My first foray into the Hunger Games universe, which I was recently introduced to! This is just...The product of feels, really.

There were a few in every game, and he knew that. It didn't make the position of Career any less appealing, any less important to Cato. At least, he knew it shouldn't. His district expected it, his family expected it, and he expected it of himself, or so he thought.

He wanted to go home just as badly as any other tribute, but it had to be about the glory, to the outside world. Had to be about the victory, pleasing his family, the viewers, everyone but himself and the families of the other tributes by winning. He wanted to clock in, do his part, and clock out, as if the Hunger Games were merely a day of work at a job that he tolerated but didn't enjoy.

And so he trained. Hard, often, and even when injured and ill. Because he was Cato. A district two tribute, coming from a Career family whose honor was left to him to uphold.

The crowd is used to careers, and most bets placed on the games are placed with him being the victor. He was the tallest, most muscled, most noticeable Career, with the broadsword he favored, and general air of leadership, and he knew it. He knew sponsors were guaranteed, that his height, muscles, and intelligence had been examined through a microscope, and that he likely wouldn't want for much in the way of food or weapons. It would be reason and and strategy that could come into short supply. Deaths would be expected promptly by the viewing crowd, never too much time between them, and he had to cater to the Gamemaker's whims above all else.

That's where his plans, his carefully cultivated battle strategies, began to burn, sizzle, and fray. The Girl on Fire was revealed as a competing tribute, and threw a flaming wrench into everything. Her seemingly backcountry ways and general ignorance were being seen as charming, refreshing; this girl who had never trained specifically for the games themselves a day in her life was going to be a threat, scoff at the idea he may. And then there was the love story.

Cato almost envied the boy, Peeta, for his seemingly small declaration of affection that had escalated into a fullblown love affair, merely for the audience's benefit. There would be sponsors galore for the pair, heartfelt sponsors, not those who felt obligated to sponsor, as those who did so for the Careers felt. When it came to Katniss and Peeta, every small glance, smile, and gesture was blown out of proportion, analyzed by love-starved fools who were forced to watch the Games and might as well view it through rose-tinted glasses that were trained on the District Twelve duo. It was unfortunate, because while Cato was viewed as unfeeling, goal-oriented, his sights set merely on bloodstained glory and fame, it was not quite the case.

He could feel, dream, and aspire in his own way, though he was not allowed to. His family's dignity, the prestige of being a tribute, he had so much thrown across his broad shoulders. At times he felt the urge to up and run, maybe even try to find the Lost District that was only ever spoken of in whispers, and by elders, addled and rendered witless by age. Little did anyone know that Cato could and had felt love at times in his life, not the least of which was reserved for Clove, his fellow District Two tribute.

Not that he went in for all that lovey-dovey, sentimental crap, really. Of course not. Really.

Even though the feelings he held for Clove existed, they could never be acted upon. Only one of them would make it out, and he could only hope, in a distant, emotional corner of his mind, that he would not have to be the one to kill her, if he could even do it. But he hoped she could sense it in how hard he pushed her during training, how he tried to make his touches linger when they happened to cross paths, in his muted grunts of approval when she completed a complicated maneuver in the practice rooms.

He was just a boy, hardly past puberty, really, trapped by expectation and pride, tackled by love at the most inconvenient of times, and expected to live a life shaped by a cookie-cutter his family and the Capitol had designed.

He was taught from the cradle that in this Game, someone would make it, and several wouldn't. And the winner? He knew, from whispers among the people, that the winners never truly won. He had heard of the unsavory fates bestowed upon past Victors, in addition to the ghosts that plagued many. He would not be shuttled about by the Capitol like chattel, whored out, a slave to publicity, glued to a permanent pedestal...a victim of circumstance even past the arena. If he couldn't dictate his life after the Games, he would at least dictate how it ended in the arena. He was as good as dead either way.