A/N: Hi all! Here we wander into 2018, and I wanted to put something out there to kickstart the new year on a writing high, so here we are! I'm really excited about this project, and I look forward to sharing yet another somewhat depressing but hopefully cathartic journey with y'all and these kiddos whom I promise I love even though I'm plastering Major Character Death as a warning on this fic.
But really, it's an HG au. Y'all know what you signed up for if you clicked this fic.
Otherwise, enjoy, and happy new year!
Despite the chill that settles over the district as the Reaping draws near, Farkle has also noticed the festivities that take over his home.
While their fellow citizens huddle closer together and board up their windows, their home becomes grander than ever before. It's frantic preparations as decorations adorn the estate, his parents running around and calling orders and reveling in how exciting it is for the Games to come around yet again. Another year for them to show off their district's offerings and wine and dine the Capitol elite and thank their lucky stars that they're above all that, that they're in Snow's good graces, that come this time of year while everyone else is panicking and fretting and trying to stave off an already insatiable hunger, they don't have to worry.
Stuart has told him so, at least once or twice. How brilliant it is that they can afford to eat well without a care, that they don't have to worry about Farkle entering his name in more times to get additional rations because they're set—they've worked hard, damn it, and the safety of their family is what they have to show for it.
Amongst the bowl that holds hundreds, near thousands of paper slips containing the names of all the children within his age range in their district, his name is only in there four times—one for every year he's been eligible. Perhaps only three, if his father's bragging about negotiating Farkle's name out of entry this year is true.
Either way, it doesn't matter much. The odds are, ironically, very much in his favor whether his name is in there three times or four. Statistically, there's no chance in hell he'll be going into the arena any time soon.
When he was younger, when he turned twelve and he was first eligible for entry into the lottery, this fact used to comfort him. He ate up all the assurances of his well-groomed parents, thriving off the idea that not only was he practically guaranteed freedom from the Hunger Games and all its horrors, he had earned that right. His father's hard work had granted him the right to life, and if those other kids his age wanted the same security well, their parents should've just worked a little bit harder.
It's what he thought for the last couple of years as he stood amongst the other boys, obviously the most polished one in the sea of grimy adolescents. Considering the years of labor on many of their shoulders already, one quick bath once a year and a frantic dressing in their nicest clothes wasn't going to get rid of the layers of dirt or well-worn wrinkles in their fabric.
He always looked great, and like his father promised, his name was never chosen. When he was thirteen and once again his name wasn't called as another boy his age walked up to the stage, he locked eyes with his father seated behind the podium and exchanged smiles.
Farkle Minkus, it seemed, was the only boy within Games age in District 3 who lived with a true sense of freedom.
The older he gets, however, the harder it becomes to ignore the reality of the situation. Less so on the day of the Reaping, but it haunts him every other day of the year as he wanders the cobbled streets of their city center.
He watches parents break their backs to bring home a loaf of bread, and their kids still get tossed up as an offering to the Capitol anyway. Those wrinkled clothes his classmates wear to school and on Reaping Day aren't symbols of inferiority—it's all they have. Suddenly, his good graces don't seem so much earned as luck. His peers' lives are worth just as much as his, and yet he's the one who gets to walk into the Reaping feeling like he still has the ability to breathe.
His father and mother never think about it; they spend so much time cooped up in the mayoral estate running the district and bowing to the Capitol that they lose touch with the people they're supposed to be representing.
The older he gets, the less he can think about anything else.
Fourteen is when Farkle decides he'd like to start giving back.
There's no proper form for him to do so, and he's smart enough to know not to go to his father for advice on how to go about such a thing. He's more than willing to avoid the guaranteed lecture on working hard for what they have, and the same nonsense about owing what needs to be owed the Capitol spews out every other day.
But he's intelligent—crazy intelligent, as his teacher likes to announce to the chagrin of his classmates every day at school. So he takes matters into his own hands.
He spends months watching his father work with the finances, monitoring how carefully he pays attention to fluctuations in their savings. He watches his mother work with the surplus of edible food they have in their kitchen, stealing small portions here and there until it gets big enough that his mother would notice. He takes account of all of this, slowly formulating a routine for how much he can take and where he's going to allocate it when he's got it. There's so many mouths to feed in District 3, and it takes a genius like him to even begin to map out a procedure. But he's going to get everyone.
He knows the consequences for getting caught would be absolutely severe. There's no way that the residents of his district don't realize someone keeps leaving these things behind, that it's not just a miracle or a random happenstance, but he's grateful that none of them seem too keen on solving the mystery. Charity is rare enough in this world—most of them are smart or desperate enough not to question it. So he keeps giving, and they keep quiet.
Just as his father used to read about in those dusty old storybooks he has sitting under his bed, he becomes an everyday Robin Hood.
For a year, he sticks concretely to his procedure and spreads the wealth as evenly as he can. His parents barely notice the fluctuations in both change and chow, and he walks along the dusty streets on the way to school feeling a little less guilty. Finally feeling like, in some ways, he's earning his immunity.
The factor he isn't anticipating, the factor that throws him off his routine and makes him rework every piece of the careful charity empire he's built up, is Isadora Smackle.
He's noticed her before, obviously—it's hard not to notice who very well may be his only potential intellectual rival, and she's not quiet about it.
For every chance Farkle has to answer a question in class and once again assert his intelligence, her hand shoots in the air a second quicker and leaves him stinging with the drive to prove himself next time. Their teacher doesn't comment on her God-given intellect the way he does with him—a fact that makes him question whether his parents have even more influence around him than he thinks—but Farkle sees it.
It's also hard to miss her distinct eye roll when teacher praises his very breath in class. He knows he should be annoyed, but somehow he just finds it endearing.
She sticks out like a sore thumb even amongst the slums of their classmates, with her ratty cardigan and tangled dark hair just barely pulled into an acceptable braid and the smudged glasses that are about two frames too big for her face. Her clothes are always a tad too wrinkled and her skin is constantly covered with a layer of dust and soot that she can't seem to scrub off. Although she doesn't seem to care one bit, her classmates notice, and she's often given a wide berth throughout the school day.
He knows this look well—it's poverty, in its deepest and most profound form. The "terminal" cases, as his father likes to put it, who there's no point in trying to help because they'll never get out of the financial hole they've dug themselves into. Even though Stuart Minkus has no idea who Isadora Smackle is, how gifted she is or how resolute she is to even the most insurmountable of challenges, he's declared her not worth helping. Not worth a second glance.
He doesn't know if it's the untapped potential or the intellectual rivalry or the curious brown eyes behind those oversized spectacles, but Farkle takes more than a second glance. He takes many. And he decides he's going to put more effort into her than he has anywhere else.
It takes a while to adjust his procedure, but he works it out so that regardless of who else is up for a hand-out that week, he takes a stop by the hub to drop a helping with Santiago Smackle. When he can manage it, it's also a great excuse to see her outside the classroom.
The rounds always get much heavier around the week of the Reaping, and this year is no exception. Farkle darts from house to house in his dark cloak, satchel tucked under his arm, dropping off whatever rations he doled out for each family and leaving small amounts of money for others.
When he steps into the hub, he makes sure to keep his hood on and his head down low. Most patrons are busy with their own business—negotiating sales or trades, sharing cheap liquor with their friends, purchasing last minute Reaping supplies—so it's easy so slink around unnoticed.
He spies Isadora's father seated at his usual work week table, drinking grain liquor and chatting with some other guys from the innovation lab. Acting as casual as possible, Farkle peruses the stand nearby, strolling past their table and eyeing his options as he waits for an opportune moment.
