant, her steps measured, as if she were walking into a lion's den. Her guarded demeanor was understandable; after all, we had been adversaries in the arena, pitted against each other in a fight to the death. The air around us was thick with a history of violence and survival, a past that couldn't be easily forgotten.

She pulled up a chair, maintaining a safe distance, her eyes steady on me. "I hear you're less dangerous when you're on morphling," she remarked, her voice tinged with a dry humor that seemed to be her armor against the world's harshness.

I couldn't help but smirk slightly at her comment. "Guess it evens the playing field a bit," I replied, my voice still rough from the aftereffects of the seizure and the heavy medication.

There was a brief silence, a moment of mutual assessment. Then, Katniss cracked a joke, a rare glimpse of lightness in her otherwise stoic demeanor. "I remember during the Games, you almost threw a sword at me when I was up in that tree. Good thing for me you decided against it."

The memory brought a bitter smile to my lips. "Yeah, well, I figured it wouldn't be sporting. You were too easy a target up there."

Our conversation, surprisingly amiable given our history, shifted to the topic of siblings. Katniss spoke of Prim, her voice softening as she described her younger sister, the person who had motivated her to volunteer for the Games. There was a warmth there, a love that had been her guiding light in the darkest of times.

I found myself opening up about Bird, about her defiance and spirit. It was a side of me that had been buried under layers of conditioning and survival instincts, a glimpse into the person I might have been in a different world.

The topic of Peeta Mellark inevitably came up. Katniss's expression clouded over, a mix of worry and determination settling in her features. "He's still in the Capitol's hands," she said, her voice laced with a quiet anger. "They're using him against me, against the rebellion. But we're not giving up on him. We're going to get him back."

Her resolve was palpable, a fierce loyalty that mirrored my own protective instincts towards Bird. In that moment, despite our past, I felt a sense of kinship with Katniss. We were both fighting for those we loved, caught in a war that was much larger than ourselves.

As our conversation drew to a close, there was an unspoken understanding between us. We were no longer just tributes from opposing districts; we were individuals, each struggling against the Capitol's tyranny in our own way.

Katniss stood, ready to leave. "Get some rest, Cato. You'll need it," she said, a hint of genuine concern in her voice.

As she walked away, I lay back against the pillow, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. The interaction with Katniss had been unexpected, a reminder that the world was not as black and white as the Capitol had wanted us to believe. In the grey areas, in the shared experiences of pain and loss, there lay the possibility of understanding, of common ground.

Chapter Text

As I sat in the cafeteria of District 13, carefully navigating the unfamiliar terrain of freedom, a simple act like eating lunch evoked a flood of memories. I found myself eating quickly, a habit born from years of training and survival, when suddenly my mother's voice echoed in my mind, "Slow down, Cato. You're eating as if it's your last meal." The memory, so vivid and warm, was a stark contrast to the cold efficiency of my surroundings. It prompted me to pause, to take a breath and eat more slowly, savoring the taste and texture of the food, however bland it might be by Capitol standards.

Later, we were summoned to a meeting with Alma Coin, the leader of District 13. The atmosphere in the room was charged with tension, a stark reminder of the complexities of the rebellion. Seated among the other Career tributes, I felt a sense of dislocation, a feeling of being an outsider in a world where the lines between friend and foe were constantly shifting.

Alma Coin's demeanor was as stern and unyielding as ever. Her gaze swept over us, the Career tributes, with a calculated assessment. "These Careers," she began, her voice laced with skepticism, "they're Capitol mutts, bred for their loyalty to the regime. What purpose could they possibly serve in our cause, especially coming from districts that are inherently dangerous to the rebellion?"

Haymitch Abernathy, ever the defender of those under his charge, bristled at her words. "They're not mutts, Coin. They're kids, just like Katniss and Peeta. They've been used by the Capitol, yes, but that doesn't mean they can't choose a different path."

His words, spoken with a passion that belied his usual cynicism, struck a chord within me. Haymitch saw beyond the labels, beyond the roles we had been forced to play. He recognized the humanity that still lingered beneath the layers of conditioning and indoctrination.

Finnick Odair, the victor from District 4, added his voice to the debate, his tone firm yet conciliatory. "I'm from a Career district too, remember? We're not all cut from the same cloth. Some of us want to fight for something better, something more than what the Capitol had in mind."

The room fell into a contemplative silence, the weight of Finnick's words hanging in the air. Alma Coin's expression remained unreadable, but there was a sense that the argument had given her pause, a moment of consideration for the potential role we could play in the rebellion.

As the meeting progressed, the discussion shifted to strategies and plans, but my mind was still caught in the exchange between Coin and Haymitch. It was a stark reminder of the complexities of our situation, of the fine line between enemy and ally.

In that room, among leaders and fighters of the rebellion, I felt a burgeoning sense of identity, separate from the role the Capitol had carved out for me. I was no longer just a Career tribute from District 2; I was a person with the power to choose, to decide my path in this war-torn world.

Coin, possibly to punish Finnick for speaking out, placed him in charge of training and 'deprogramming' our behaviors. In all honesty, it felt like being traded one group for another with how we were almost a punishment rather than an asset to train, like giving an old dog away to someone you don't like - both the dog and the person, and often it was hard to figure out if we were the dog or the poor bastard forced to care for it. 

 His approach was laced with his characteristic blend of charm and bluntness. "You know, Glimmer, with your general lack of combat skills, you could use some extra training," he said, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Remember how you couldn't shoot an arrow to save your life in the 74th Games?"

