A Whole New Game: A Hunger Games Story

Chapter 8: Losing and Loving

Eleanor

    "Cato?"

    ....

    "Cato, you okay?"

    ....

    He hasn't said a word since our little clash with his friend. I can't tell what's bothering him more, Marvel challenging him, or Clove abandoning him for some stringy District 1 nobody. Just let her die with that lanky idiot and little blond Romeo.What does he even see in her anyway? I stop myself, my daydreams ending abruptly.

    Listen to yourself, Eleanor. Worrying about who he likes in a match to the death. You're going to have to kill him, so get him out of your head.

    Off in the distance, I spy a patch of color on a bush, fat, red globes glistening among the green leaves. Strawberries.

    I shuffle forward, leaving Cato to catch up. I'll surprise him, I'll get him some food. I dig my hand in, picking a few of crimson fruits that tickle my skin with their softness. Further and further back my fingers crawl. There's a fat one just a few inches back. Maybe if I just-

    A suddenly there is a hand around my wrist.

    I look up to see the boy from District 3 standing over me, his blue eyes stunned. He had never struck me as strong, being one of the smaller boys from a weaker District, but I am unable to escape, paralyzed in his clutch. He's frozen a moment until I scream, and then he's back to reality, fumbling for the sword stitched to his side.

    "Cato! Cato, help me!" I shriek.

    But it's too late. The boy from three has a hand on his sword, it shimmers in the sunlight. He's pulled it from the sheath, raised it over his head. It's happened so much faster than I can comprehend. I am not ready. I am not ready.

    There is a swish!, a wet hot drop, and the grip is gone. I open my eyes. The boy is motionless. The end of a sword protrudes from his chest. With a curdling yank, he's done for, and hits the ground with a firm thud. The cannon sounds as I turn to face Cato, sword in hand, a splatter of crimson staining his concerned expression.

    He did it. Cato Rofter just saved my life. Again.

    "You okay?" he asks, concern clouding his emerald eyes.

    "I'm fine," I snap at him rudely. I can't let this happen. I can't let him be my hero. "I didn't need your help."

    "What the hell is your problem?" he bites defensively.

    "You don't have to be my bodyguard. I can take care of myself!"

    "Really? He looked just about ready to have your head. Reality check, princess. Without me, you'd be dead."

    I start to combat him but the words are gone. There is an acrid taste in place of my usual wit. Perhaps I am feeling a twinge of guilt. Gratitude, maybe. How strange.

    "I'm sorry." The sentence is sulfurous. "Really, I'm sorry, I just...I'm just a little stressed out."

    "It's okay."

    He helps me up, pulling me vertical with one tug of a massive arm. Striding over to the corpse, he wriggles the fallen tribute's backpack free of the boy's arms. He opens it, pulling out a few pieces of dried fruit and a single box of matches. It's not much, but it's something nonetheless, and we decide to gorge our empty bellies on the scrawny meal. Between mouthfuls, there's light chatter. He is calm again."As much as you might hate to admit it, your highness, you need me out here."