When the table erupts into laughter and Mr. Smackle launches into a heated, playful argument with one of his friends, Farkle passes by and slips the sleeve of cash into his jacket pocket.
Mission accomplished. Farkle exhales, smiling proudly to himself.
"Hey, you gonna buy something or what?"
Farkle jumps, beginning a turn in the direction of the stand he was pretending to examine before remembering he's trying to be inconspicuous. He clears his throat, keeping his head low. "No, no thanks."
"Then get going. No room for loiterers here."
Farkle nods, heading back in the direction he came and praying the lady doesn't plan to question him further. Only one person is acutely aware that he, the mayor's son, occasionally shows up here in what is absolutely an illegal venue, and he's not trying to make that fact public any time soon.
Just as he hoped, said person is working one of the booths tucked away in the back corner. Cardigan still ratty, glasses having slid halfway down her nose as she works furiously on one of the tinker toys she's been playing around with for the past couple of weeks. And delightfully out of sight of the majority of the hub.
Farkle approaches the booth with his most confident stride, removing the hood of his cloak and absent-mindedly adjusting the mop of brown hair on his head.
When he leans forward against the slab of wood acting as a countertop, she does an impressive job of continuing to ignore him. All her focus is drawn into the toy, which she manages to bring to life with one last tweaking of a wire with her tweezers. It rattles, the gears visible within from a hole in the metal grinding to life.
She grins to herself, satisfied with her handy work. He grins because of her.
"You know, you're not going to make many deals ignoring a customer like this," he says in a soft voice, rapping lightly on the wood with his knuckles.
She lifts her head, mouth parted open slightly in surprise as she acknowledges his presence so close to her. A beat later she recognizes him, her expression turning flat and unimpressed. For some reason, he finds both expressions equally charming.
"What do you want?"
"What? I'm a resident of this district," he says. With a shrug, he gesticulates to the other patrons around them. "Am I not allowed to shop for bargains just like anybody else?"
"As the mayor's son, I think you'd be lucky to get out of here with your head still attached to your body."
"Well, you're not going to rat me out." He examines her, raising an eyebrow. "Are you?"
It looks like she's very well considering it. But after a moment she sighs, pushing her glasses back up to the bridge of her nose as she straightens up. "No. I suppose not."
"Guess I'm worth keeping around, then?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of not worth the trouble," she corrects him, eyeing him critically before going back to adjusting things around the stand. It's her father's hub outpost, but he knows she spends more time manning it than he does. "Doesn't explain why you're here, though."
"Just had some errands to run," he says off-handedly. "You know, Reaping's coming up. Have to get all my preparations done."
She gives him a harsh look. "As if you have preparations."
"Everybody does," he says defensively. At the bitter expression on her face, he works up the nerve to change the subject. "But I also had some questions to ask. That I wanted answered, and you're the only person I can think of who would know the answer."
Now she's intrigued. Curiosity glimmers in her eyes. "The resident genius, asking for knowledge from the undesirable hub girl? Who would've thought it."
"Now, I wouldn't say undesirable," he offers. Glancing at her again, he can't help but think referring to her as undesirable is quite possibly the most falsified statement he's ever heard in his near sixteen years of living. "That doesn't sound right to me."
"Don't worry yourself, I have more important things to think about than looking aesthetically pleasing," she says off-handedly. "After all, I am superior in every other area."
"Modest, too."
It's obvious she's growing weary of his conversation. She gives him a look. "Are you going to ask your query or not?"
He smirks, nodding in surrender. She dips her head back down to work on an equation scribbled on the back of a receipt, her glasses slowly slipping back down her nose. He resists the urge to reach out and fix them. "I was wondering whether or not the hub girl would be interested in getting lunch with the resident genius."
Her cheap pencil stops scribbling, but she doesn't lift her head. It's almost like she's a rabbit in the wilderness—prey staying still enough in hopes that the fox will keep going and move on without eating them for dinner.
He hopes he can make it clear that he's not a fox.
"You can see why this is a question I need your help answering."
"I'm not sure what you're expecting from me," she says abruptly, keeping her focus on the receipt in front of her. Her voice is stiff, indicating her discomfort stems more from uncertainty than outright disgust at the suggestion. "I don't have anything to offer you. And I really should be preparing for the Reaping."
"I'm not asking for anything but your time," Farkle fills in hastily. "It's on me. You know I've got the funds to spare. Just getting to know each other outside of that musty classroom that smells like burnt rubber. Just you know, some food and conversation."
She slowly lifts her eyes to meet his. Her expression is timid. "But I'm not good at that."
"I think you're better than you think you are." He doesn't know how can she manage to spend so much time avoiding his eyes when the moment they meet, he can't seem to look away from hers. He softens his smirk to a smile. "All that modesty."
Her gaze lingers on him for a moment longer, lips curling into a shy smile before she dips her head down again. For all her hesitancy, it's clear to him that spending more time with him isn't something she's absolutely opposed to. That gives him more hope than he'd ever admit.
"I really do have to get ready for the Reaping."
"Well, after, then," he bargains, straightening up and stuffing his hands in his pockets. She continues to rummage around with things in front of her, keeping herself busy rather than doing anything productive. "After the Reaping, we can go down to the market."
When she looks at him again, her gaze is inquisitive. It's enough to knock his confidence down a couple pegs.
"What?"
"Nothing," she says distantly. "Just remarkable, how sure you can be that we'll both be around after the Reaping."
There's a lot in the statement that goes without saying. His privilege is showing itself again, making a fool out of him much faster than anything he could've said or done. No wonder she thinks of him as the fox—someone who has so much freedom must seem terrifying to someone who constantly lives day-to-day convinced they're trapped.
He doesn't ask how many times her name is in that bowl. How many times she risked her own well-being to support her father and their livelihood. He doesn't want to know. For now, he wants to keep pretending his immunity is good for something. And just maybe, if he thinks like his father, it'll extend to her as well.
"My theory is that no matter what happens, we'll be together at the end of the day."
She gives him another exhausted look. "Theories need evidence to be proven. To be established as fact."
"Then I guess we'll see," he says, smirk back in place. He takes out another small sleeve of cash, leaving it on the countertop. "Keep the change."
She takes it in her hands, eyes wide before she looks after him in confusion. He's already walking away. "You didn't buy anything."
"Got what I came for," he says nonchalantly, pulling his hood back on over his head before exiting the hub as inconspicuously as he entered it.
The night before the Reaping, his father throws an extravagant party at the mayoral mansion. It's tradition, so he's perfectly prepared for it.
After spending an inordinate amount of time picking at his hair in the mirror and straightening his suit jacket—he can never get his mop-top to do anything particularly stylish and the jacket is stiff from lack of use—it's a bit of a disappointment to see that Isadora is not present. Not surprising, but still a disappointment.
The company at soirees like this that his family throws rarely includes the actual residents of their districts. It's all the upper-elites of the town like the banker and the Peacekeepers; people who could afford to feed themselves dinner on their own dime. The personnel are never close to his age, so he spends a lot of time milling around and observing the party guests.
Watching the upper crust of District 3 dabble in extravagance is embarrassing enough, he can't imagine how people in the Capitol live like this every single day. It's a tad revolting, watching people dress up their absolute fanciest to impress each other and gorge on way more food than they can actually stomach, but he figures at least they have the right. Despite being the richer members of their district, most of the people at his house presently are still fairly strapped for funds. Eating less than they'd like on a regular basis. Flitting in and out of the hub hoping not to be caught by another elite who isn't supposed to be there.
