drabbles; born to die (cato/clove)
summary: but clove, don't you ever wonder why we're training here to die?
notes/warnings: i'm trying to archive every 'fic' ive ever written here, and i remembered this little piece attached to a graphic i made for tumblr. so here i am. this isn't much but clato, i love it.
*****
“Clove?” I ask hesitantly. She rolls over on the floor of the training academy, flashing me that cheeky smile as she does so.
“Yeah?”
“Do you ever wonder why are we doing this?” As soon as the words have left my mouth I regret them. I shouldn’t even be questioning the reasons. I know the drill. Fame. Glory. We’re training to be tributes. That’s all I’ve ever known.
She eyes me carefully, in such a way that I feel as though I’m being psychologically analysed. I only asked a simple question, but I suppose, when such a question is coming from me, the answer could never be simple.
“Cato, you know why,” she begins, and of course I do know, but she continues with a list of reasons that she seems to have considered at some point. “Fame, money, respect, glory, pride, but most of all, because we were born to die.”
I feel my jaw drop open, because no one’s ever point blank stated the almost certain possibility of our deaths like that. As if we were only alive here to go to our deaths in a few months anyway. But she only smiles.
“Face it Cato, we’re dead anyway. We always were. That’s what they want.”
notes/warnings: i'm trying to archive every 'fic' ive ever written here, and i remembered this little piece attached to a graphic i made for tumblr. so here i am. this isn't much but clato, i love it.
*****
“Clove?” I ask hesitantly. She rolls over on the floor of the training academy, flashing me that cheeky smile as she does so.
“Yeah?”
“Do you ever wonder why are we doing this?” As soon as the words have left my mouth I regret them. I shouldn’t even be questioning the reasons. I know the drill. Fame. Glory. We’re training to be tributes. That’s all I’ve ever known.
She eyes me carefully, in such a way that I feel as though I’m being psychologically analysed. I only asked a simple question, but I suppose, when such a question is coming from me, the answer could never be simple.
“Cato, you know why,” she begins, and of course I do know, but she continues with a list of reasons that she seems to have considered at some point. “Fame, money, respect, glory, pride, but most of all, because we were born to die.”
I feel my jaw drop open, because no one’s ever point blank stated the almost certain possibility of our deaths like that. As if we were only alive here to go to our deaths in a few months anyway. But she only smiles.
“Face it Cato, we’re dead anyway. We always were. That’s what they want.”