Dangerous Affection- The Hunger Games- A Cato Love Story

Chapter 4: Some Insight

Chapter 4- Some Insight

The next morning I come into the dining area, and this time only me and one of our mentors are present at the moment.

"Hello." He says, looking up at me.

"Hi," I reply, sitting down. I am immediately served pancakes with fresh fruit and a steaming mug of a creamy brown liquid. I sniff it cautiously.

"It's called hot chocolate," my mentor tells me. "Go on, try it."

I do as I was told, blowing carefully. It tastes really sweet, but a good kind of sweet. I put it down, and start digging into my pancakes.

A few bites in, I figure I need to be polite. "So... You're supposed to tell me how to win?" I ask.

"I suppose you could say that, yes. Garrett will be more help in the, ah, physical training department. My bones are too old for that anymore." He says.

"I'm sorry. I know I should know this, but we don't talk about the Games at home. What would you wish I call you...?" I ask hesitantly, ashamed I don't already know his name.

"It's quite alright. They hardly ever speak of me now-a-days, what with Garrett around and all. Call me Harry." Harry tells me, smiling.

Harry. I love it. No one expects a Harry to be the best in the Games. And it isn't one of those freaky names the Career Districts get, like Sparkle or Rainbow, or one of those weird ones people in the Capitol are named. Like Effie Trinket, or Caesar Flickerman. Instead, we get a victor named Harry, from District 11, where there had yet to be a victor back then.

"Harry, I like it." I say simply.

He chuckles. "I'm glad you do. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions, so I can get to know what I have to work with?"

"Not at all- ask away." I say.

"What weapon would you say is your strongest? Or, what do you work best with?"

I pause. "I'm pretty good with a bow and arrows- and they are what I feel most comfortable with."

"Good? I hear you're pretty damn scary when you got a bow in your hand. Can kill anythin' within range." A voice comes from behind us.

Harry looks up, and gestures for Ryder to take the seat to my left. "Good morning to you too, Ryder."

"Morning, Sir," Ryder replies.

As they serve Ryder, Harry picks up where we left off. "Is what he said true?"

I blush. "Well... Yeah. I guess. A kill meant food on the table, and we needed it badly. When you need something, you tend to get better at whatever it is that will help you get it."

"This is good to hear. Not many from back home are really familiar with a lot of weapons, besides maybe a knife, which makes it tough for us mentors. Are you any good with knives? Because there isn't always a bow in the arena."

"Yeah. Not as well, but yeah. I can work with knives and swords fairly well. My father always told me I had a knack for sharp objects." I admit, feeling like I was bragging. I don't like it.

"Good, good! But, as you well know, sometimes you just can't get a weapon. Any good with hand-to-hand combat?" Harry asks me.

"Ah, you've found my fatal flaw. These limbs were meant for running and climbing, not fighting." I say, ready to not sound so perfect.

"If you can run and climb, then you're good. Just don't get cornered weaponless, which is harder than it sounds." Harry tells me. "Ryder, your weapon experience?"

"Don't have much with it." Ryder admitted. "Knives, I suppose. I'm not exactly what you expect from District 11, where we are all 'a bunch of monkeys swinging in the trees'." He continues, air quoting what some Career from District 1 sang to one of our tributes last year, "'Lean' wouldn't be the first word I'd use to describe myself."

"That's fine, that's fine. Garrett will work with you a bit to figure out all this stuff. You do have a quite the build though. Pretty strong?" Harry guessed.

"You could say that."

I scoff, and both their eyes flick over to me. "What's that supposed to mean?" Ryder asks.

I kick my foot on the floor. "Well... You've both seen the people in our District. The majority of us can't lift the giant crates of food. Ryder's the one that totes it around like its nothing."

He laughs. "And how is the fact I can lift 50 pounds of fruit going to help me?"

Harry doesn't find it funny. "Strength is not something to laugh about. It is actually what the others are going to fear the most from looking at you. Somehow, we make the connection strong or strong-looking equals good-with-weapons, which equals death for them- and for you. They don't know you aren't experienced with a sword or knife. But you fit the stereotype for it, so you are now a target."

"Great..." Ryder mumbles.

"It is. And we reach my limit on weapons. I will give you my first piece of advice though, if you are willing to listen." Harry says.

Ryder and I nod.

"Any second now, we are going to be pulling into the station, and you'll be put into the hands of your stylist. Don't resist it- the ones that do always seem to come out not looking... Right. The stylist know what they are doing- trust them."

"But-" I start.

"No buts. Either you take my advice, or you don't." Harry finishes the conversation, with the help of the train going into darkness, aside from a few dim lights inside the train. We must be going through the tunnels that run through the mountains into the Capitol, I think to myself. The mountains form a natural barrier between it and the eastern districts. Almost impossible to enter that way except through the tunnels- this being a factor that led to the Games I am participating in today. To put it simply, rebels scaling the mountains means easy target practice.

Ryder Barry and I sit in silence. The tunnel seems never ending, and I start to panic slightly. Always in the trees in full view of the sun made traveling through a tunnel encased in rocks quite unpleasing. I could tell Ryder isn't too happy about it either.

Finally, the train begins to slow, and we see sunlight through the windows. I've only heard of a few tributes resisting the urge to run up to the windows at this point, and Ryder and I definitely don't make that list. We spring up out of our seats, stumbling over each other trying to get to the windows. After being told for the fifteen years I'd been alive that the Capitol is something one just has to see, well, I have to see it. The stories and the cameras hadn't lied about the sight- in fact, they missed the dot trying to get it right. All the colors that I see remind me of a basket full of all different sorts of fruit, but none of it seems real. The reds too deep, the greens too bright, the yellows a blinding sight. I look at all the faces of the people. Though, saying that, I am not too sure they were their faces at all. Everyone's skin is a different color- red, blue, green, purple. None of it seems right. And their hair? Don't get me started.

People point and shout as the tribute train rolls past them into the city. I find it sick, and step away. Ryder doesn't though. He continues to stand there, even going as far as waving a smiling. I find myself staring at him, and he turns back to me only when we are in the station.

"What?" He asks. "One of them is bound to have some cash on them. I want it going towards my fund." He shrugs his shoulders, going to stand by the doors.

I still haven't figured out his full plan, but I know one thing for certain. Ryder isn't the least bit troubled by Elliott's death in the Games. If anything, it has only fueled him even more. Ryder Barry hasn't accepted that the odds are definitely not in his favor. Which means the boy standing in front of me wants my death.

And who's to say he doesn't want to be the one to deliver it?