He's grateful he's yet to be caught hanging around the hub. He doesn't think his father would appreciate "charity" and "flirting" as reasons to be risking their reputation.
The guests he always finds most interesting at the annual Reaping are the previous victors. Most of them are decades older than him, and a majority of them are reaching the average life expectancy of a Panem resident. Still, they party on and enjoy the festivities because as far as Farkle can tell, they're pretty out of touch with reality. Being in the arena does that to you, he supposes.
It's always ages between Games that District 3 has a victor. They're an underdog district, and they don't do much to dispute this presumption. The only thing they have going for them is being so close to the Capitol, but Farkle sees it a lot like their residents and his father—just because you're nearby doesn't mean anybody cares about you.
The most recent victors are at least a generation older than Farkle, but they feel startlingly young compared to the other ones milling around the drink table. The guy is Jack Hunter, a memorable victor only because his Games were so gruesome—a winter tundra in which most tributes succumbed to frostbite rather than bloodshed. His entire survival plan was to stay huddled in a hole he dug underground, visually boring but strategically sound. The kind of ingenious approach that only an intellectual from District 3 would try to pull off.
Next to him is a tall, red-haired woman who has a couple inches on him that Farkle knows as Rachel. He doesn't know much about her aside from the fact that she's the last victor District 3 has had in a little more than twenty years, and that whatever she did to survive that arena deemed her somewhat clinically insane.
He can remember when she first came home, his mother telling stories in whispers to his father about how she was out of control, spiraling and causing panic and having meltdowns every other day. Despite the insensitivity on his mother's part, she managed to reel it in and tackle it because Jack stepped up to help her through coping mechanisms. He'd been there most recently, and he figured it was the least he could do.
Now they're inseparable, attached at the hip at nearly all times.
Farkle watches them now, taking a sip of his champagne as they make their way down the buffet table. Jack leans over to whisper something in Rachel's ear; she breaks into a timid smile and elbows him in a gesture that seems both nervous and appreciative. Probably easing her tension, in as small a capacity as he can.
"Tough time for them coming up," Stuart's sharp, clear voice says, diverting Farkle's attention away from the guests. He comes to stand by his son, offering a smile as he straightens the lapel of his own suit jacket. "Being mentors is in some ways just as traumatizing as being tributes."
"Yeah, I'm certain it's more traumatizing than death," Farkle mumbles.
His father gives him a playful sneer, nudging him. "I'm serious, now. Imagine, having to train kids for a few days knowing that you're probably sending them off to their death. You know, they say they can tell when a kid has a shot in hell or not. Imagine that. When some of those kids come to the Capitol to train with them, they know they're just raising them for slaughter."
"How are they supposed to tell?"
"I don't know. It's something I've heard through the grape vine, every mayor talks about it. How their mentors say the same things." He examines the previous victors with a keen eye before exchanging eye contact with his son, looking at him proudly. "Probably something about their attitude. Their stance, or how they carry themselves. You'd probably be a winner, if they saw you."
Farkle rolls his eyes. "Yes, I'm so sure."
"Lucky for us, we don't have to worry about that." He claps Farkle on the shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Hard work. What's it do?"
"It makes a difference," he says in unison with his father, although his repetition of the phrase lacks the same tenacity. Stuart pats his back proudly, giving him one more smile before floating off into the crowd to mingle.
He watches him go, lost in thought about winning attitudes and admittedly cheap champagne and arenas that make you go crazy. Looking at Jack and Rachel across the room, he's not sure he sees anything in either of them that would tip him off to their surefire success.
For the briefest of moments, Rachel looks up and locks eyes with him. He immediately turns away, feeling an embarrassed blush crawl up his neck for getting caught staring.
But something in those eyes stays with him. Amidst the somewhat distant glare that settled over her during her time in the arena, there was something special about the twinkle in her eyes. Maybe, Farkle figures, that's how they can tell she has a shot in hell.
The only other person he can ever remember having a sparkle in their eyes like that is Isadora.
The morning of the Reaping, Farkle gets out his slightly less expensive but just as ironed out shirt and marches down to the square with the rest of his peers. He doesn't bother to say goodbye to his mother and father—he'll see them there from the crowd, and he knows he'll be headed back to the manor soon enough.
He's always found the process of signing in for the Reaping a bit laborious, with the small electronic needle drawing a sample of their blood. He can't help but think about how someone in this very district developed and perfected the device, all for the Capitol to swoop in and use it however they please. He can't help but wonder whether those brains on the project are living better for their labor, or if they're still here somewhere, lost in the dusty dwellings and starving away.
Lost in thought, it takes a bigger boy elbowing him hard in the back behind him to snap him out of it. He scowls over his shoulder.
"Get moving, Mayor Boy," the boy grumbles. "We've all got to go here."
Farkle takes one last glance at his blood smudged underneath his name on the crisp white sheet before heading over to the holding pen, scanning the row for the other fifteen year old males.
The ceremony goes on as it always does, and he can see the same apathy on his peers' faces as he feels on his. The twelve year olds standing at the back are likely shaking, unable to sit still or breathe normally—but after three years, the terror sort of becomes a numb kind of thing. At least, that's how he's heard his classmates talk about it in their jaded tones between lessons.
Personally, he wouldn't know at all. He's never had to feel the same amount of fear as they have.
The propaganda film plays, then the speech from the Capitol representative. She's excited as she is every year, dolled up in the wacky Capitol style and practically unrecognizable as a human being. Farkle has no idea how they get their skin such a weird shade of green, and he's a genius. He's not sure he wants to know.
"And now," she says breathily, pausing for emphasis. "Let's choose our tributes."
She walks over to the bowl on the right holding the names of girls, and the crowd of females across the aisle from them suddenly grows quiet. Farkle scans them for familiar faces, finding subtle fear on the features of his classmates or stony expressions masking that fear. Through the crowd, he can just make out the back of Isadora's tangled braid, tied with a silver ribbon for that special Reaping day touch.
"Isadora Smackle!"
Suddenly, it's much easier to see her. The crowd of girls has parted around her like the Red Sea, shining a metaphorical spotlight on her. It takes Farkle's brain a long time to put the pieces together, to hear her name echoing around the speakers in the city square and realize it means something.
Timidly, hands stiff at her sides, Isadora begins the long walk to the stage steps. With the berth so wide around her, even wider than usual, Farkle's struck by how petite she is. How so many of their classmates tower over her. How those glasses, sliding down her nose, are far, far, too big for her.
"No!" A voice cries out, and Santiago Smackle comes scrambling towards the square from the crowd as his daughter steps out into the aisle separating the genders. Farkle watches in shock, chest constricting, as Peacekeepers immediately swarm forward and tackle him. They pull him back from the children, fighting and screaming to get to his daughter and keep her from finishing that death march. To keep her safe.
Isadora forces herself to look away. As she always does, she holds her chin high and unclenches her fists, making the rest of the walk to the stage without looking back.
He can't breathe. His chest has tightened to the point of pain and he's uncertain he'll be able to keep standing up straight. His mind can't catch up to this series of events.
"And now, for the boys."
Farkle has never had to worry about what was going to happen to him on Reaping day. Not really. But the wailing of Santiago Smackle is rattling through his brain, and the most intelligent girl he's ever met is standing on the stage, facing her imminent death with a clenched jaw and unreadable expression. All that potential, about to go to waste.
Except for that twinkle in her eyes. That twinkle, he remembers, may just be what saves her. And suddenly, the fog in his mind clears as he realizes exactly what he needs to do with all the privilege he's been given. All the years he's gone through this annual day without a shred of fear.
