A/N: I like the idea of a really, really smart tribute, and I feel Foxface has so much unexplored potential. I wish I could promise this will turn into something longer, but for now you'll have to enjoy it as it.
When I was old enough to understand abstract ideas, my father told me there were three types of power in the world: individual, group, and universal.
"Everyone, not matter how big or small they are, has their brain to utilize to its fullest potential, little Red. Everyone is humbled before power of physics, and in our common sense we bow before the power of a larger group, but all people have the power of their minds; no one can ever master your thoughts. And it is with your thoughts that you master both physics and others."
I was six years old, and I had just received my first lesson in surviving the Hunger Games. District Five's status was always a riddle to me; one I'd spend hours trying to unravel while trawling through my father's secret library of 'subversive' literature. A lot of dead men and their failings, mostly. A president who didn't act quickly enough; the idealistic cult of personality that went just a little too far. I was told that the riddles of the present were hidden in the secrets of the past, so I wasted time that would have been better spent learning the powers of physics, electricity, and fusion with my father in his laboratory, or psychology and economics with my mother as she performed economic alchemy between the City and surrounding slums.
When I turned nine, my father developed an even greater obsession with my education, if such a thing were possible. Gone were the trips to his laboratory, to the turbines and generators and power plants that I had gawked at, and then studied during my formative years. Now it was biology and physiology, brain teasers and abstract problem solving sets that had to be solved within constantly shortening time limits. He surrendered me to my mother more often, encouraging me to learn, and then take over her door-to-door trading and redistributing business. At nine years old, I turned my aspirations from mere scientific mastery to the pursuit of power as a whole. I didn't have to be merely Doctor Larkin, greatest scientist of the age; I wanted to be, I could be, Minister of Development, Finance. I didn't have to be Mayor, I could be a Game Maker, maybe even President, given time. No problem or person existed that I couldn't solve, outmaneuver or out think.
Except for the Hunger Games themselves; they were the one factor I couldn't control for, couldn't manipulate.
And it would ruin everything if I was reaped. Even, if by some improbable circumstance I was the last one standing, it would be the death of my ambitions. Beneath the pageantry and the honor and the wealth, the Victors were utterly powerless. There were no Victors on the President's council, none held public office of any kind. They might be given space to wield figurehead powers, as an extension of the Capitol, but only by the blessing of those with real might. That anyone thinks President Snow was the Victor of the First Games is a tribute to his propaganda machine; there are records hidden away in a collection I wasn't supposed to know about, much less have read, that date his birth twenty-eight years prior to the First Game. I suspect he was the first Game Maker, possibly even a Senator from the Dark Days. To climb to the height of greatness, I needed the freedom to have and wield power; I could never hope for that as a Victor.
I knew the statistics every year I was eligible for reaping. The District Five had a population of approximately 9,850 children; 4,925 other names in the big crystal bowl that held my name. Given the relative population of the slum to town population ratio, I felt it was safe to assume that 70% of those 4,925 would add their names for tesserae at least once and many more than once. Without any formal census data, I had to guess that the total number of slips in the bowl with my name up around 9,000, and that's before you take into account the multiplicities that come with age. Safe to say, the odds were in my favor, at approximately 1:40,000. A long shot, statistically unlikely, but not impossible.
For three years that knowledge was the only comfort I needed on Reaping Day, standing in the crowd of people, small and helpless in the face of two giant crystal tubs. I didn't need hope or faith; I had mathematics working to keep me home, and safe, and free. And then one day, two weeks after I turned fifteen, the dice rolled and one of my four slips was drawn.
The film reminding us of the supposed origins of the Hunger Games has been shown, the speeches have been given, and the District Five escort steps up to the microphone, offering five thousand potential sacrifices empty words of cheer. What a waste of effort.
My name rang out through the silent crowd. Two small words take long seconds to register, but people have turned to stare long before I've absorbed the reality of my situation. My father used to tease me that everyone had a 50% chance of being chosen: either you were, or you weren't. For as long as I lacked the facilities to explain why that was not the case, it made me angry. It made me angry again as I stepped into the aisle, surrounded by the crisp white uniforms of the Peacekeepers. Have they ever had to force someone to the dais? I've never seen it happen; it's hard to think that anyone could be so stupidly desperate, so assured that they could evade these powerful healthy men and women with their batons and their rifles. Have they ever shot an escaping tribute? Did that mean the escort had to select another? Curiosity is my only shelter from the maelstrom of fear and rage, and I'm not ready for the rest of Panem to see what I feel just yet. This will be the others' first look at me, and I want them to see nothing. So I stared out over the crowd, figuring prime numbers as a male tribute was selected, and we were escorted away.
The Justice Building was cool and dark and mercifully quiet after the Town Square. I sank into the carpets when I walked, into the chairs when I sat. But it was empty luxury, another holding pen to contain us while we said farewell one final time. My mother was already in mourning when the Peacekeepers let my parents in. Speaking was past her capacity, she said goodbye with her fingers: stroking my hair, squeezing my shoulder, pressing my hand to her wet cheek. There was a light burning in my father that I had never seen before, and for the first time he had words enough for the both of them.
"You can do this, girl. You're smarter than all the rest of them put together. I don't care what you have to do, just come home. My genius little Red." He smiles, kissing my forehead. "Remember what you've learned; remember Johanna. This shouldn't even slow you down."