title: forgotten
summary: the world blurred around her, and she couldn't feel her feet or legs or hands or heart. / foxface
a/n: for my darling misty, i am sorry i didn't write the prompt as the song, but here's a hopefully okay fic to make up for that. school sucks but here's to kick it off.
[ and please review this! ]
prompts: heathens [ word ] monster [ vivid challenge ]
[ foxface ]
The odds weren't in her favor, they never were and they never will be.
[ act one ]
It began with a crushing silence as pale fingers riffled through slips of paper as fragile as butterfly wings, flirting from slip to slip with ease, as if it didn't matter; as if it wasn't a death sentence.
She held her breath with the rest of the world, waiting for the fingers to choose one and hoping that the one wasn't hers, waiting and hoping and hoping and waiting. Thoughts streamed through her head, a mixture of prayers and odds and hopes and fears.
Oh please not mine. Please not mine. Mom and Dad need me, they need me, I deserve to live. I only took out three rations, that's less than a one percent chance. Please, please, please not me. I want to find efficient ways of solar power. I want a future. Please not me.
The thoughts flooded the silence around her, blaring from her head like the a gong, drowning out her heart beat, drowning out the fingers brushing paper.
But the pale lady suddenly plucked a thin slip, pulling it out of the bowl, and she unfurled it to read the condemned soul's name.
The plush velvet matched her hair. It also matched her mother's hair that sprawled on it, fading into the cloth so she couldn't tell where it began or ended through her tears.
"Dearie," her mother sobbed. "We love you, you know that. We will always remember you, even if–"
The last words remained unspoken, hanging in the hair like heat on a summer's day, and her mother burst into a fresh round of tears.
"Promise me you'll come back," her mother begged, eyes wide with false hope and terror of losing her only child. "Promise me you'll find a way. Please. Please."
The girl opened her mouth, trying to promise a victory, but she couldn't. The odds weren't in her favor, and odds, like data, were trusted. "I– I– can't." She sobbed. "Mom, I just can't. It's not a promise if it'll be broken."
Her mother sobbed more, tears staining the velvet that matched her hair, unable to speak, just hug her daughter closer and tighter for one last time.
"You have hope," Her mentor, Emma, commented. "You have good brains, an observant look. You're quiet and private and maybe even calculating. Not big or strong, but light and maybe even agile."
From her over-stuffed armchair, the girl gaped at Emma.
"Oh, don't look at me like that," Emma waved her hand away. "That's how I won, I read people like an open book."
They were sitting around a small table in the most lavish place she'd ever seen. Tapestries adorned the walls, bowls bursting with fruit popped up from corners, and plush carpet thicker than snow lay beneath her feet. It was an awful lot of money to throw away on corpses, she couldn't help but thinking.
"You could win, maybe. But I'm not going to lie to you, you have slim odds. Even slimmer with this year's volunteer," Emma gestured to the enormous television where people commented on this year's crop of tributes. They glazed over her, unlike the oh-so-noble volunteer from Twelve. "I know!" Emma snapped her fingers, pulling her from her thoughts. "You could be forgettable."
She felt a stab of anger at this remark, she had worked all of her years to being better than everyone, to get the best job assignments and the best mentors and best test scores and best grades. She toiled and fought so she wouldn't be forgotten in the sea of geniuses and lost in her changing mind. Her eye shifted to the ground as she bit her lip.
Running a pale hand through her hair, Emma hastily added on, "I don't mean it in a bad way. Just think, if people forget about you, they'll under estimate you and won't target you. You'll fade off into the shadows until the field narrows down. Is that your angle?"
The girl chewed on her lip, trying to shove the anger and worry that leaped into her throat. If she tried the forgotten angle, she would live longer. But being in the final tributes meant a death by weapons and blood, a painful death and wide eyes and an empty stomach. But, a small voice at the back of her head chirped, less people means greater odds.
She nodded.
That's when the small, quiet girl from District Five, who cried and dreamed and aimed high, changed into mysterious Foxface, the girl with calculating eyes and mute lips.
Squish. She flinched as a spear impaled a dummy, tearing it apart, and she pictured that spear tearing through her. She shuddered and pushed the fear that clawed at her heart away. Focus.
Several plants lay before her, and the trainer clicked his tongue, the signal to begin. She picked up a leafy plant and smelled it, a sharp and sweet smell wafted to her nose. Mint, she thought and slid the mint into the "edible" pile.
She then picked up the next plant, touching its smooth stem and rounded top. A mushroom, she chewed her lip. Mushrooms can be highly poisonous or a rewarding find, just like people. Snapping the stem to look inside, she saw none of tattletale signs of poison and reluctantly slid it into the "edible" pile.
