Hello! Welcome to my little Kato/Catoniss fic that I've been endlessly working on for YEARS now! I hope you enjoy the story and leave comments, questions, reviews, or any other feedback you feel inclined to share! Thanks to everyone for your unending patience. One day I'll have this story finished, I promise! Until then, happy reading~~

CHAPTER ONE: THE GONG SOUNDS

"Older men declare war, but it is youth who must fight and die."

Herbert Hoover

My chest pounds like a drum come alive. The thundering of my heart drowns out everything, including the sound of my wheezy, raspy exhales.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

The voice rumbles throughout the otherwise silent arena. It makes my body shake – not that I wasn't already shaking like a mouse cornered by a hungry cat, of course. My limbs twitch uncontrollably – spastically, almost – and I'm having trouble keeping still. I'm so anxious for this to be over that I know running off my metal plate before the gong sounds is a real problem. But I must stay still. I must be patient. For Prim, if nothing or no one else.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

The countdown stretches eternally. To keep myself focused, I glance over the weapons scattered in front of the giant metal Cornucopia. Just as I'm sure it won't be there, my gaze suddenly slides past the familiar object before I realize what it is, and I have to backtrack. The silver arrows gleam in the faux mid-afternoon sunlight, and even from this distance I can tell the bow itself is magnificent. I know immediately that I can kill whoever or whatever I need without worrying that the bow will fall apart, like I normally do back in Twelve.

Four.

Three.

Two.

This is it. The next few minutes will only unfold two ways: I'll either fight for my life until I can reach safety…or I'll be dead. It goes without saying that I want to live, but running away without a weapon makes me feel uncomfortably helpless. If only I could run to the bow without crossing any of the other tributes…

But I know that's highly unlikely. Besides, Haymitch specifically warned me not to interact with the Careers during the Bloodbath. With my score of eleven, some of them will definitely have me targeted.

Still, I'm curious, and I can't help thinking of the possibilities. What if I can make it to my weapon without encountering the Careers? That would give me an enormous advantage, and my worries would be permanently put to rest. Glancing sideways at Peeta, I see that he's been watching me. He shakes his head very slowly from left to right and back again. My eyebrows furrow, and I frown. He obviously suspects what I'm thinking and is completely dead-set against it. Goddamnit, I think, frustrated. But then –

One.

I still haven't reached a decision when the gong finally sounds. My focus sharpens, almost painfully, and I'm able to see and hear what's going on around me. The Careers' shouts echo in the wide clearing, and they surge as one towards the Cornucopia with savage battle cries. Some of the smaller tributes – like the tiny girl from District 11 that reminds me so much of my sister – dart away from their metal plates, aiming for cover within the surrounding forest.

While everyone else jumps into action, I stand on my miniature platform, frozen. I realize that the time to grab my weapon has passed, just like that. Disappointment – and the slightest inkling of panic – courses through me, but then I'm moving.

I skirt around two Careers who are working side-by-side to slaughter the boy from District 5 and the girl from District 6. Carefully avoiding detection, I spot an orange and black backpack on the outskirts of the clearing. My eyes light up, and I start forward. It's not a weapon, but it's something.

I haven't made it ten feet before I sense another presence. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the angry-looking girl from District 2 heading my way, knife at the ready in one of her hands. My breath quickens and I start to run faster, hoping that I'll be able to reach the backpack and use it as a shield before she can come anywhere near me. Ten feet…five…two…

Grabbing one of the straps, I fling the backpack into my arms and whirl just as the girl releases one of her knives. It twirls through the air and burrows deep into the front of the pack. Her eyes narrow with determination, and she begins to pull her arm back to try again.

But then: "Clove!"

Her name pierces the air, and I watch, still backing away towards the forest, as Clove hesitates and then heaves a big sigh. Turning, she catches her district partner's eye. The boy is enormous. He is all muscle and arrogance, although even I can't deny his attractiveness. I haven't exchanged a single word with the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Career during the weeks leading up to the Games, nor have I even come within spitting distance of him, and yet I know by instinct that he's the deadliest one in the arena. Cato. In Latin, his name means intelligent, shrewd. So, counting his physical attractiveness, he's doubly threatening.

He gestures for Clove to come over to him, and then turns just before the boy from District 8 weakly attempts to throw a spear at his chest. The weapon lands on the ground about ten feet away, and the stricken look on the boy's face tells me that Cato has just chosen him as his next target.

Clove, after one final look of disgust meant expressly for me, sprints in the opposite direction. I don't stick around to find out what Cato wants from her, or what will happen to the tribute from District 8, or even if someone has taken my bow and arrows. Pivoting, I sprint into the forest, slinging the other strap of the backpack over my arm.

As I run, I realize that I forgot to watch in which direction Peeta ran. He could be anywhere – including on the ground with his head cut up into meaty chunks. I can't think like that though. If I allow myself to dwell on the dead tributes, I might drive myself insane. Maybe as insane as Annie Cresta, and…wait…why am I even thinking about that right now?! Insanity here, now, will mean my death, and I can't have that.

After all, Prim needs me.

My breathing sounds ragged even to my own ears, but I soldier on, putting as much distance between myself and the Cornucopia as I can. The forest beckons, and I gladly run towards it. Even as I do, the agonized moans and terrified shrieks of the dead follow me. My head swims and my chest tightens.

Think of Prim, I tell myself desperately. Think only of Prim.

Easier said than done.