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

Chapter 54

CLOVE'S POV

"You're lying," I scold him incredulously.

"I don't know what else to say," he sighs, shrugging sheepishly. "If you want to go out and try to find another set of parents this close to Reaping time, then I wish you the best of fortune. Other than that, we're on our own for the next few weeks."

The voice. It's gone.

Well, it's not really a voice.

As far as my knowledge goes, I don't have a microphone implanted in my head that tells me what to do during aversive situations. It's a natural impulse that comes as a result of years of doing nothing but learning how to clash with other people as a way of life. It's a result of being paid based on the number of body-like cakes I decorated during the Games.

Every time Cato and I try to reason with each other, one or both of us loses control of ourselves before we reach a decent solution. This time, nothing's happening—no insults, no bullying, no mean jokes, nothing. Only a long, uncomfortable silence eerily reigns in the space between us.

I'm not used to long, awkward periods of silence. I'm using to fighting, both physically and verbally. Give me a knife or a page of scripted taunts and I could make anyone cry in a matter of minutes, including Cato. But I'm completely clueless when it comes to letting someone else have the first or last word about certain issues.

"Clove?" Cato interjects, forcing me to shift my attention span towards his massive frame.

"No," I grunt, trying my best to contain the sensations of chaotic fury building up in the recesses of my soul.

"What do you mean no?" Cato inquires, playing the role of the nosy neighbor. "I can't help you if you don't tell me what's bothering you."

"I mean I'm not ready to be a mother," I half-sob, uncontrollably letting my eyes tear up. "I'm not ready to be a mentor. And," I continue, channeling the confusing emotion into a burst of aggression and glaring at Cato, "In case you're wondering, I have no intention of submitting to your authority as the dominant power between the two of us!"

I twitch my arms erratically at his face with the intention of creating a series of feint attacks designed to bend him to my will. If anything, fear is strong enough to squeeze a better answer than that one from his monkey-like train of thought.

"How do you like it when I treat YOU like a servant? Huh?" I tease him angrily, fuelling the recently ignited fire of fury burning in my soul.

"Hold on," he protests, backing away from me rather hurriedly into the bed frame, creating a perfect kill zone by running himself into a trap. "Before you pull a knife to my throat, you should at least understand that I've never asked you to make me a sandwich before."

"That's a good start," I sneer at him forcefully. "Keep going."

"Clove, I want to help you," he asserts himself, overcoming the false of sense of fear that I tried to create earlier, "So if you want to hurt me, then go ahead and hurt me. But I'm not the one that's going to be crying when my family finds out about my death in the next few hours."

As Cato's empowering words restore order to my dysfunctional brain, I back away from him and decide to give him some say in the matter.

"Clove," he continues, "None of us asked for this. If I could, I'd turn back the clock and take back some of the things that I did in a heartbeat."

"Like what?" I bark at Cato, hoping to elicit a more specific answer from him.

"Well," he explains, "I'd probably try to stay as far away from you as possible after you missed mentor training, and-"