She fell into a motion: pick up, look, smell, touch, sort. Her lip bled from her teeth nibbling on it, but she brushed past the pain, letting the names and smells wash over her. Blueberries, lichen, yew, foxglove, watercress, marigold. The plants flew by her as she sorted them with deft fingers, a monotonous air settling like the ones at work, like the physics problems on a test or the routine checkups on the solar pannels. Homesickness stabbed at her side like a knife, but she shoved that away like the anger and fear and sadness and hope.
The trainer smiled as she set down the final plant into the inedible pile, the buzz of training settling back into her ears. "You have a talent for this, you know that right?"
She smiled, her eyes lighting up at the praise. She thrived off of validation, something she didn't receive enough. Though she then bit down on her smile, remembering to not show emotion, and slowly nodded.
The trainer inspected the piles, smile growing with each correct plant, but it soon faded as he plucked two berries from the "edible" pile. He sighed. "Do you know what these are?"
She shook her head while chewing her lip. "Blueberries?"
"No." his expression grew grave. "This is nightlock, so poisonous it will kill you before it reaches your stomach. Fear it."
The girl narrowed her eyes, focusing on the nightlock, memorizing every detail for it intrigued her, something so innocent but deadly. This is a dangerous plant, she thought. This nightlock.
Tanned fingers ran through her hair, smoothing it down. "Make yourself forgettable," Emma said, reminding her of her angle. "Simple answers, the answers they want to hear."
She nodded and tilted her head back, letting a waterfall of fire curls run down her back. "They'll forget me," she said quietly, the words tasted foreign on her tongue, it was days since she last spoke.
And they will, between the vixen from One who batted her eyelashes and swung her wide hips and the monster from Two that bared his teeth and threatened to kill everyone and the ten-or-so other boring tributes, the Capitol won't remember the bright-eyed little fox who spoke too little and played her role. They'll forget about me.
Her mentor smiled. "Break a leg."
She walked onto the staged. The lights glared at her like hundreds of suns and the cheers were much too loud, they amplified inside her head, echoing over and over and over, and the smiles too harsh, like wolves smiling at a lamb, and the floor too shinny and the dress too short and the colors too vivid and the world spun around her, and she just wanted to curl up in the corner, away from the cameras and people and lights.
Focus, her mind screamed above the clamor, and she white knuckles griped the back of the chair, grounding her. If you pass out now, they'll remember you, the Capitol and tributes.
"And now let's have a warm welcome for our amazing District Five Tribute!"
She smiled, the first move in her script. They'll forget me.
She was not ready. She would never be ready, even if she had years of training and mountains of luck and lines of sponsors. She just wasn't.
"Ready?" her stylish played with her red hair, drawling the words she must've said plenty of times before.
She wanted to shake her head and scream to the world that she wasn't ready, she never would be, but she bit her tongue until she tasted blood and nodded. Another lie thrown on top of the mountain of lies she'd said before.
"Good luck, and may be odds be ever in your favor." The stylish smiled, to her it was just television. It wasn't a soul going to die for her entertainment, it was just a silly little District child not important enough worth her pity.
The girl bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from screaming. No, the odds aren't in my favor, don't you care? They're in no one's favor! But even if she screamed loud enough for the president to hear, he wouldn't care, no one would one.
She was just a silly little District child dragged off to war for another person's sins who wasn't ready to die. She was nobody, just an unnamed tribute in an annual game to be shipped home to a crying family. They'll forget her.
[ act two ]
Run.
Tress blurred behind her and her lungs burned and her feet ached and her ragged breaths came out in short gasps and grasses whipped her feet. But she kept running and running and running, even when the cannons boomed louder and louder and the brambles torn at her ankles and her heart beat faster than the speed of light.
Faster.
Tears stung her eyes and sweat rolled down her forehead, mixing with the tears. But she kept running.
The farther away you are, the less likely you'll see Careers.
The world blurred around her, and she couldn't feel her feet or legs or hands or heart. But she kept urging her legs forward, screaming at them to keep moving.
Thump. She hit something hard, a rock or tree or bush, she didn't know, and as she looked up, her stomach leaped into her throat. Wide, gray eyes stared at her, the volunteer from Twelve.
She swallowed a scream and peered at the girl with wide eyes, fear paralyzing her. She could kill me; she got an eleven… run, RUN you idiot! But she her feet were glued to the ground by some unnatural force.
The girl, Katniss, glared at her but didn't make any move to attack. They sized each other up with eyes wide with fear, but no one dared to make a move. They were too timid, too used to being the prey than predator, to strike.
