The Hunger Games: Entropy (A Clato Fanfiction: NTI Series, Book 2)

Chapter 2

CLOVE'S POV

For once, I’d like to have some say in what I can do during public appearances.

Every single time they give us instructions, it’s always “Cato do this” or “Cato do that”, along with some sort of reinforcement mechanism to make him look like the more dominant figure between the two of us. I’d like to shove paper down the throat of whoever made the decision to give him the role of the stereotypical “alpha male.” He didn’t do anything to earn it besides making me look helpless during our last interview in the Capitol.

If my mentor came up with that hare-brained idea herself, I’d probably argue that whoever operated on her teeth did more than just dental work. Her hair could do a good job of covering up some hidden lobotomy stitches.

If I had the option to choose my own destiny, Cato and I would proceed separately away from stage. I can only maintain a plastered grin on my face for a short time before I feel like exploding. It wasn't fun trying to pull it off during the post-games interview and trying to do it today was almost worse, even though I didn't have to say anything in public. Maintaining a cheerful expression in everyday conversation is one thing, but putting on a self-imposed mask and outright feigning ecstasy while holding his hands is another thing altogether.

Cato and I trail Enobaria and Brutus as we walk down the ramp on the back of the stage towards the barricaded walkway exiting the central square of District 2. He reaches for my hand and makes another move on me.

I don't want to stay bound to him. I feel tempted to hit him to reinforce my sense of power. I mean, hello--don’t I get some say in the image of me the media creates for the rest of the nation to idolize? I’m not a damsel in distress. I’m Clove of District 2, not the helpless brat that came from District 1. I would’ve mutilated Cato’s corpse years ago if the trainers let me have my way.

However, there’s more to this situation than Cato’s male dominance.

The only things that keep me from slapping him across the face are the image of Snow's gruff expression and some of the haunting images that plagued my mind following the Games. I don’t care what anyone else tries to tell me--I know the Capitol is capable of something more powerful than the Hunger Games. I wouldn’t be having nightmares for no reason. Cato’s completely powerless compared to any of the Gamemakers or even the president himself, despite whatever lies the media decides to propagate for the sake of self-promotion. 

Despite my internal conflict, I decide to interlock hands with him again, unwillingly.

I had to exert a tremendous amount of effort trying to work with him during the Games and I don't look forward to doing it again. I don't feel anything close to ecstasy right now--nothing but fatigue. We had to go from the interview to the train ride back to a confrontation with my psycho of a mentor--all within a few days.

I don't know how many times I can make public appearances without doing something that displeases someone else--Cato, my mentors, or even the Capitol...

I’m not even sure that I can imagine the severity of the consequences that could arise from displeasing the Capitol...

As Cato and I proceed down the walkway towards the Victor's Village, I slide the large, ornate key into my left pocket. It barely fits, but I think I can still walk effectively without having to worry about it falling out of my grasp.

As we approach the first stretch of crowds, Cato loosens his grip on my hand and steps slightly away from me to high-five everyone extending their hands out toward him. I quickly notice that he fastened his key onto his belt. I suppose his idea works better than a pocket that isn't designed to accommodate such a large object.