"I volunteer," he says flatly, blurting it out before he can stop himself and certainly not loud enough for the officials on the stage to hear. The only ones who catch it are the boys directly around him, who give him incredulous looks and take a few safe steps away from him.
It's his chance to take it back. He doesn't even know what name was actually called. He doesn't know who's skin he's saving from this side of the aisle. All he knows is that Isadora has a chance, and he's going in there to make sure she has the best odds in her favor.
He steps out of the sea of boys, stumbling his way to the center across from the stage. He forces himself to straighten up as the crowd goes hushed in stunned silence. He holds his head high, mimicking Isadora's resolute strength.
"I volunteer as tribute."
For as long as he lives—however short that now may be—Farkle doesn't think he'll ever forget that moment of volunteering. Defying expectations, stepping forward and giving up the unfair privilege he's had all this time to give a better chance to someone who deserves it the most. That, he knows, he'll remember forever.
Aside from that moment of clarity, the procession from that moment forward passes in a complete blur. He's whisked to the front of the stage, ignoring the looks of shock on his parents' faces. There's barely a moment where he and Isadora face each other, shaking hands before being separated beyond the doors in the Hall of Justice.
From the second they drop him in the west green room he's left alone, the door locked behind him. He takes reprieve in the absence of others, having watched enough coverage of previous Games to know that once he boards the train and heads off on his journey to the Capitol it'll be a long time coming before he's left alone again.
Glancing around the ornately decorated room, he takes a few tentative steps towards the windows facing the city square. Touching the velvety curtains, he pulls them back just slightly to examine the scenery outside.
The square is filled as children begin filing back home, safe for another year. Even though he and Isadora were just chosen, their lives changed forever, it's like nothing has changed outside the window. For all the other residents of District 3, life goes on. It's an indifferent scene he's shamelessly been a part of for the last few years.
He steps away, letting the curtain fall back into place and trap him alone in the room. As the shock of the morning begins to wear off, the reality of what's he done begins to wash over him. He isn't simply going to the Capitol to be Isadora's number one cheerleader. He's going into the Games himself. He put himself up on the chopping block. He voluntarily offered to murder twenty-three other children around his age. He volunteered to do so, or die trying.
Well, twenty-two other children.
The sound of the heavy oak doors creaking open snaps him out of it, grounding him back on Earth. His mother comes through the doorway, mascara staining her cheeks. He searches for something to say, something to explain himself, but can't find the words. As he makes his way over to her, he opens his arms for a hug.
The slap across the face he gets instead is a real wake-up call.
Farkle stumbles backwards as tingling erupts across his cheek. He stares at his mother in confusion and shock before she starts to shout at him, obviously unprepared for this chain of events.
"What were you thinking? How could you do this? Why the hell would you volunteer yourself? After all we did for you? All we've done to keep you safe?" Her voice is trembling with emotion, but he can't tell if it's grief or rage. "You just spit it right back in our faces! How dare you?"
He wants to tell her something to calm her down, but he has nothing to offer. He's out of explanations, and he's not sure he could say anything that would make the situation better. Nothing she would understand, in any case.
Particularly not in this state. It's not a heartwarming goodbye as Peacekeepers flock her the moment she lays a hand on him, pulling her back out of the room. Farkle straightens up, rubbing his cheek and trying not to let the hysteria and reactionary violence be the last memory of his mother that he takes to the Capitol with him.
He knows she loves him. He knows how much they put into caring about him, keeping him safe. It's how little they put into caring about everyone else that's the problem.
His father steps through the door next, treading lightly rather than sweeping in like a hurricane. He approaches Farkle and takes his face in his hands, getting a good look at him. He flinches a bit on instinct considering his last visitor, but he supposes he should get used to it. Whatever he's got coming next, it's going to be a lot worse than a slap on the cheek.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah," he mutters as his father continues to examine him, tilting his head from side to side. "It's fine, mom didn't hit me that hard."
"I'm not worried about that," Stuart says flatly, scrutinizing his features. "I'm concerned about your mental state. What may have broken to make you do such a thing? There has to be something seriously wrong. We should've gone to the physician…"
As usual, his father is choosing to overlook the point. Farkle scowls, freeing himself from his grip. "I'm fine. My head is screwed on right, thanks."
"Then you'll have to explain it to me. You, the resident genius, will just have to spell it out for your father. Guess he's a little rusty." Although his father is much more placated than his mother and her whirlwind of emotions, Farkle now recognizes the disappointment coloring his features. There's a flash of anger settled just beneath his glare. "Why on Earth would you volunteer as tribute?"
"Well, it's like you said, isn't it?" He shrugs, holding his arms out. "I've got the attitude of a winner."
"Stop talking like that. You know I didn't mean—," Stuart begins, before shaking his head. "You're sick. There's something wrong with you. Perhaps we can ask for a medical absence."
"They won't give it to you, because I'm fine. And I don't want it. And if you had taken me to the physician you wouldn't have learned anything either, because our medical equipment in this town is shit."
Stuart takes offense, but he does his best to remain calm. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"It's everything, dad." Farkle can feel years of frustration building up in his spine, having laid dormant in his bones for so long. Only it doesn't quite feel like his anger—it's the collective feeling of their entire district, having crumbled to bits and been long since left out to dry by him and his family. It's the sentiments of the people he's supposed to represent, who he has now literally volunteered to represent. "It's the fact that we can spare whatever we need to keep me safe, get me whatever I need, but the people that we worked hard to get to represent receive nothing."
Stuart seems caught, so he shakes his head as a refusal. "Don't change the subject. This isn't the time or the forum for this debate. This is about you throwing away everything we've worked for. Everything we did to keep you safe."
"I know." Farkle steps closer, earnest coloring his voice. "I know how hard you tried to protect me from this. From everything. And it worked, for a while. But what about all the other boys my age out there who don't get that luxury? What about the boys younger than me? We get to go through the Reaping every year not really thinking much of it, but they have to live with the actual weight of it. And even if they don't get chosen, if they don't have to go to the Games, they have to live with that mortality every day while they starve and work their fingers to the bone to get by."
Stuart hesitates. "We worked hard for what we have."
"I know. But so do they. And they have nothing to show for it. And that's on you." Farkle takes a deep breath. "That's on us. What good is having money if we don't do anything with it?"
For a moment suspended in time, he can see the expression shift in his father's face. He can see realization ripple through his features and thinks maybe, potentially, he's gotten to him. He's done his part to change the status quo in the only way he knew how—for Santiago Smackle. For everyone else.
And now, that part is over. All that's left is everything else he volunteered for in the process.
This reality seems to be hitting Stuart as well. His lip trembles, and his head shakes again, this time from incredulity.
Farkle frowns. The anger has receded, and once again he's out of words. Instead, he steps forward and offers an embrace that his father eagerly takes.
They stand there in the quiet, holding one another and absorbing the truth of what's about to come next. Stuart's grip on his son is tighter than it's ever been before. "We did everything we did to protect you. Thinking of you."
Farkle feels tears prick the corners of his eyes but he bites them back, chewing on the inside of his cheek and willing himself to remove the emotions from the equation. Just as emotion has no place in technology, he doubts it'll have much of a place in the arena.
"I know," he finally manages, pulling back so he can look his father in the eyes. "Now, I need you to think of them, too."
The door opens again, and a Peacekeeper enters the space. "Visitation time's up."
Stuart doesn't put a fight. He gives his son one last shoulder squeeze before he's whisked away, the doors slamming heavily behind him as Farkle is once again left alone in the silence and the weight of what happens next.
