𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐄 ───────
❛ Cato Hadley didn't have much to look forward to in his life. After all, he had only one goal throughout his 18 years of living- to win the games. But now that he had won them, and the loss of Clove adding to that, he di...
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𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐘 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2475
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Cato Hadley didn't have much to look forward to in his life.
Sure, he had his respectful chats with the Capitol citizens during their much too fashionable and colorful parties; he had his clearly polished reputation to keep in check as well, which, at times, seemed almost too much to keep up with. Oh, and of course, how could he forget his annual job as a mentor for respectable District 2?
He had always looked up to the Hunger Games, especially those who came back home victorious from the long-awaited annual battle. He had trained and polished his technique day and night for 16 years for his moment to shine. He had thought and thought about the day when he would stand in the arena, carrying a bloodied sword, and finally triumph. But when that day actually came, it didn't feel like what he thought it was. It didn't feel right. He expected to feel happy and glorious, maybe even relieved, but all he had felt was disgust, and even sad. Sad for the 23 others that he had crossed that, at the time, just seemed like a silly little obstacle. He felt lonely. Lonely after he lost his Clove. Fearful tears rolling down his tainted cheeks as he watched her die, knowing that there was nothing he could do that could save her. His name- the last thing she had said, still echoed in his mind during the loneliest of days.
He returned home, being passed around by people to gape and awe at. Passed around by the Capitol citizens that had become fond of him, or what they thought of as him. So fierce and brutal, so tough and desirable. He didn't want much to do with the Capitol, but there he found himself, just the next year, mentoring the tributes of District 2. They were barely any younger than Cato, usually 18 years of age, with the same arrogance, the same coldness in their eyes that Cato had carried. Almost a spitting image of who he was before the games. When the pair had died, he swore to himself that he would never mentor again.
Yet there he stood. His face pulled into a neutral gaze, arms and legs crossed as he watched the screen flicker on. The Reaping would be starting soon, he knew it, everyone in the Capitol knew it. Anissa, or whatever her name was- Cato never bothered to learn her name, who stood beside him seemed to be more delighted. The smirk placed on her beautifully crafted face showed everything Cato needed to know- a pawn for the Capitol. She turns to Cato, her eyes flickering from his head to his torso to his feet.
"You know you can at least pretend you care about all of this." She says solemnly, moving to sit down onto the freshly vacuumed couch. The countdown on the television starts. Cato doesn't know why his heart beats faster.
"Why pretend I care when I don't?" Cato replies, voice ice cold. His neutral expression turns sour. It starts with District 1, like it always does. They don't seem tense or nervous, an existential difference between them and the poorer districts. The career pack- like Cato had been, they love the games. It's what they're trained for. Trained for 18 years of their lives to be picked like cattle to go fight to their deaths.