Glimmer, though stung by the reminder of her shortcomings in the arena, acknowledged the truth in his words. "I guess I can't argue with that," she conceded, a hint of resignation in her voice. The opportunity to improve, to perhaps redefine herself beyond the limitations imposed by her upbringing in District 1, seemed to spark a reluctant interest in her.

"Pretty faces work in the Capitol, they don't shield you in a battlefield." Finnick chuckled, and for a moment, it was if the two had formed some kind of connection - it did occur to me how similar their stories could have been had Glimmer won the games; both were pretty, had the Capitol lusting after them and objectifying them for whatever twisted desire they had. It made my stomach turn sideways when I remembered; Glimmer was eighteen and Finnick had been fourteen when he won his games. Fourteen. A year older than Bird, and had people from the Capitol wanting him as a boytoy. 

Maybe being a weapon wasn't the worst fate we could of had. 

The atmosphere in the training area was a complex mix of tension and determination. As we engaged in various drills and exercises, it was clear that old grudges and prejudices were not easily set aside. Gale Hawthorne, a key figure in the rebellion and fiercely protective of Katniss, held a particular animosity towards us Careers. Especially me, given the fact I had almost killed Katniss twice in the Arena and had attempted to out in the field prior to capture. 

The tension during the training break was palpable, and Gale's disdain for me, a former Career tribute, was hardly concealed. "If I had been in the Hunger Games, I would have slaughtered you, Cato," he said, his voice heavy with scorn.

I couldn't help but internally scoff at his bravado. 'As if he could have survived the initial chaos of the arena,' I thought.

Meeting his gaze, I countered with a mix of sarcasm and challenge. "Is that so, Gale? Well, it's fortunate for you, then, that you never had to back up those big words, isn't it?"

The air between us crackled with hostility, and Gale's next words were a calculated strike. "At least my family can look at me without seeing a Capitol puppet. What about your sister, Cato? She as twisted as you, or did the Capitol spare her?"

His words stung, a direct hit to the heart of my deepest fears for Bird. I bristled, my response sharp and cold. "I doubt your parents are looking at anything these days, Gale. Not from under the rubble of District 12."

The moment the words left my mouth, I knew I had crossed a line. Gale's expression darkened, a mixture of anger and pain, and the space between us became a battleground of clashing ideals and personal wounds. The conversation, already taut with tension, had escalated into a personal and painful exchange, laying bare the scars and traumas we both carried.

That was the breaking point. In an instant, the space between us closed, and we were on the ground, a tangle of fists and fury. Gale's words had struck a nerve, igniting the anger and frustration that had been simmering within me.

The fight was intense, a physical manifestation of the clash of worlds we represented. We were two sides of the same coin, each fighting for those we loved, yet unable to see past the barriers of our experiences.

It was Haymitch who eventually broke us apart, his voice a harsh reprimand in the midst of the chaos. "Enough!" he barked, pulling me away from Gale. "You think this is helping, Cato? You want to earn trust in District 13, you're not doing a great fucking job of it!"

"He fucking started it!" I protested, though Haymitch was unwavering, his tone less of a soldier who had just broken apart two recruits and more that of a father breaking up two sons. 

"I don't care who started it, Hadley. You're supposed to be earning trust and getting people to back you and I can tell you right now, you're not doing a very good fucking job." He lectured, "Sure, Gale's got a stick jammed up his ass but that does not mean you make an ass of yourself, am I clear?" 

I didn't respond initially, until he repeated himself, "Am I clear?!" 

"Crystal clear. It won't happen again." 

Later, during a solitary training session where I was attempting to find some semblance of peace in the physical exertion, Katniss Everdeen came to check on me. Her presence was a quiet intrusion, a subtle acknowledgment of the complex web of alliances and animosities that defined our current existence.

She watched me for a moment, her expression thoughtful, before breaking the silence. "Heard about your fight with Gale," she began, her voice carrying a blend of reproach and understanding. "You probably shouldn’t have said what you did, but I get it. Gale can push buttons he shouldn’t."

Her words were a surprising comfort, a recognition of the provocations that had led to the altercation. It was a rare moment of connection, a shared understanding of the pressures and provocations that came with being thrust into the spotlight of the rebellion.

Katniss then shared a personal anecdote, a glimpse into her own struggles with perception and likability. "Haymitch used to tell me I wasn't doing a great job at making people like me during the interviews, either." she said, a wry smile touching her lips. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and handed it to me.

Unfolding it, I saw a note, scrawled in Haymitch's unmistakable handwriting: 'You call that a kiss?' It was a message from her time in the arena, a stark reminder of the manipulation and spectacle that the Hunger Games had been. I also found it very in character for Haymitch to comment on everyone elses acting, always the critic. He had won his games by making the Capitol look stupid and even before then, during his interview, he called the entire premise stupid. He was right, of course, the Capitol was stupid in many ways - from the style to the attitudes, to some of the names. 

I couldn't help but chuckle, despite the grim context. It was a rare glimpse into the behind-the-scenes dynamics of Katniss's own struggle in the arena, a struggle that had been as much about public perception as it was about survival.

Handing back the note, I met her gaze. "Seems like Haymitch has a way with words," I commented, a shared sense of camaraderie in the challenges we faced, both in and out of the arena.

Katniss nodded, tucking the note back into her pocket. "He does. But he's right, about both of us. We have to be careful about how we handle ourselves, especially now. The rebellion... it's bigger than any of us."

Her words were a sobering reminder of the stakes at play, of the delicate balance of public perception and personal integrity. In this new arena of rebellion and war, every action, every word, carried weight and consequences.

"Thanks." I muttered, trying to keep myself steady as I spoke. 