The first time he's allowed to see other people is to reconvene with their mentors, a few minutes after the train pulls out of the district.
Despite his goal to be unimpressed as he scoots closer and closer into the Capitol's lap like some kind of show dog, he can't hide his fascination at how fast the train moves. The world outside the window seems to be passing by in lightyears, nothing but a blur of greys and greens. It's another advancement he's more than certain his district is responsible for, the work the great minds of his home discovered and handed over to the Capitol when the time came.
More names, brilliant brains, that will go to bed hungry and die with nothing to their legacy. More and more, it seems like the only way to get recognition is to do as he is, willingly throw yourself up to the Games as a some kind of sick sacrifice.
He's torn from his own head as the door to his car slides open, the release of air being the only indication.
Jack Hunter is more familiar to him than he thinks he'll ever realize. Whereas he's just another pale, youthful face he's sending off to his death, to him Jack has always been a symbol for what could be. The potential of their district, the youngest and freshest at those yearly soirees. He's represented something to Farkle for as long as he can remember, even if he can't exactly pinpoint what it is.
"There he is," Jack says brightly, offering a well-rehearsed smile as he approaches. He holds out a hand. "Farkle Minkus."
He accepts the hand shake without much hesitation. "And you're Jack Hunter."
"That I am. I'm sure we've seen each other once or twice around the bend. All those galas your father liked to throw." He speaks of it with the same slightly flat tone as Farkle—begrudgingly appreciative, knowing how lucky he is to be alive and privileged enough to attend. "Unfortunately, the time we'll be sharing from here on out won't be nearly as festive."
"Suppose it wouldn't be, raising a pig for slaughter."
Jack's eyes twinkle with amusement at Farkle's blasé attitude. "Typically, yes. But I think we've got a little more of a shot this year. Wouldn't you agree?"
At his eyebrow raise, Farkle realizes that Jack isn't planning to simply throw in the towel. That twinkle indicates that for once, Jack has an actual contender to train. For whatever reason, he sees in him that same spark of potential that he recognized in Rachel. The one he saw in Isadora that he's determined to see through to the end.
"Maybe so. Think we've got a couple of strong contenders from 3 this year."
Jack nods his head slowly. "Yeah. I was wondering about her. About your willingness to jump at a moment's notice to volunteer—I mean, your father never mentioned you expressing an interest—,"
Their conversation grinds to a halt as the door effortlessly glides open behind Jack, once again adding members to their elite club of passengers. Rachel emerges from the doorway and offers her partner a smile, Isadora floating in dazedly behind her.
It's as if he's seeing her for the first time. Having been so caught up in the chaos back at the Reaping ceremony, this time he can actually focus on her, see her clearly with his usual amount of attentiveness. She's wearing her soft grey cardigan over her dress, arguably her nicest one in her dusty set. Amazingly, it's unwrinkled. Her hair is still pulled back in the messy braid, that silver ribbon weaving throughout.
Her glasses have slipped a bit down her nose as usual, but he can still see her eyes meet his the moment she looks away from the windows. Instantly, the confusion fades from her features. It's as if clarity descends upon her the moment they lock eyes. He'd be lying if he claimed he didn't feel the same way.
He moves past Jack and steps towards her, meeting her halfway in the middle of the room. He's trying to think of what to say. Anything. Whatever would perfectly sum up how it feels to be trapped in these circumstances—but not so bad, because he's with her.
Instead, he's greeted with another shock as Isadora's foot comes stomping down on top of his, grinding her heel in the process.
"Ow! Holy—!"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Jack begins, stepping forward.
Rachel's at Isadora's arm the moment she opens her mouth, frowning at Farkle with that extra special fire in her eyes.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" she snaps, tugging away from Rachel's grasp. "Why the hell would you volunteer? You idiot!"
"Are you kidding me?" Farkle blinks at her, feeling his own anger bubble just under the surface of his calm demeanor. "Why wouldn't I? Certainly I have less to lose than the rest of you. And if I can help your chances—,"
"I didn't ask you to do that!" Her voice is trembling, just like his mother. But her emotion is clearly coming from a different place. "Just like I didn't ask for your money, or your pity charity."
"It's not pity—!"
"You surmised that the best way to do what you could for the district was to throw yourself into a bloodbath like some kind of martyr. And they'll all remember you fondly because the beautiful, entitled mayor's son went out to make some deep, philosophical point." She shakes her head. "This is the Games, Farkle. The Capitol doesn't care about your vendetta, and neither does anyone else."
He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't think he has anything he could say to salvage this moment and his intentions.
"For the resident genius, you sure are senseless," she seethes. Then, she composes herself, taking a deep breath and turning to face her mentor instead. "I want nothing to do with my fellow district tribute. If possible, I'd prefer for all our training to be done separately."
"Well that's not exactly how we—,"
"Isadora—," Farkle starts.
She turns her glare on him, shutting him up. She looks him over once last time. "We don't have anything left to say to one another."
Then she turns on her heel, heading calmly back towards the car door with her fists still clenched tightly at her sides. Rachel gives Jack a confused, apologetic look before following after her, leaving them alone again once more.
"I definitely wasn't expecting..." Jack starts, searching for the right words to alleviate the tension in the room. "Sorry about that."
For a second, Jack's hand brushes Farkle's shoulder. Offering sympathy. But he shakes it off before the emotion can really settle in.
"It's fine," Farkle says through grit teeth. "I'd just like a moment alone, if that's acceptable."
Jack backs off amicably, raising his hands in surrender. He heads towards the door. "I'll be waiting in the dining car when you're ready to start strategizing."
Farkle spends a few minutes in silence, letting his mind go quiet by focusing his attention out the window. He makes a game of attempting to focus on trees within the speeding green blur until he starts to feel sick, ambling over to one of the armchairs and collapsing into it.
In the briefest of moments, he feels the same tidal wave of emotions building up from the base of his spine. Only this time, it's not the anger of others. It's his own, and it's distinctly miserable rather than resentful. All at once, all the things he's given up and left behind creep up on him and leave him hollow, wondering if Isadora is right. He's far more senseless than he is bright.
He shuts those feelings down as quickly as they start, forcing his mind to concentrate on something else. Something productive, a puzzle he can solve.
Considering his initial reason for making these decisions has effectively iced him out, he's going to have to formulate a new game plan. He's still going to play for Isadora, that's not changing—but he'll need a new angle. He can't operate on her alone or he'll lose his mind.
Some kind of martyr.
Isadora's accusation haunts him and continues to sting, but he wonders if maybe there's some truth to her statement. He left his district hoping that his bold move would make his father reconsider some things—maybe there's a way for him to continue pushing the envelope. There are far more people who are far more important with far more power in the Capitol, and they'll be forced to watch him for the next indeterminate number of days.
Maybe he can make them reconsider some things too.
Emotion floods him again, but this is a kind he hasn't felt in a long time. He hasn't felt it since he first decided to play Robin Hood and start putting some of those injustices to rest. There's a rush, the feeling of donning that black cloak and playing hero—but there's another feeling there too. Something more honorable, more deserving of martyrdom. The spark of potentially making a difference in a place where it seems absolutely futile.
Hope.
"No physical altercations during training—there will be plenty of time for that in the arena."
Farkle half-listens as the Capitol trainer rattles off a list of rules for them to follow while they're confined to the training room for a set amount of hours for the next week. He notices the empty tone to her voice, bored and uninterested in yet another crop of scrawny, underfed kids from the districts who are going to maul each other to death in a little less than a fortnight.
Just another year of routine.
