Cato, the hulking, tow-headed brute of District 2, awoke to the sun filtering through the threadbare curtains of his crude Hunger Games victor's accommodation. With a yawn that could intimidate a lion into sheepishness, he allowed a smirk to play on his lips. It was time for the most important meal of the day, and nothing would suit the appetite of a champion like a fresh catch. True to the flamboyant fashion of his Hunger Games persona, Cato decided that clothes were an unnecessary barrier between himself and nature's bounty. His muscular physique, chiseled as if the gods had a heavy-handed day at the marble quarry, required no adornment. Warned only by his own confidence, Cato strutted outside, his alabaster skin gleaming like a beacon of unconcerned glory--a streak of pure, powerful panache in the dawn light. As he marched towards the pond, the morning breeze paid homage to his gladiator-esque buttocks--which played a lively game of peek-a-boo with the rising sun. The left cheek, a proud mound of determination, seemed to wink at the flora with every step, while the right followed with mirthful buoyancy--the unsung heroes of Cato's warrior's stride. Entering the pond with the grace of a battleship, Cato did not bother with the niceties of tiptoeing into the waters. His countenance was that of a man who knew no cold, no hesitation; his steely blue eyes fixated on his piscatorial prey with an unsettling cheer. And then, like a maestro in command of an invisible orchestra, Cato prepared his symphony of the senses--his vile, piscatory-catching flatulence. With a deep breath that swelled his chest and a squint that betrayed a hint of mischief, he released the beast. An audible testament to the strength of ten thousand warriors, his guttural expulsion bubbled through the water like an underwater volcano oozing poisonous gases. As the ripples disturbed the otherwise peaceful pond, Cato's face contorted with the ecstasy of relief. His cheeks, both above and below the water's surface, quivered with joy--though for vastly different reasons. As fish began to float belly-up, overcome by the olfactory onslaught, Cato's victorious, toothy grin shone amid the carnage he had wrought. Triumphant, he scooped the paralyzed prey into his burlap sack, the corners of his mouth lifted ever higher as he contemplated the lavish breakfast he would lay before Peeta, his unexpected companion in this post-apocalyptic life. Back at home, with a culinary flourish worthy of the Capitol's finest, Cato crafted a breakfast of champions: fire-roasted fish delicately seasoned with the last bit of herbs scavenged from the desolate District. He presented it to Peeta, whose artistic hands would have never dared such a rustic approach, yet who smiled indulgently at Cato's uncouth method. "To the victor go the spoils," Cato boasted, fork in hand like a scepter. "And baby, we are *eating* today!" Peeta, always the diplomat, nodded and braved a taste of the fumigated fish. "Darling, if they ever run out of poison in the arena, we know who they're calling," he quipped, the corners of his eyes crinkling with suppressed laughter. They ate in companionable silence, two warriors joined by the heart (and occasionally by the gut), fueling their forbidden love with a meal caught by the bare bum of District 2's most infamous son. As Cato savored the last bite, he leaned back and sighed contentedly. "I tell ya, Peeta, some people use nets, some use rods, but me? All I need is the air I breathe..." Peeta chuckled, rolling his eyes affectionately. "Not sure that's the air I'd choose to breathe, but I can't argue with success." Together, they faced the day, their laughter mingling with the morning light as only victors could--in defiance of the world that sought to tear them apart, bonded by their strength, and occasionally, by the power of Cato's legendary farts.