The Wily One: A Foxface Fan Fiction
Foxface is the only character I truly appreciate in the Hunger Games: her intelligence evokes awe in me, which is why I decided to try and write a story about her. This can't top GraceAnne's Blood, Betrayal and Berries, but I hope it's entertaining enough! Please leave a comment and rate, I really appreciate it.
I named Foxface Finch in this story, because that's what Jacqueline Emerson named her in the movie. If you know a better name, please list it in your comment!
Thank you! Enjoy.
There are many coughs and exclamations as she continues pushing her way through the throng, ignoring the people who push back and murmur insults. It would be a lie to say that her friends aren't among those to be Reaped, but that doesn't bother Finch too much--independence is everything. Another code she lives by.
She turns her face towards the ground until she is in the right section--just in time, too. Depending on how you look at it. She missed (to her great disappointment: she always wants to see whether they may say or do something different) the Treaty of Treason, and Blythe Quesnay--this year dressed in a hat with red feathers and a ridiculous pink dress--has already approached the round glass bowl which is full of names of young girls, of which each would have had a promising life if not for the Capitol. She lifts her dull gaze to the crowd, smiles and fishes out a note with surprising nimbleness of her fingers.
It is this moment that always makes Finch nervous. She will feel the sudden need to empty her bladder, throw up and cry all at once--yet she is Finch, and she can't afford to cry, throw up or show any sign of emotional discomfort. This is the Reaping. It is a joyous festival and according to the Treaty of Treason, it is to be treated as such, Finch quotes mentally. Who hasn't memorized those lines?
"As for the ladies," Blythe begins, jutting her hip to the right and pointing a manicured finger at the crowd of half-starved people. "This year's fortunate tribute, is. . . ."
Finch feels her body grow cold. Her mind takes over slowly, until she is a mere robot--something she read about in her father's library, consisting of only five books. To distract herself, she sums up synonyms on how she feels, though it feels cliche, knowing that it has been this way for over seventy-four years. Terrified, horrified, scared, appalled, aghast, sickened, revolted, dismayed, shocked, horror-struck.
They are just Games, she thinks tersely, calm down.
"Finch Maddox!" Blythe cries out exultantly, though she doesn't bother doing the whole 'clap-in-your-hands-and-cheer' thing. In its place, there is something not unlike exhaustion in her eyes, projected on the screen next to Finch.
The girl stares for a moment, full of wonder. She knows she is supposed to undergo terrible fright--even more so than before--but as a strange substitute feeling, amusement rises up in her and she nearly smiles. Nearly being the keyword. Instead, she elbows her way to the crowd (at least, through the part of the crowd that hasn't parted like bad luck is contagious), keeping her chin high in the silent air. Once she reached the stage, she wavers. She is fast. She can whirl around and run, live like Otto in the alleys. Even though, she reminds herself sarcastically, there are a dozen Peacekeepers behind you who will drag you back. Yet even her mind can't seem to control the fear that suddenly haunts her.
Her knees buckle, but she only has to glance back once to realize she will never make it. So instead, she lifts her foot and with a soft thud, places it on the plastic stairs.
One step in to the Capitol.