"For what?" Katniss sat down on a nearby bench as she set the note back into her pocket, her signature braid resting on her shoulder neatly. 

"Treating me like a person, in here and the arena." 

"Cato, you don't have to thank me for that - you are a person." 

Chapter Text

As the weeks unfolded in District 13, the rigid hold of the Capitol's programming on me continued to fracture, revealing a torrent of emotions and realizations that had been suppressed under a veil of ruthless conditioning. Among these realizations, the most startling was the depth of my feelings for Clove. It felt like waking up from a long sleep, only to find the world both familiar and utterly transformed.

Yet, Clove was still trapped within the psychological prison of her training. Her interactions were marked by a coldness and detachment that was increasingly painful to witness. Trying to reconnect with her, I found myself recounting memories from our past in District 2, hoping to stir some semblance of the person she once was.

"Clove, remember the time you aced the obstacle course back home? You were faster than anyone," I said during one of our training sessions, my voice laced with nostalgia.

Her response was curt and devoid of emotion. "It was a test, Cato. Just another day of training." The lack of recognition in her eyes was a gut punch, a stark reminder of how far she had drifted from the girl I knew.

The emotional toll of these interactions was heavy. After one particularly disheartening exchange, I retreated to my room, overwhelmed by a sense of loss. There, in the solitude of my quarters, I broke down, the walls seeming to close in around me, echoing my feelings of isolation and despair.

Finnick found me in this state, his presence a silent comfort. He sat beside me, his voice gentle and understanding. "It's tough, Cato. Seeing someone you care about lost in what the Capitol's done to them," he said, his hand resting reassuringly on my shoulder.

"I feel like I'm talking to a stranger," I admitted, my voice strained. "The Clove I knew, the one I cared about... she seems gone."

"Cato, you've got to keep hope. These things take time. And remember, you're not alone in this," Finnick advised, his words a balm to my frayed emotions. His understanding, born from his own experiences of loss and love, was a reminder that we were all battling our own demons, all trying to find our way back to some semblance of normalcy.

Before leaving, Finnick shared some news that reignited a spark of purpose in me. "There's a raid planned for tomorrow. We're going to hit the Capitol and try to free Peeta and Johanna. Coin's agreed to let you on the squad team," he informed me, a hint of determination in his voice. "And if we pull this off, it might just convince her to consider asylum for your families."

"Johanna as in...?" I inquired, the name seeming to slip my mind due to the constant dissociation the programming had left behind.

"District 7, I think you and her would find a lot of common ground. You're both... temperamental." Finnick teased, patting my shoulder gently, his signature award winning smile creeping across his lips, "Though, Johanna probably would of spared the monolog and speeches and we wouldn't have even gotten in this situation had she been in it." 

"It was-" 

"Heat of the moment? Yeah, doesn't make it any less dumb." and for the first time in a while, I felt a laugh creep out of my throat.

The raid was a harrowing mission, each step into the Capitol's heart filled with danger and uncertainty. Glimmer, who had shown remarkable progress in breaking free from her programming, surprised me with her newfound determination and skill. She had become a capable and focused member of our team, a far cry from the girl in the arena.

Our mission, however, took a dire turn when Marvel, triggered by a dying Peacekeeper's code word, turned on us in a blind rage. It was a shocking reminder of the Capitol's deep-rooted control. Clove's intervention, quick and decisive, saved me from a potentially fatal attack. In that moment, I saw a glimmer of the old Clove, the skilled and instinctive fighter I had known.

The mission led us to the cells holding Peeta and Johanna. But it was the sight of Enobaria, bloodied and battered, that brought a new dimension of complexity to our task. The mother of Valere, she was a symbol of the Capitol's cruelty and the rebellion's cost.

Choosing not to reveal the fate of her son, I focused on the mission, a decision marked by a newfound understanding of the delicate balance of hope and despair in this war.

We returned to District 13 as more than just survivors. The events of the raid had left indelible marks on each of us, reshaping our perceptions and reinforcing our resolve.

That night, as I lay in my bunk, replaying the events of the raid, I was startled by the sound of a commotion. Rushing to the source, I found Peeta in a frenzied attack on Katniss, his mind twisted and corrupted by the Capitol. It was a chilling parallel to Marvel's earlier assault on me.

Acting swiftly, I pulled Peeta off Katniss, restraining him with the help of others. The realization hit me like a physical blow – the Capitol's reach was far more insidious and extensive than we had imagined. They had not only broken us, the Careers, but had also turned Peeta, a symbol of hope, into a weapon of war.

In that moment, the true nature of our enemy was laid bare. The Capitol was not just fighting with soldiers and weapons; they were waging a war on the mind and soul. And in this war, the battle for our humanity was the hardest fight of all.

Chapter Text

As I spent more time in the medbay with Peeta, the stark transformation he had undergone was unnervingly apparent. The face I remembered, once tinged with the mild pallor of hunger from our days in the arena, now seemed a ghostly echo of its former self. The vibrancy that had once lit his features was replaced by an ashen weariness, his eyes – once reminiscent of a lively sea – now resembled stagnant pools, reflecting unspeakable horrors that only he had witnessed. Observing him, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was staring at a distorted reflection of myself. Peeta had been hijacked, his mind twisted into a weapon against his will, a fate that might have easily been mine, considering Bird's growing rebellion.

Walking through the dimly lit corridors of District 13, I was acutely aware of the wary glances cast my way by the residents. To them, I was a remnant of the Capitol, a living symbol of their enemy. Their unease was only heightened by the fact that we had brought back one of Snow’s most potent weapons – a brainwashed Peeta who had nearly killed their Mockingjay.

