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.

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Finch goes through the motions of saying goodbye to her family and friends mechanically, her mind already revolving around the arena. She doesn't have enough knowledge of plants, nor of other survival skills. She should have paid more attention to the previous Games, but it is too late for that now. She will have to spend her time learning her handiness carefully, to make sure she doesn't miss out on anything. Her mind travels through the options of armory. If forced, she will kill, she decided. Her best strategy is to stay hidden and wait for the other tributes to finish each other off.

She is guided towards the train (blowing out fresh steam, new from the Capitol) in a rusty car. People watch, but they do nothing. It is just their hollow eyes, fixed on Finch's face. One mother pulls her little toddler--a boy whose ribcage is clearly visible through his clothing--towards her protectively. The word contagious flits through her thoughts again, and she turns her head away, infuriated. She isn’t some kind of disease--no one noticed her before. Why should they be so afraid of her now? She will be far away from them in just a few minutes.

Another woman mutters something under her breath and ushers her children aside. Anger bubbles up in Finch, and she cranes her neck to see where they are headed. "Happy Hunger Games," she sneers.

A jerk from the Peacekeeper next to her reminds her where she is headed and she pins her lips together again, fighting to control her heaving chest. Anger doesn't usually get the better of her.

They arrive at the station, where all cameras are pointed at Finch and her fellow tribute; a boy she doesn't know, called Ivo Ignatius. He is only fourteen years old, and looks just about as strong as her little brother Joe--well, a tad bit more brawny, perhaps. It also seems as if he has been crying. Finch can hardly blame him and throws an annoyed look at a blue-haired man who inches closer with his appliances.

Then her eyes lock with a boy she knows from school; he must've snuck in. He looks fascinated, but when he realizes she is looking at him, he cringes and turns his stare to the ground before turning around and stalking away. He ducks his head as he passes a screen that shows Finch's rigid gaze, her eyes still trained on where he stood. Someone zooms in on Finch and she can count her own strands of oily ginger hair.

After a few uncomfortable minutes, which Finch spends staring at the cameras and screens around her, a Peacekeeper thrusts her forward in such a way that a jolt ripples through her body, and she turns her gaze away awkwardly. Foot up, forward, on the train. Other foot up, forward, on the train. It surprises her only slightly how warm and light it is inside. The air is thick with silence, but only a second later, the whistling sound of the doors snapping shut interrupts that quietude. She takes in the surroundings fleetingly as the train starts moving. For a queer moment, she thinks she smells her home and the power plant--but then it's gone, and only heavy perfume lingers in her nostrils.


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