Rather than paying attention to the extensive and ironic no-violence policy that he's fairly certain is only for the benefit of the Career districts, Farkle takes time to carefully examine the other tributes while they're in such controlled close quarters. They're assembled by district in a large circle—he can practically feel the nervous energy off the girl from 5 next to him.
Isadora is on his other side, but true to her word she's doing an extraordinary job of ignoring him. She pays careful attention to the speaker. Farkle can't help but notice how many of the tributes—including him—tower over her in height. She's always been petite, but this is an entirely new ballpark.
Across the circle, the lithe, Black boy from 6 leans over and whispers something in his partner's ear. She chuckles, tossing her dark curls over her shoulder as she elbows him lightly in the ribs. In some ways, it's reminiscent of Jack and Rachel—a moment of reassurance in a decidedly uncomfortable situation between old friends.
Despite their seemingly cool assurance and ability to kid around with one another, Farkle has a hard time seeing either of them as a threat. They're both middle of the pack size wise, and if he's learned anything in the last few years of watching Games, it's that the jokesters never win. You want them to, you're always rooting for them, but they never do. More than likely, their vibrant personality that caught your attention at the interviews is dead in the ground before the first night is over.
It's unfortunate, looking at a fellow tribute and feeling as though you can see their fate written all over their face. He forces himself to look away.
No, the real threats are always the larger ones. The Goliath from 2 is an obvious danger, with his impressive stature and obvious age advantage. The Careers who get Reaped at eighteen, the last eligible year, are always the ones out for blood. They've trained their entire adolescence, and the only way they're planning to leave the arena is with blood on their hands and a metaphorical victor crown on their head. This guy reeks of it, the vague smile on his face just a little too smug for Farkle's taste.
Although, size isn't always an indicator of strength. The little blonde next to him looks about as threatening, icy blue eyes and pretty smile twisted into a mischievous smirk.
Most of the other kids on the opposite side of the circle aren't too impressive, even the kids from 4 who are supposed to be just as prepared to win as the Careers these days. The guy, a brunette who Farkle suspects is going to get by solely by appealing to his looks, glares at him when they lock eyes.
Aside from the absolutely tiny boy from 12, the only other person who catches his attention is the boy from 10. He's built well, tall with broad shoulders and a healthier physique than most malnourished kids from the districts. It's obvious to Farkle that he's spent plenty of time doing manual labor without much trouble.
Much more than he has, at least.
He's attractive with his sandy hair, green eyes, and tanned complexion. A pretty face if he's ever seen one, but he has to wonder if there's anything underneath. He'll get some favor from sponsors, undoubtedly. He doesn't carry the same malice in his expression as the Careers, but there's something about the melancholy in his expression that makes Farkle wary.
He makes a mental note to avoid the Face from District 10.
Even after they're dismissed for break-out training, Isadora continues to isolate him. She drifts one way and he decides to let her go, heading towards the other end of the facility.
For the first day, he chews his way through all of the practical training elements—camouflage, knot-tying, plant identification. At night, Jack grills him on survival strategies and helps him brainstorm devices he can create regardless of the materials he's given: traps, trip-wires, anything that'll give him a distinct advantage.
"You're from the technology district, you're the resident genius for crying out loud," Jack states as they're drafting schematics in the suite. "This is the greatest advantage you could ever get, and you're going to use it."
It's what he's thinking about during the second day, as most people are shifting their strategies and trying out stations they haven't before. Many of the scrappy kids from the middle districts have finally worked up the courage to approach the weapons stand—too little, too late, Farkle surmises. The best strategy at this point is to stay invisible, and focus on honing his strengths.
He's camped out at the snares station, being more innovative with the materials than he supposes the expert manning the station would like. She continues to shoot him glares, and whenever she offers to guide him back towards the basic snares they've got on display, he ignores her until she gives up.
Otherwise, he keeps his eye on Isadora across the gym, where she's practicing fire-making with a couple of boys from middle districts. They're from 7 and 8, and seem harmless enough. In some cases, Farkle figures her making alliances this early on will be for the best. More easy targets for people to hunt instead of her.
"That doesn't look like a snare," someone comments, drawing his attention away from his fellow tribute. Glancing up with a frown, he locks eyes with a tall, angular Black girl. She's got an impressive array of curls tied back into a bun to keep it out of her face, and a sharp expression as she sneers down at his project.
He casts a quick glance to the number stitched into her sleeve, marking her as the female from 11. He decides she's not a threat.
"That's because it isn't," he replies, focusing his gaze back on the series of wires tied together in front of him. After a moment, he smirks. "Not for animals, anyway."
There's a palpable beat of uncertainty between them as the girl gauges this answer—trying to determine whether he's worth forming a potential friendship with, or if he's just plain crazy. Farkle thinks he's probably a bit of both.
Finally, she drops down to her knees next to him, grabbing some materials and setting to work on her own snare. She glances at the expert, who isn't paying them any attention, before speaking again. "Sounds inventive. Living up to your District creed, then."
"It's the only thing we 3s can count on," he admits. Then, he offers her a hand. "Farkle."
She takes it. "Yindra. Are you looking for allies, or are you locked down with your district?"
Farkle hesitates, casting a glance over towards Isadora. Although he knows they have very different ideas of what alliance they're sharing going into the arena, he decides to go with her version of events. If he wants any chance of making his plan to help her work, he's going to have to keep it under wraps.
"Working alone, currently." He raises his eyebrows. "How about you?"
She nods in the direction of the ropes course. A couple of Careers watch as a tall but scrawny boy with a layer of baby fat still on his cheeks attempts to cross the course. He wiggles his legs frantically, just managing to hold on without falling. A close call. The Careers jeer behind him.
"That one's mine. His name is Dave. He's not the sharpest tool in the shed, but we figure sticking together is smarter than not."
"Have to say I concur," he says, attempting to leave the bitterness out of his tone. "Taking different approaches to the training, I see."
"I'm trying to get an even swath of skills under my belt, lest the terrain kill me rather than one of those Career goons," she says humorlessly, rolling her eyes in their direction. "But Dave's all about trying to buck up and tackle the physical stuff. I think he's trying to do the things that scare him. Because if he faces them now, they won't be so terrifying later. You know?"
Both of them jump as a whistle blows somewhere nearby, and a swarm of staff darts towards the spear station. Farkle sees them tearing the little blonde girl from 2 off another tribute who obviously not-so-delicately hit the ground moments earlier.
"I thought tributes weren't allowed to spar together," Yindra states, watching the chaos dissipate.
When the crowd thins, he recognizes the victim of Blondie's attack as the Face from 10. He looks far more intimidating in the aftermath of a defeat than he did standing in the circle earlier, scowling to himself as he shakes the staff off him and storms away.
If he's picking fights with Careers in the middle of training, Farkle figures he's making the right call to avoid him.
"They aren't," Farkle acknowledges, watching as the girl from 2 backs off with her hands raised in surrender, a sinister smirk on her lips as she heads back towards her pack.
The morning before interviews, Farkle eats quickly in the dining hall and avoids discussion of their training scores.
When Isadora's score of 6 came in, their entire team was thrilled. It's a perfectly acceptable score—it shows the sponsors that you're capable, you're worth backing with a shot of surviving, but the other tributes won't throw too much energy towards your destruction. She can gain notice and fly under the radar simultaneously, which according to Rachel's glee, seems to be exactly what they're going for.
Farkle's score of 11 garnered different results. Stunned joy from most of the team, the usual praise and compliments of his brilliance, in whatever capacity that may be. But Jack's moment of hesitation before he offered congratulations spoke volumes.
He's painted himself as a threat, and they both know it. If the Careers weren't paying him any mind before, they definitely are now.