Entering Katniss’s room, I was confronted with the stark reality of the damage inflicted upon her. Her condition was stable, but the bruising around her throat was a visible reminder of the attack, a sight that uncomfortably mirrored memories of my mother after my father’s drunken rampages.

“She’s alive,” Haymitch’s gruff voice cut through my thoughts. He sat in a chair, his gaze fixed on Katniss’s still form. “Wondering if Snow’s getting pretty pissed none of his weapons seem to be killing her. I mean, you’d think after the first two times did nothing, he’d quit.”

“He’s not keen on letting things go peacefully,” I replied, trying to match Haymitch’s dry humor, while a part of me churned with anxiety about what lengths Snow would go to, especially now that I was no longer a direct target.

“Never was, the old bastard,” Haymitch chuckled, a sound that was a cross between amusement and bitterness. “Bet you a drink he was the biggest loser from wherever he came from.”

“Probably. He’s got more egotism than someone with a healthy social development,” I mused, allowing the conversation to steer away from the heavier topics.

“As if you’re one to talk about ego, kid. You were genetically engineered to be the biggest dickhead this side of Panem,” Haymitch shot back, "Next to Marvel, at least you have some use to you." 

"Like what?" I inquired.

"You had the expertise to back it up, given it didn't involve tree climbing that is." 

We shared a laugh, a brief respite from the grim reality that surrounded us. Our conversation meandered, touching on our mutual disdain for President Snow and musing over the life choices, both our own and those made for us, that had led us to this point. In those moments, amidst the dark humor and shared experiences, there was an understanding, a recognition of the twisted paths that had brought us all to the heart of the rebellion. 

The concern for my family, particularly my younger sister Bird, weighed heavily on my mind as I sought out Haymitch for an update. The thought of her still in District 2, a stronghold of Capitol control, sent a chill down my spine. Bird was resilient, no doubt, but she was also young and vulnerable in a world that was becoming increasingly dangerous and unpredictable.

"Any news on my family? Or Clove's for that matter?" I inquired, trying to keep my voice steady despite the growing anxiety within me.

Haymitch, looking tired but focused, responded with a semblance of reassurance. "We've got people on the inside working to get them out. If all goes well, they should be here by morning."

'If.' The word echoed in my mind, doing little to soothe my nerves. The uncertainty of it all, the reliance on a plan fraught with danger, was a gnawing presence in my thoughts.

"And if it doesn't?" I pressed, my voice betraying the fear I felt, the fear for Bird’s safety and Clove's family.

Haymitch met my gaze, his eyes reflecting a lifetime of dealing with the harsh realities of our world. "You can't get caught up in 'what ifs', kid. Focus on what is. Your sister is alive. She's tough, braver than a lot of men I've met. She'll make it," he said, his tone firm yet not without empathy.

He continued, trying to offer further reassurance. "Snow's a lot of things, mostly a dickhead, but he's not wasteful. He won’t make a move on her life unless he deems it absolutely necessary."

His words, though meant to comfort, were a stark reminder of the cruel game we were all pawns in. President Snow, with his calculated cruelty and strategic manipulations, was a constant threat, his actions always serving his own interests and the maintenance of his power, something Haymitch had a much longer history with than I truly did. 

As I walked away from Haymitch, his words lingered in my mind. The 'what ifs' were hard to shake, but I knew he was right. I had to focus on the now, on the plan to bring our families to safety. It was a thin thread of hope, but in times like these, hope was a valuable commodity, but a flood of it might be dangerous. But what is a 'Career Tribute' if not dangerous? 

The night's grip on District 13 loosened as dawn approached, but sleep evaded me, chased away by the recurring nightmares that haunted my rest. The echoes of cannons and the desperate calls of my name in the arena resonated in my mind, a relentless reminder of the horrors I had endured.

But as I jolted awake, heart racing, I realized that the screams persisting in my ears were not remnants of my nightmares. They were real, urgent, and filled with a familiar desperation.

It was Bird. Her voice cut through the early morning stillness, a beacon of reality pulling me back from the edge of my haunted memories.

I leapt from my bunk, my heart pounding, and rushed towards the source of the commotion. There, in the corridors of District 13, I found her – Bird, my sister, alive yet visibly shaken. Her small frame bore signs of hardship, subtle injuries that hinted at a darker story, possibly of torture or harsh treatment. Her eyes, wide with a mix of relief and lingering fear, locked onto mine.

"Cato!" she exclaimed, a tumult of emotions in her voice as she threw herself into my arms. The impact was a jolt, grounding me in the moment, in the reality of her presence.

I held her tightly, relief flooding through me at the feel of her in my arms, alive and real. But the joy was tainted by the evident signs of her ordeal in District 2. My mind raced with questions and fears about what she had endured, about the fate of our parents.

As if reading my thoughts, Bird's voice trembled with a mix of sorrow and resilience. "Mom's here... she's safe. But Dad..." Her voice broke, unable to complete the sentence, the unsaid words hanging heavily between us, I quickly pulled her close to my chest once more, shushing her. 

I could only mutter out meaningless comforts as the words seemingly spilled from my mouth, as if they would ease the physical and psychological welts left by the Capitol. I scanned the room for signs of Clove's family for a moment, the only figure I could find being that of Glade. His figure somewhat sunken and skinnier, dried gore and blood under his finger nails as Clove held him securely in her arms. My attention flickered back to Bird, her small hand gripping my shirt like a lifeline, as if fearing I may be pulled away again.

