THE ODDS WERE ALWAYS IN OUR FAVOR ─── CLATO

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟑𝟐

𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐕

Blinding lights. The deafening roar rattles the metal under my feet.

And then there's Cato, just a few yards away. He looks so clean and healthy and beautiful, I can hardly recognize him. But his smile is the same whether in mud or in District Two or in the Capitol and when I see it, I take about three steps and fling myself into his arms.

This time, he doesn't stagger back.

He is perfect.

He clings to me, and for an eternity, we are just clinging to each other while the audience goes insane. And yet, it is perfect. It is home.

He's kissing me and I'm kissing him back and all I can think about is how I never want to stop.

Caesar Flickerman taps on his shoulder to continue the show, and Cato just pushes him aside without even glancing at him. The audience goes berserk. Whether he knows or not, Cato is, as usual, playing the crowd exactly right.

Finally, he mutters something in my ear and I smile, walking hand in hand towards the Victor's chair. Usually, this is a single, ornate chair from which the winning tribute watches a film of the highlights of the Games, but since there are two of us, the Gamemakers have provided a plush red velvet couch. A small one.

I sit so close to Cato. A few more inches and I'd be on his lap. His arm goes around me automatically, and I feel like I'm back in the cave, curled up against him, trying to keep warm. His shirt is made of the same purple material as my dress, but more blue than purple, really. Bolivar's put him in long navy pants and a pair of sturdy black boots he keeps solidly planted on the stage.

I wish Anastasia had given me a similar outfit. I feel so vulnerable in this flimsy dress. But I guess that was the point.

Caesar Flickerman makes a few more jokes, and then it's time for the show. This will last exactly three hours and is required viewing for all of Panem. As the lights dim and the seal appears on the screen, I realize I'm unprepared for this. I do not want to watch my twenty fellow tributes die. I saw enough of them die the first time. My heart starts pounding and I have a strong impulse to run.

How have the other victors faced this alone?

During the highlights, they periodically show the winner's reaction up on a box in the corner of the screen. I think back to earlier years...some are triumphant, pumping their fists in the air, beating their chests. Most just seem stunned.

The only thing keeping me on this love seat is Cato— his arm now locked in mine. He squeezes my hand, warmly, and I know it means one thing. I'm here.

Condensing three weeks into three hours is quite a feat, especially when you consider how many cameras were going at once. Whoever puts together the highlights has to choose what sort of story to tell.

This year, for the first time, they tell a love story. Two love stories.

The first half hour or so focuses on the pre-arena events, the reaping, the chariot ride through the Capitol, our training scores, and our interviews. There's this sort of upbeat soundtrack playing under it that makes it twice as awful because, of course, almost everyone on-screen is dead.

Once we're in the arena, there's detailed coverage of the bloodbath and then the filmmakers basically alternate between shots of tributes dying and shots of us.

They play Glimmer's death in full. It takes all my might not to look away. I am now watching her last moments— in full. The twitching. The gore. The blood.