Thankfully, that's exactly how he wanted it. All targets on his back, none left for Isadora.
He feels the ramifications of it the very next morning, when the petite blonde with the sinister smirk finds her way to his table as he eats alone. She taps her nails on the wood, placing a hand on her hip as she waits for him to meet her eyes.
He does, without offering a greeting. She doesn't seem to be expecting one.
"An 11," she says, before exhaling a breathy laugh. "Gotta say, wasn't expecting that to follow so quickly after us. Maybe from that doughy cowboy from 10, but he choked instead."
He holds her gaze as she leans forward, getting a closer look at him. He has to admit that under different circumstances, in a different world, she'd be someone he'd be interested in getting to know. She's got spunk, and he's always found a bit of fascination in spunk. But it's hard to appreciate how appealing those blue eyes are when they're broadcasting so much malice.
"So how'd you do it, little rich boy. Huh? Did daddy pull some strings and buy you that score?"
Farkle licks his lips, finding it surprisingly easy to maintain his calm. He's skilled at pushing back emotions that aren't beneficial to whatever his current goal is, and he's certain anger is exactly what she wants from him. So he doesn't have any to give to her.
"I don't know. I suppose I don't feel the need to show off all my potential to anyone who's looking." He takes a bite of his oatmeal, chewing it thoughtfully as she absorbs his words. "That's what they teach you in District 2, right? How to be a show pony? Right down to the slaughterhouse."
Although she's having trouble getting a rise out of him, she's easy to rile up. She slams her hands down on the table, anger blazing through her. But what catches his attention more so is the moment of vulnerability he sees flash through her features. "Shut up. You don't know me. You don't know my district."
In the next moment, another Career approaches—the polished girl from 1, Farkle notes—and pulls her back by the arm. "Come on, Maya. He's not worth it. Save it for the arena."
Farkle watches them go, Maya shooting daggers at him with her eyes that he figures may one day soon become real ones. But she revealed far more in that brief interaction than he did. For all her bravado and brutishness, he has to wonder if Maya from District 2 is more broken than she looks.
"Wow, they just slid right off you," an upbeat voice says, before a couple of tributes slide into the seats across from him. The one speaking is Dave, who was dangling from the ropes a couple days earlier. When he's not concentrating so hard, he appears rather cheery. "If you can make that happen in the arena, you may very well survive this thing."
"Trust me, I doubt my luck will run that long."
"That's actually what we wanted to talk to you about," Yindra says, cutting right to the chase rather than humoring the frivolities. He has to appreciate that about her. "We're running out of days to talk under somewhat normal circumstances. I don't know if you have a strategy yet, but you know we're sticking together and we wanted to extend the invitation to you, too."
"Our mentors told us not to make too many friends, but three isn't too much of a crowd, right?" Dave raises his eyebrows. "So what do you say?"
It's a bit strange to Farkle, how easily these kids form friendships and alliances without giving it much thought. Although he didn't go out of his way to make friends, they're here, offering him safety and greater chance of survival by working together. Statistically, the smart thing would be to say yes.
But he has his plans. He's had them since he volunteered to go on the stage. And he can't divert any of his energy into protecting other people when he's got enough of it to dedicate to someone else. He also knows that he can't in good conscience look these two in the eyes—good, well-intentioned people just like him who are offering a truce—and promise them allegiance when he knows, in a moment of crisis, he'd throw them under the bus if necessary.
"I don't think I can make such a proclamation so early on," he says quietly, and even though he's only known them a few days, his chest aches at the falling expressions on their faces. "But let me assure you this—however we cross paths in the arena, it won't make for a bloody ending. If either of you fall, it won't be by my hand." He raises his eyebrow, offering a hand. "Deal?"
Yindra and Dave exchange a look, before reaching out and taking turns to shake his hand. Considering his brutal reputation with his score of 11, they probably think they're making a smart decision.
"Deal."
"May the odds be ever in your favor," Dave says mockingly, but the sentiment behind the words is true. He means them.
Farkle nods, offering a smile as he gets to his feet. As he turns to leave, he finds himself running into someone and nearly knocking them over. He barely manages to grab their arms and stabilize them before they topple to the floor.
"Thank you. Ow, that was—I'm so sorry."
The girl in front of him is bright-eyed and brunette, looking genuinely apologetic for their collision. He recognizes her as the girl from District 9—another mayor's child, only here by fate rather than choice. Even from one look she's one of the sweetest, prettiest girls he's ever met. Part of him feels like, in another life, he would've loved to be her friend.
"Sorry," she says again. She gives him a small smile and grasps his wrist lightly, a warm gesture that feels starkly out of place in the cold, manufactured world of the Capitol. "Thanks."
A second later she's passing him, wandering over to join a couple other tributes at a nearby table. Farkle watches her go, thinking about all the genuinely good-hearted people that have ended up in this Games with him. Honest and well-intentioned, like Yindra and Dave. Sweet-faced and warm, like her.
His lingering look in her direction leaves him thinking there's absolutely no way she's going to make it out of this alive. Her warmth is exactly the kind of heat the Capitol likes to snuff out.
Without looking back, he makes his way out of the dining hall and back towards the suite.
For all intents and purposes, Farkle thinks his interview couldn't have gone better.
His mentors disagree, Jack absolutely bananas over the fact that he was spewing so much questionable content and anti-Capitol rhetoric. Farkle claims he was merely pointing out facts of the reality of life in the districts, and maybe the Capitol residents would like to hear about it. Besides, Caesar was humoring it, so how is he to blame?
Jack leaves him that night frustrated and exhausted with Farkle's seemingly cold resignation to painting as many targets on his back as he can. Although he wishes he could reassure him, he doesn't have anything to offer.
Aside from the political rhetoric, the interview went fine as far as he can tell. He talked about his childhood and his family, and Caesar latched onto the term "resident genius" like a kid in a candy shop. He looked more polished than he ever has, so he figures his father must be proud.
Best of all, Isadora didn't do half-bad at her interview either. He was worried about her, considering her own affinity for avoiding social interaction, but she made it through without any major bumps. She was cool and collected, and projected an air of quiet confidence that Farkle knows must be attractive to some sponsors out there.
If he were a donor, he'd be pouring all her money into her.
It served as a good last minute reminder, too, as to why he's doing this. Why he ended up here in the first place, aside from the politics and the petulance and the games. Because there's something about Isadora Smackle that is really special, worth saving. Worth making sure she can get back to their district and continue sharing it with the world.
He knows he likes to act as though he's the martyr in all of this, but if anybody will actually change the world, it'll be her. Without a fraction of a doubt.
She surprises him yet again with her presence the night before they're set to go into the arena, finding him crouched on the windowsill overlooking the festivities in the city center below. She looks out of sorts in the fancy, lush night clothes of the Capitol, but her glasses are still sitting a tad down her nose so he knows she's the same as she's always been.
She gestures to the sill, at the empty space across from him. "Do you mind?"
"By all means," he says cordially, looking out the window again as she settles in parallel to him. She wraps her arms around her knees, squinting at the bustling party down below them.
"Funny, how they find such merriment in all of this."
"Not so unbelievable," Farkle says with a shrug. He turns to look at her again. "My father was the same way."
He finds himself fixated with how the colors of the city and celebration reflect in her eyes. Bits of color twinkle in the lens of her glasses, which she restlessly pushes back up her nose.
"Are you going to wear those in the arena?"