A weight had just been lifted off my shoulders as I held her in my arms, like I had done many a time when she was younger. Mom had brought her home and for the first time, I was allowed to be gentle, to be a support fueled by love and care for another human being rather than how useful I was as a killing machine in the arena. Small hands curling tightly against me instead of attempting to claw me off in defense, to become the protector, instead of the thing you needed protecting from. 

I tucked Bird under my chin, grappling with the sudden shift of my reality - she was here, and that's all that mattered. 

Chapter Text

Months seemed to fly past like birds across the soft hues of blue above when you spend most of your time in the underground burrows, one minute, I was celebrating and welcoming the safe return of my mother and sister and the next? I was observing my mentor and his wife, Annie, celebrate their love in the most pivotal steps you could take. A wedding. 

I've seen many weddings through District 2 in my life, most if not all were public spectacle, to be observed by the Capitol - especially between victors. This, however, was a different matter entirely. It felt so personal to everyone involved and for once, I felt as though the Capitol-made mask they forced upon me had fully broken away as the ever awkward boy lay underneath was finally bare to the world. I truly didn't care for which partner wore what - both outfits were as beautiful as you could manage in District 13 - what struck me the most more than any garment was the way the two looked at each other, it was truly their world and we were only guests upon their planet of love. 

I glanced at Clove who seemed uncomfortable in the sudden change from militia attire to a dress that draped partially off her pale shoulders, her brown hair down in soft waves with flowers placed interictally through each lock with care. Had someone told me she was some sort of deity or personification of beauty itself, I'd believe them. It began to dawn on me just how deep of a river my feelings ran, no matter what dam the Capitol laid to stop its natural flow. Nature finds it way through and I could only hope the Clove they suppressed would return - or, she'd at least be free from the programming set in. I could spend my entire time in agony with a broken heart if it meant she'd be given her true autonomy, and I'd lay down my very soul if it meant she'd live on. 
After the ceremony, as music filled the air and people began to dance, I found myself drawn to Clove. She was standing alone, her eyes watching the celebration with a distant expression. Approaching her, I extended my hand. "May I have this dance?" I asked, a mix of hope and uncertainty in my voice.

Clove hesitated, her eyes meeting mine. Then, with a nod, she placed her hand in mine, and we joined the other couples on the dance floor. As we moved to the rhythm of the music, I was acutely aware of her, of the closeness of our bodies. It was a connection that felt both new and familiar, a reminder of the bond we once shared.

As we danced, I ventured a conversation, a bridge to the Clove I knew was still there, beneath the layers of the Capitol's programming. "Do you remember the first time we danced? Back in District 2, during one of those mandatory victory celebrations?"

Clove's response was tentative, a flicker of recognition in her eyes. "Yes, I remember. We were so awkward, trying not to step on each other's feet."

I smiled softly, reminiscing further, "Well, you did say that you would stab me if I did. Was a pretty good motivator." For a moment, I could of sworn I saw the gates of heaven when she returned the smile, something caught between old and new, familiar and foreign - but all still beautiful. She was still beautiful, no matter the Capitol's marring of her body or mind.  

"You inherited your two left feet from your great-grandpa." She chuckled, and that caught my attention. 

"What?" 

"You inherited your two left feet from your great-grandpa, that's what your mom always used to say about your lack of grace. Think she said it the one time you fell while training." 

I blinked for a moment but the sudden rush of her remembering such a small thing sent an entire new impulse to my brain, rerouting everything I had ever known in that present moment. She was coming back, slowly like syrup trailing down a tree but surely, she was returning. 

Chapter Text

I found myself wandering in no particular place, the endless halls offering an ever-growing silent respite from the world above as the occasional sounds of bombing could be heard, sounds of the Capitol's attempts on erasing everything that ever opposed its cruel iron grasp. A grasp that once found its claws tangled tightly around my own throat like that of a noose, its rope offering a release and drop into the unseen afterlife as it tore me from my current reality. 

Despite this, Bird's natural knack for finding me launched itself forward as her small frame walked along the halls with me, both of us silent for once - something I knew our father would of appreciated had he made it out of District 2. I wondered how many generations of my family came from District 2 - if we were a natural, native citizen or some invasive plant introduced long before. Whatever once was natural about my body had long since become twisted by the Capitol, except for my ever bleeding heart inside. 

"So, I saw you dancing with Clove at Odair's wedding." Bird began, breaking the silence with a lighthearted tone, her arms neatly behind her back as she smiled and wriggled her nose. Her smile, my mother claimed, was a genetic passed from our great-grandfather, a man whose name we couldn't recall anymore. History long since ripped from our books and burned out so that we'd never know it's secret except for the truth etched into our very being. 

"What of it? You were busy trying to hold onto Glade's hand under the table." I retorted, earning a soft punch to the shoulder. I recalled how often her and Glade had their subtle interactions; footsies under tables, instinctively holding onto each other during moments of stress or fear, their eyes always seeking the other out in a room of others. They sought no one else but each other, every single time. I had sought Clove's face out in the crowd during the reaping, the bloodbath, all of it. It was always her. 

Sometimes, I wondered if how I loved was truly genetic. I wondered if my great-grandfather felt peace only in the presence of my great-grandmother, had he loved her very being as his father loved his mother before him and so on, or I was possibly a mutt even in that respect. From what I had been told, they had the essence of how the sun loves the moon but they could never be within the same sky, less they cause irreparable damage to those around them.  

"So," Bird interrupted the never ceasing thoughts about the past that grew like a weed through my mind, "Is she recovering?" 

"She said I had two left feet, it's a start I suppose." My tone found itself softening as I glanced around the hallways, hearing myself echo for a moment. Bird seemed to chuckle at the idea Clove remembered the off-hand comment made by my mother, something that I couldn't even place firmly in my mind. 