But then the volunteer flew away into the forest like a mockingjay, and her gaze couldn't help but follow, gaping as brown hair fades into the forest.
The days ran through her fingers like water, and she couldn't quite catch them even as she hauled sticks to make traps and slipped out of tribute's sights and gathered berries and nuts and leaves and longed for her emotional mother and stoic father.
And prayed . Each day as the sun rose she would pray to some unknown god who probably radiated apathy to the world and wouldn't care if a small, fox-faced girl died. But she still prayed, even if she didn't believe gods, even if no gods watched from their thrones.
And the girl danced up the tree, settling herself into a fork in the branches, and stared out into the sunrise. It wasn't an authentic one, the colors were too saturated. The reds so deep it would bleed like blood, the oranges matched a neon sign, the yellows unlike a young dandelion, pale and fragile, and more like lemon, harsh and vivid, and the purples, her favorite part of the sunrise, were a deep purple of a healing bruise.
This sunrise promised death and blood instead of a new day and life.
But still the girl opened her wide eyes and looked toward the sky, hopefully toward a god, and whispered with chapped lips and a croaky voice, "Let me live, please.I don't care how. Just don't let me die."
And even though her mentor warned her of emotions, she couldn't muster up the courage to extinguish the tiny spark of hope that burst in her heart. And as the days ran through her fingers like water, more cannons rang out, each bringing her one step closer to her.
The girl smiled hopefully from her tree, maybe they'll remember me.
Cold metal pressed into her back, and she could hear her heat beating faster and faster with each passing second. She was trapped in the Cornucopia, waiting for the feast to begin, but two unaware monsters prowled outside the metal walls and any moment they could find her.
But the sun began to peek through the dense trees, illuminating the Arena's Feast, or lack of one. The Cornucopia was bare except for the weapons that lined the shelves and herself, and there was no food insight, just an empty expanse of grass.
Please, the girl called out to the Capitol, start the feast.
As if the Gamemakers heard her silent pleads, a table rose to fill the empty expanse of grass, packs numbered with Districts lined it. Her eyes immediately focused on the bright Five etched on a small pack, and she flew towards it, running faster and faster. Hopefully, the monsters prowling outside would rather hunt down the volunteer than a sly little fox, and she would have her share of the feast.
But a steady thump of boots sounded from behind her, one of the monsters was hunting her. Her stomach leaped into her throat as she glanced behind her to see a hulking beast chasing her, Cato.
Faster! Her mind screamed at her body. Fasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfaster. Ferns tore at her legs and branches slapped her face as she ran towards her tree.
Please don't let him catch me, she pleaded in her mind. Please.
Her side burned from running but the pounding footsteps only grew louder, and she could almost hear the monster's short breaths over her pounding heart. He was really close.
"Cato!" A voice screamed. "Cato! Cato!"
She scrambled up a tree as the monster looked in the direction of the voice, his actions screaming uncertainty. He looked back at her one last time, rage and worry bubbling in his eyes.
"Just this time, Five. But don't get comfortable. I'll be back," He yelled. "Don't think I've forgotten about you."
It didn't end with trumpets blaring and a long, bloody fight or weapons clashing in the hot sun and a soft squish of an impaled heart, it didn't even end with a terrible scream as mutts ate her alive.
It ended with pale fingers stroking dark berries and a shaking breath before swallowing them.
She walked toward the pile of berries haphazardly piled near the river. Nightlock, a smile split across her face. A painless death.
The girl plucked a few from the pile and slipped back into the forest, quietly as she had come. A painless death, her mind started. A lot less painful than being stabbed by Cato's spear or shot Katniss's arrows. But the odds… no, there's very little chance. The Capitol is split between Cato and the Lovers, no one would sponsor you in the right mind…
Her steps faltered. "You're saying I should eat this?" She said to no one, but everyone, the forest and Capitol and Districts, listened. She examined the berry, it's dark blue skin stretched over pale white innards, deadly, white innards. She nodded her head. This is the best way, a painless death, a easy way to go.
"They're not killing me." She chuckled as the revelation dawned on her. "I'm killing me. They may control this arena but they can't control me." Her eyes shone as the chuckles bleed into full-blown laughter.
But the laughter died when it finally stuck her what she was doing, killing herself. Pale fingers raised dark berries to her lips, and the girl peered into the world one last time. "Mom, Dad," she croaked. "I love you."
The berries burst into her mouth, sweeter than sugar but with a bitter edge, and she swallowed, letting the juices run down her throat before she collapsed into a heap of limbs in the grass.
The cannon boomed.