"Oh, no," she says offhandedly, and he feels a sense of relief that she won't be bogged down with constantly adjusting them throughout the Games. Or worrying that they'll break. "I've been given a corrective procedure so I actually no longer need them. It's silly for me to wear them now, but they're a comfort. Allows me to still feel like me, I suppose."
He can understand that. With the way he was so neatly combed for the interview, it was a bit like coming home when he fussed up his hair in front of the mirror until it fell flatly over his eyebrows again. His hair has never done much, but now he's grateful for it. It feels like him, reliably so.
"I wanted to apologize," she says suddenly, breaking the silence with a light sense of urgency. "For how I behaved on the train. And since then. Shutting you out and everything."
He shrugs. "It's okay. I didn't mind much."
"I did not… I was not sure how to comprehend what had happened. And with being Reaped and all, you volunteering yourself into the gauntlet as well just seemed like cruel punishment." She exhales, obviously trying to find the right words. "I didn't mean any of what I said on the train. Accusing you of playing martyr and all those things."
"Well, I can't say you're entirely wrong," he admits. "There was likely some truth to it all."
"I did notice the rather aggressive content of your interview." She examines him curiously, an expression he's always been fond of in her features. "You do realize uttering such rhetoric isn't going to help your chances, correct? At least confirm that you're saying all these things with an acute awareness of how it may play out against you."
For all her distance and cool façade, it's somewhat pleasing to know that she was thinking of him all this time. Albeit with worry. He offers her a smile. "Yes. I'm aware. It's intentional."
"Good. I'm glad your foolishness is at least premeditated."
He can't help but laugh, nodding to acknowledge the zaniness of his strategy. Once their laughter has died down, he examines her more carefully. "Are you prepared for tomorrow? Alliances sorted?"
"No alliances, quite yet."
"I saw you talking with those boys from 7 and 8 fairly frequently," he notes.
"Oh, Jeff and Nigel," she says thoughtfully. Then, she nods. "Yes, they were very nice. I certainly don't want to write their obituaries, but I'm not sure if they'd be the most strategic people to align with. Kindness doesn't equate survival."
It surprises Farkle how cold and calculating Isadora is, but then he knows he shouldn't find it so shocking. She's a woman of science, and it's only intelligent to find the most efficient and resourceful route to survival. And Isadora Smackle has always been the most intelligent person in his life.
"I don't believe it would be prudent for us to align together either," she says, voice barely above a murmur. Her eyes are downcast to the windowsill between their feet. "There are too many unpredictable factors. Too many irregularities. I would hate for that to distract us and end both our games prematurely."
He knows what she means by irregularities. Emotions. Things neither of them are prepared to deal with. Perhaps if they had both stayed in the district, and grown old together, they would have been able to learn how to deal with them. They could have experimented and explored together, so they weren't so daunting anymore.
But the odds weren't in their favor. So they'll have to adjust.
Farkle reaches forward and gently pushes her glasses back up her nose from where they've predictably slid down a couple centimeters. She raises her eyes to look at him, anxious and uncertain as to what's going to happen next.
"I concur," he says softly, leaning back against the window frame and returning his hands to his knees. "Care to theorize about how these games will turn out?"
"Think I'm better off not," she admits, nerves causing a small tremor in her voice. She wrings her fingers together in her lap. "Putting too much or too little stake in how I predict things will turn out could end up hurting me in the long run. I believe it's smartest to let my chances speak for themselves. I'd rather not hear how unlikely a victory and return home for me will be."
He examines her, wondering if she has any idea how determined he is. How sure he is that no matter what happens to everyone else, she'll be going home. How he's basing his entire strategy around it, and how that fire in her eyes that he saw in Rachel, that Jack sees in him, is going to be what gets her home.
He could assure her all this. Instead, he smirks, shaking his head.
"All that modesty."
The aircraft ride to the arena is virtually silent save for the rumbling of the engines. Even tributes with lots to say, like Dave with his bubbly attitude or Maya with all her cheek, have nothing to add.
They're separated once they land, being sent to different rooms to check in with their mentors one final time before entering the arena. Entering their home for the next few days, however long they last, however dangerous it turns out to be.
Isadora seated across from him in the aircraft is the last time he sees her before the arena. He can't bring himself to look at her when they part ways after they land.
He's gearing himself up for departure when Jack finally enters the room. He's not sure what to expect from him. A berating, potentially. More flack for being such a bullish mentee and wasting his potential as a tribute and a mayor's son. Maybe both.
Once again, he reads the situation wrong. Because Jack surprises him instead with a tight hug, gripping his shoulders and jolting him a bit to shake off the daze.
"Fear gets to you whether you feel it or not," he says wisely, bumping Farkle one more time on the shoulder. "Wish someone had come and given me a quick shake before heading out there when it was my time to go."
"Thanks."
"You're the resident genius," Jack reminds him, examining him critically. "You remember everything we talked about. All those strategies. Who to avoid and who to spare. You remember all your training."
"I do. I will."
Despite the confidence in Farkle's tone, Jack can tell he's not being entirely transparent. That whatever motivation was haunting him back on the train the day of the Reaping is still with him, and no matter how many political controversies he stirs up, he's still here for the same reason with the same mission. Even at the cost of his own survival.
"You know, I think it's good that Rachel and I weren't in the same Games," he says, changing tact and addressing the topic head on.
Farkle raises his eyebrows. "You don't say?"
"Yeah. I mean, we wouldn't have known each other then or anything. But there's something about her. And I have to think that if we had been in the same Games, and I had gotten to know her then, things would've turned out very differently for me." When Farkle doesn't comment, he continues on pointedly. "I think I may have sacrificed my own game for hers. Which, objectively, wouldn't have been a very smart move."
"Sure the viewers would've loved it though," Farkle says sarcastically, smirking slightly and raising his eyebrows. "Nothing more noble a cause than love, is there?"
"I need you to hear me, Farkle," Jack says, gripping his shoulders again. It's tight to the point of pain, but Farkle doesn't shy away. He grits his teeth and meets his eyes so he knows he's listening. "It would have meant sacrificing my game for hers. Regardless of how noble it would be, it wouldn't have been smart. And I wouldn't be here, talking to you."
The overhead speaker crackles, speaking in a pleasantly robotic tone. "30 seconds."
Farkle blinks. "And?"
"Just," Jack starts, losing his momentum and sighing. When he locks eyes with him again, the resolve is underpinned with a bit of resignation of his own. "Don't do anything stupid, Farkle."
"15 seconds."
"Can't, Jack." Farkle manages a smile. "I'm a genius."
Before he can hear another warning call from the speaker, Farkle heads towards the tube with Jack right on his heels. When he steps inside the cylinder and turns to face his mentor, he offers him another brave smile with a hint of an apology. Condolences for not being a better tribute—one he could root for. One he could actually guide to win.
As the tube around him slides shut and he begins his ascent into the ground towards the arena above him, he steels his resolve. Removes all emotions from the equation. The smile melts off his face and all that's left is sheer determination, etched in those features his father so proudly claimed were the features of a winner.
When the cannon sounds and the Games begin, Farkle is certain that only one tribute will be leaving the arena alive.
And if his money is placed right—and with his family, it always is—it won't be him.
A/N: Okay hello again, aside from asking for the usual faves / comments, etc., I also wanted to ask y'all for some opinions on how to continue the story format wise! As you probably figured out, each installment per character has two parts - pre-arena and Games. Would you all want to read them by character (Farkle Pt. & Farkle Pt. 2 in order, for instance) or by part (so all of the pre-arenas at once and then all the Game content)? If you have an opinion, let me know!
Also, check the bonus chapter for the listing of the tributes and other relevant info which may or may not be updated now and then. :)