"Glad to see her brain still works then, because you can't dance for shit." Bird smiled again. 

"Language." An unseen voice called out and I could quickly identify its owner - Haymitch. He was... shockingly sober for someone who was well known to be unable to even stand straight without a bottle in his hand, his calloused hand finding its way into Bird's blonde hair, ruffling it in an almost paternal sense. He had also seemed to have recently showered as the lack of alcohol and body odor greeted my nose in a welcomed way. 

He sometimes reminded me of how the Capitol had robbed me of even the most basic rights before I had even taken my first breath; a father. How they had taken his right from him no doubt, generations robbed and continued to be robbed from blindly while being fed that we were important, that we were special because of where our District was located and numbered like livestock before being sent to a grandiose slaughter house. I had heard horror stories of how the Capitol used to drag the bodies of dead tributes - prior to the great trains and actual care for the tributes prior to the games were introduced, before it was a spectacle - in public spectacles, to make them practically like livestock, worthless meat. 

I had been summoned to a meeting and stood across from Katniss and Coin, the older woman's voice making the very hair on the back of my neck stand up and every part of me fought not to make a face at some of her suggestions. There was an odd similarity between her and Snow I couldn't place, her sense of control that didn't seem to belong properly in a rebellion to remove and revoke one dictator, thought I ignored it. My intuition was the same sense that had resulted in my body becoming dog-meat after all. 

"I think it'd be good for the careers to be part of this operation, utilize their understanding of the Capitol and it's darker elements." As she spoke, I glanced at Glimmer who seemed so heavily gone out of her own consciousness, despite her dissociative appearance, there was a visible sense of panic building around her. 

"Except Glimmer." I spoke aloud, truthfully more commanding than I had intended as I felt Coin's gaze lock onto me like a hunting dog. If looks could kill, I'd have died a second time, "She's not going back in there, she's not a fighter and deserves to be spared from the violence. She also has to take care of Topaz Belcourt."

Coin grimaced at the suggestion, though Haymitch gave me a glance that danced itself between understanding and surprised. Back in the arena, Glimmer was practically dead weight - pretty dead weight but regardless, she offered nothing of substance in the field. She could track but she could do that and still be away from the violence, if I couldn't get us all out of it, I'd get the weakest one out first. 

"Very well." Her tone was anything but receptive, with a twinge of disinterest in the visible fear Glimmer was exhibiting and a clear distaste for my immediate interjection of the idea of sending all of us out into the field at once.

I watched the meeting drone on and on, feeling almost outside of myself for the most part. The only things I could recollect was how Glimmer seemed almost thankful I had vouched for her removal and Clove standing close enough to me, as I spent most of that trying to resist the need to hold her hand, a small sense of familiarity that I desperately wanted to cling onto. To enter a warmth that I knew more than myself. 

"Clove and Marvel will be near the rear, meanwhile Finnick and Cato will be in the middle area to keep eyes on Peeta," She spoke, glancing towards Peeta who instinctively shriveled away like a dying plant, "In case he becomes active." 

I couldn't stop myself this time and made a face of disgust - they treated him like a ticking time bomb when in reality, we should be keeping him safe. There was no doubt in my mind the Capitol would take any chance to kill Katniss directly and if they couldn't? They'd kill the very person that mattered most. It made me wonder for a moment if they were also waiting for the day I once again become 'active' . If they were simply waiting for me to become another mutt made by the Capitol, to put me down like one with no remorse. A sick feeling began to creep through my stomach before a sudden warmth eased it, Clove's hand interlocking with my own and holding on. 

Chapter Text

The Capitol, once a shimmering symbol of extravagance, now loomed like a darkened fortress. Its streets, once bustling with the elite, were now a treacherous maze of barricades and hidden traps. The opulence had given way to an ominous air, transforming the city into an expansive, deadly arena. As Finnick outlined our formation and strategy, I felt a grim determination settle in my bones. Our mission was clear: protect Katniss and Peeta, and end Snow's tyrannical reign.

"I want that old bastard’s head as much as anyone," I muttered, echoing Haymitch's sentiment. The thought of Snow's demise, a dartboard for my pent-up anger and frustration, was a fleeting respite from the gravity of our task.

As we navigated the sewers, the stench of decay and the omnipresent danger kept us on high alert. Clove's comment about the water not being acidic broke through my focus. She took my hands, her touch instinctive, wiping away the grime with a care that belied the harshness of our reality. In the dim light, her eyes, those deep pools of forest green, held a flicker of humanity, a softness that was both comforting and heart-wrenching.

"You'd think they'd put on a bigger show for us, send more of a message." I said, trying to inject some levity into the situation. Her eyes met mine, a shared moment of understanding amidst the chaos.

Clove nodded, her gaze scanning the shadows. "We're far from safe. Stay sharp."

A sudden scream shattered the oppressive silence, a harrowing prelude to the chaos that erupted around us. Pods sprung to life, unleashing a horde of mutts that descended upon us with a bloodthirsty frenzy. The creatures, grotesque parodies of human and animal, attacked with a relentless ferocity.

In the melee, Marvel was blindsided. The mutts tore at him, their claws and teeth weapons of pure savagery. Despite our desperate attempts to save him, or his desperate hands grasping onto nothing but empty air, it was too late. His screams pierced the air, a haunting echo of the arena's brutality. Acting on instinct, I ended his suffering with a swift, merciful shot.

