When Foxface's name is pulled from the glass bowl and announced to the whole District 4, she doesn't hide her face. Instead she straightens her back and listens the sudden hushed silence around her in the crowd. She can almost taste their relief, and after that, slowly emerging grief from those of them who knew her.
Knew her.
She's already thinking of herself in the past tense. The human essence is determined through life choices, and life choices are about to become death choices for her. Even if she will ever return here in the square, she won't be the same. There's no denying that she's going to try and kill at least one other tribute in the arena. Maybe that will be her goal, to kill only once? As if it would help. Becoming a killer changes person, as does surviving when everyone else dies. If she comes back, she won't be the same.
Her mother cries and it feels like nothing. The Peacekeepers take Foxface and her male companion to the train. She doesn't look at the boy's face. She doesn't know him and doesn't want to. The train leaves and the Capitol is everything she thought it would be, and more. She could never have imagined the endless rows of dishes, or the pink starless sky above the skyscrapers during the nights. The Capitol doesn't really matter, though, it's just a prelude before the Games. 1 703 kids have died in the Games, and seventy-three have survived. That's about four percent, so the odds really aren't in her favour. Still, Foxface is a survivor above all, and it's not like they are marched through a guillotine here. Guillotine kills every time, but one of them will live.
When the days in the Capitol are nearing the end (or the beginning), Foxface starts to wonder how far apart the arena and real life really are from each other. We will all die in the end, and then we are no more, so what does it matter what we do? she thinks. What does it matter if we die in a couple of weeks instead of fifty years? We will all end up as fox-food anyway. Learning to kill changes nothing.
So, maybe it doesn't really matter when Foxface makes it to the final eight. They are going to interview her weeping mother and lucky-it-wasn't-me friends back home, but it's all the same. They too will die. One by one four more tributes are slaughtered, and suddenly Foxface is in the final four. She can't convince herself not to care anymore. She feels hope and delight, but she is also tired and so very hungry. Hunger has been her most faithful companion ever since the Careers' food stack exploded. Scorched apples can only get you so far.
District 12 is on the move. Foxface follows them quietly and ponders shortly if she should kill them now. The feast at the Cornucopia really gave her what she desperately needed: means to kill from a distance. She holds the lives of the two lovebirds at her fingertips, but offensive never was her cup of tea. If District 12 manages to kill Cato, or Cato kills them, all the better for her. She decides to wait and see, maybe steal something to fill her empty stomach. She leaves the poison darts in her backpack.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Knew her.
She's already thinking of herself in the past tense. The human essence is determined through life choices, and life choices are about to become death choices for her. Even if she will ever return here in the square, she won't be the same. There's no denying that she's going to try and kill at least one other tribute in the arena. Maybe that will be her goal, to kill only once? As if it would help. Becoming a killer changes person, as does surviving when everyone else dies. If she comes back, she won't be the same.
Her mother cries and it feels like nothing. The Peacekeepers take Foxface and her male companion to the train. She doesn't look at the boy's face. She doesn't know him and doesn't want to. The train leaves and the Capitol is everything she thought it would be, and more. She could never have imagined the endless rows of dishes, or the pink starless sky above the skyscrapers during the nights. The Capitol doesn't really matter, though, it's just a prelude before the Games. 1 703 kids have died in the Games, and seventy-three have survived. That's about four percent, so the odds really aren't in her favour. Still, Foxface is a survivor above all, and it's not like they are marched through a guillotine here. Guillotine kills every time, but one of them will live.
When the days in the Capitol are nearing the end (or the beginning), Foxface starts to wonder how far apart the arena and real life really are from each other. We will all die in the end, and then we are no more, so what does it matter what we do? she thinks. What does it matter if we die in a couple of weeks instead of fifty years? We will all end up as fox-food anyway. Learning to kill changes nothing.
So, maybe it doesn't really matter when Foxface makes it to the final eight. They are going to interview her weeping mother and lucky-it-wasn't-me friends back home, but it's all the same. They too will die. One by one four more tributes are slaughtered, and suddenly Foxface is in the final four. She can't convince herself not to care anymore. She feels hope and delight, but she is also tired and so very hungry. Hunger has been her most faithful companion ever since the Careers' food stack exploded. Scorched apples can only get you so far.
District 12 is on the move. Foxface follows them quietly and ponders shortly if she should kill them now. The feast at the Cornucopia really gave her what she desperately needed: means to kill from a distance. She holds the lives of the two lovebirds at her fingertips, but offensive never was her cup of tea. If District 12 manages to kill Cato, or Cato kills them, all the better for her. She decides to wait and see, maybe steal something to fill her empty stomach. She leaves the poison darts in her backpack.