The battle raged on, a frantic struggle for survival. Finnick, ever the warrior, found himself in the jaws of danger. Without a second thought, I lunged forward, tackling the mutt and saving him. The creature's claws raked across my side, the pain a white-hot blaze that threatened to engulf my senses. 

"Finnick! Cato's hit!" someone yelled as we retreated from the sewers. The world blurred, my consciousness flickering like a dimming light as we stumbled into a store. The scent of blood and sewage clung to me, a grim reminder of the battle we had just endured. In my haze, I thought about Bird and my mother, they were waiting for me at the base. That became a quick anchor for my consciousness, to ground itself back into reality and every instinct I could muster fueled into one simple thing: Survive. Go home and survive.  

Tigris, the store's owner, emerged to greet us. Her appearance, more feline than human due to the Capitol's twisted aesthetic surgeries, was startling, but my focus was on the wound that throbbed with each heartbeat, a constant threat from my own body. 

"We need to patch him up, fast." Finnick urged, his voice laced with concern.

In the relative safety of Tigris's shop, the reality of our situation settled heavily upon us. We had survived, but at a cost. Marvel was gone. The boy from District 1, who the Capitol had brought back as a mutt, was killed by the same hands that made him. Unlike Clove and I, Marvel had no family to mourn him. Nobody. 

Chapter Text

The sting of cold metal met the burning white pain of my torn flesh in a constant dance as Tigris was kind enough to stitch the bloodied mess of blood and sewer grime back, the disinfect liquid causing the strain of my teeth to only grow in intensity as I practically scraped the enamel with every grinding motion. Something I adopted from my father since childhood, something my mother often told me to quit doing lest the dentist rip my teeth out and replace them with metal replacements. 

I dwelled on the ringing thoughts of my mother, those familiar kind eyes contrasting with Tigris - not with what they held, just the shape and color. Tigris' eyes held, despite their uncanny nature, a nurturing look, as if she had always been the caretaker. As if love itself had etched itself within her hands and were simply powered by the red of her bleeding heart, which often caused a sense of calm. I could hear the distinct conversation between her and Katniss - though, the drumming within my skull made their words feel more like vibrations, so it was much less hearing and more so feeling. 

"...I'm going to kill Snow." I heard, Katniss' voice weaving through the constant drumming. The look on Tigris' face was a mixture of relieved sorrow as she finished patching my wound. The only good thing to come from the Capitol was the amount of medication the average citizen owned, some items would numb the pain entirely while others sped up the healing process. The only other conversation that seemed to hold my attention was one between Peeta and - ugh - Gale, something about Katniss, something about surviving and a choice. How privileged they get to be, worried for their love triangles while we're in an active warzone. 

The Capitol had made me a weapon, honed my instincts for survival above all else. But here, in the heart of the rebellion, I began to question the very foundation of what I had been taught. What did it mean to survive if it cost everything I was?

The programming from the Capitol, once a guiding force, now felt like shackles. I could feel it trying to reassert itself, to drown out the doubts and the guilt that gnawed at me. But there were moments, fleeting and fragile, where I saw through the veil. I remembered my mother’s kind eyes, so different from the cold, calculating gaze of my trainers. I recalled my father's stern lessons, not just in strength but in honor.

I knew I was losing parts of myself to the Capitol's design. Yet, in this dim room, surrounded by those fighting for something greater, I found a flicker of something else. A sense of purpose that wasn't dictated by the Capitol's twisted games. It was confusing, disorienting, and yet, in a way, liberating.

The pain in my wounds a mere echo of the turmoil in my mind, I watched the others. Each carried their own burdens, their own scars. We were all products of the Capitol's machinations in one way or another. But here, in the shadows of Tigris' shop, I found a common ground with them.

The programming was still there, a constant hum in the back of my mind. But now, I questioned it. I wondered what lay beyond the glory and power the Capitol promised. What would it mean to fight for something real, something beyond the arena? These thoughts were dangerous, forbidden. Yet, they were the only things keeping the darkness at bay. As dawn approached, bringing with it the uncertainty of another day in the rebellion, I found myself at a crossroads. The path of the Capitol was clear, etched in blood and glory. But there was another path, murky and undefined, that beckoned to me. A path of redemption, perhaps, or maybe just a chance to be more than a pawn in someone else’s game.

For the first time, I considered that there might be a different kind of strength, one not found in the physical prowess or the thrill of the hunt. It was a terrifying thought, yet it held a promise of something genuine, something worth fighting for. I thought back to Bird when the prospect of something being worth more than the blood that had smothered my calloused hands. 

Finnick finally pulled me from my thoughts and the dark tidal pool of ideation that I had no true ownership of, with a supportive arm around the side, bringing me to my feet once Tigris had finished applying the bandage. Underneath the cloth was the same jelly-like substance from the arena, the kind that was truly a 'take two, call me in the morning' type of thing, we had access to some of it back in District 2 - mostly for Peacekeepers, rarely for cadets. 

"We've gotta move, somehow blend in with the crowd enough that those peacekeepers won't recognize us." 

"How do you expect us to do that, Odair? Blend in with these circus freaks?" Gale hissed with annoyance, the stress of the mission building within the mind and expelling through his mouth like a venomous eruption, only to turn his head to Tigris, "No offense." 

Tigris exhaled somewhat in agitation but shook her head in a dismissive manner, "None taken, but I'm sure I could find something for you." And with that, she quickly got to work on makeshift outfits - still somewhat fashionable, given the Captiol's need to shine above the everyman. 

The room was quiet, save for the soft rustling of Tigris as she tidied her tools. She paused, her gaze lingering on me. "Your eyes," she said suddenly, "they remind me of someone. Sejanus."

"Sejanus?" The name was unfamiliar, foreign on my tongue. I watched her closely, trying to gauge her reaction.

Tigris sighed, a weight of sorrow settling on her shoulders. "Sejanus Plinth. He was a friend of Coriolanus Snow, many years ago. They were students together at the Academy." Her voice was tinged with a sadness that seemed to reach back through the years.

I frowned, trying to piece together this fragment of history, the prospect of someone I shared eyes with, and what seemed almost fanatical that Coriolanus Snow ever had any friends. "What happened to him?"

"He was kind, too kind for the world he was born into," Tigris said, her eyes distant. "Sejanus saw the injustice in the world, the cruelty of the Capitol. He couldn't stand aside and do nothing. He... he tried to make a difference."

"And?" I prompted, curious despite myself.

"He was executed. For treason against the Capitol," she replied softly. "Snow never forgot him, nor the lessons he learned from that betrayal."

I absorbed this information, feeling an unexpected connection to this Sejanus I had never met. His story, his fate, seemed to echo the doubts and conflicts raging within me. "Did he regret it?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.

Tigris met my gaze, her eyes reflecting the harsh realities we both understood too well. "I don't think so," she said quietly. "He believed in something greater than himself, greater than the Capitol's lies. In the end, I think that gave him a kind of peace. Suppose that comes from the madness only love can grant you."

Her words lingered in the air, a quiet testament to a man who had dared to defy the Capitol. I looked away, feeling a strange kinship with this long-dead-schoolboy-turned-rebel. 

"Love?" I asked, my interest piqued. 

"Yes. Sejanus put love and passion into everything he did, every word he spoke. Odd he only had one girl crushing on him back at the academy." Tigris smiled softly to herself, as if recalling a fondness buried deep within the past, "He loved her in such a way that left no room for doubt." 

As much as I harped on the love triangle formed by Katniss, Peeta and Gale, I myself knew well what love could do to someone. I glanced at Clove as my thoughts danced between the fine webs of my old life and the new, but within the caverns of my mind, to my very core, I knew. I always knew.   

Chapter Text

Wandering through the bleak, monochrome streets of the Capitol, I found myself in an eerie echo of the past. The city, once vibrant, now lay subdued under a blanket of fear and whispers. Each step, despite the searing pain of my wounds, sharpened my senses, stripping away the fog that often clouded my mind. In these rare moments of clarity, I couldn't help but reflect on the people around me, feeling the absence of Marvel acutely.

Marvel was not inherently cruel; he was a product of the Capitol's insidious propaganda. Clove and I, we were not monsters by choice but by design, shaped into what they wanted us to be. And Gale, he wasn't a villain. His actions were the scars of deep wounds, both seen and unseen. Disillusionment breeds a complex beast within, a tangle of guilt and rage, where you teeter on the edge of self-destruction and outright rebellion. In a bitter twist of fate, I found an unwelcome connection with Peeta. The Capitol's manipulation turns you into something other, a mutt, and that traumatic bond, once formed, is unbreakable.

Yet, even as these thoughts coursed through me, I could feel the Capitol's programming clawing at the edges of my mind, as though a bell were ringing, attempting to awaken something that remained buried. I tried to focus on anything but my internal ringing and found myself studying the girl, dressing in what could only be described as an eye bleeding yellow coat.

Oddly, she seemed to be the only true peaceful thing that remained, a contrast - both physically and metaphorically - within the darkness that beckoned a sense of protection, comfort, something every child deserves. Clove's fingers, calloused yet familiar, suddenly intertwined with mine, a silent pact in the chaos that swirled around us. Her grip, firm and unyielding, was not just to keep up with our rapidly moving group but perhaps a desperate attempt to find solace in the storm of sensory overload.

We pushed forward, hearts pounding in unison against the drumbeat of rebellion. The world around us erupted into a cacophony of screams and gunfire, the air charged with desperation and defiance. Clove's grip tightened, a lifeline amidst the anarchy.

But fate, as cruel and unpredictable as the Games themselves, had a different plan. In a heartbeat, the world shifted. Peacekeepers, the iron fist of the Capitol's might, descended upon us with ruthless efficiency. Clove's hand, once a source of strength, became a shackle as we were ensnared in their unrelenting grasp. I could still hear Gale's voice calling for a similar end I had shared within the arena; "Shoot me! Shoot me!", a plea that your end is yours. Not the Capitol's. A confirmation that you were a person, not a puppet.

It returned. That familiar feeling, that grief of never returning home. Never seeing my mother or my little sister again, all who knew me outliving me, those that come after forgetting I even existed in the first place, forever the forgotten footnote in history. It also dawned on me that there were never any victors, only victims. You win, only to lose and for once, I'd like to lose on my own terms. The Peacekeepers tugged Clove harshly to get us separated and an idea came crashing into my skull, a look, a silent comfort that everything would be over. I loosened my grasp and pulled forward, one last kiss on the lips before another harsh pull forced me back.

"Nightlock."

I let Clove's hand fall as she was pulled away and waited. And waited. The mental preparation, airing my final goodbyes to nobody. It was ironic, being surrounded by a bunch of Peacemakers whose only intention was to kill me. Barked orders sounded like snarls, being pulled in one way and then another with minimal care, threatening to rip my limbs from me.

"Nightlock."

But this time, there would be no arrow, no announcer. The games may never end, but I will. One less asset for the Capitol, and several less Peacekeepers. I thought about back home for a moment. Not home but somewhere just as safe, and warm... somewhere without the games, the war, the suffering. A place the Capitol couldn't hurt me. Home.

"Nightlock."