fic: the underdog
this might have a sequel? IDK, it depends how my revision is going when the mood strikes. erm..this vaguely compliments farsighted? if foxface/thresh is your bag, i suppose. anyway, enjoy.
the underdog
thg, foxface. 1435 words. pg-13
her flaming hair does not burn bright enough.
i want to be something so much worthier than the doll in the doll's house.
charles dickens ; our mutual friend
the wasted years, the wasted youth
the pretty lies, the ugly truth
the day has come where I have died
only to find I’ve come alive
marina + the diamonds ; teen idle
When her name is called she almost doesn’t recognise it. And not in the clichéd way you’d think.
Her mother’s not even trying to hold it together, and she can tell her father’s grasping at what remains of his dignity. She feels oddly numb when they hug her, kiss her, tell her she’s beautiful.
‘You’ll be back before you know it.’ Her father half-smiles when the peacekeepers escort them out. She bites back the caustic remark about bodybags and wooden boxes forming on her tongue.
No-one else comes to say goodbye.
Her escort has a ridiculous accent, and there’s only so long she can avoid her for. The train is smaller than it first seemed.
Knuckles rattle across her door. ‘Come and have some supper, dear. The food really is delectable.’ She can see the painted lips curling around the word, the surprised expression that accompanies it and for the first time, she feels a bit sick.
She rubs her eyes. ‘I’ll be there in a bit.’
‘Well, don’t be too long. Your mentor would like to speak to you both.’
Both. She had almost forgotten her partner, a tiny bespectacled boy. She’s seen enough in the last sixteen years to know that he’s mincemeat.
It takes a couple of moments for her to realise she is too.
Her dinner does not stay down, that evening.
It’s late when she leaves her room, vaguely in search of some food. Her mentor’s still awake, and it’s clear she’s not the only one who hasn’t been sleeping well. He sits slumped on the sofa, half-naked. His voice is slurred and when he looks at her his eyes don’t focus. ‘What can I do for you?’
A shrug. She’s trying too hard not to care about this whole charade. So far, it’s not going well. ‘A drink?’
‘You’re too young.’ He guffaws, sounding older than he is. His forehead is lined but she finds it hard to place him at anything above forty.
‘Try everything once.’ She says, settling herself next to him. The sofa’s not quite wide enough and her thigh presses against his, ‘I’m kind of running out of time.’
This raises a grin. ‘Well you’re quite something, aren’t you?’ Her mentor says, sliding the grubby bottle in her direction. It threatens to spill onto the carpet, but she catches it quick enough.
The liquor is harsh in her mouth. It burns her throat on its way down, and she fights the urge to cough. ‘Thanks.’ She says, hoarse, thrusting the bottle back into his grasp. Her eyes are watering.
‘Anytime, darling.’ He says, and a smile breaks over her face.
He considers her a moment. ‘You should smile more. Suits you.’ He reaches up, tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
She ignores the tenderness with another shrug. ‘Happiness is a little thin on the ground here.’
‘Who said anything about happiness?’ He shoots back, loses the irony in the alcohol.
So she smiles until her cheeks burn and he falls asleep, cooing her name. She gets the feeling this is what people would call inappropriate, but it’s the least she can do. Really.
The sun reflects off the breakfast table a little too brightly. She’s feeling faintly sick again.
She’s halfway through her cereal before she realises her district partner’s missing. ‘Where’s- ’ she begins, but their escort cuts her off.
‘He’s not feeling very well.’ Her accent is still ridiculous.
She glances at her mentor and she could swear there’s a smirk forming. She avoids his eye. Her fingers knot in her lap. The cereal is forgotten. ‘That’s a shame.’ She takes care to measure her voice. ‘Sponsors watch training closely, don’t they?’
‘Can’t be helped.’ Her escort replies, too brusquely. She doesn’t go for the Capitol style as much as some of the others, but her nose is still a touch too small to be natural. She can’t read the emotion when the other woman turns to her. ‘Go and get ready, then. They won’t wait for you.’
It takes about thirty seconds for her to decide she hates training. Her hands reach for her hair, the old reflex.
The guy running the edible plants section seems to like her. When he smiles at her, he flashes teeth. She lets herself smile back. You can’t win if you can’t survive, the old man says. His sneer is directed at the careers and she thinks he might be onto something there. Her eyes flick to the games-makers. Seneca Crane is watching her intently.
She nods along.
At dinner, the bile rises in her throat. ‘How do the interviews work, then?’ She says, and hopes her voice isn’t wobbling too much. She tries hard not to dwell on the fact this is her last supper. It seems too biblical, and she’s not sure how.
Their escort explains the process slowly, and she tries her best to appear interested. Her mentor just stares at his plate. His fork scratches against the china. She ignores him.
‘So,’ her voice is forced, ‘tonight is when the majority of bets are placed?’
The other woman nods, ‘This is your chance to sell yourself.’
‘I never was any good at that.’ She says, quiet, and her mentor finally has the decency to tear his unsteady gaze away from the plate of pasta. Her life is suddenly very finite and he won’t even fucking look at her.
To think, she always used to laugh at the girls competing for attention.
Caesar Flickerman is a nice man. He laughs at all her rehearsed jokes and when his hand flutters across her knee she almost feels wanted. Modesty and decorum, she reminds herself, just try and be yourself.
The crowds warm, but not rapturous. Her flaming hair does not burn bright enough, it would seem.
It’s long gone midnight when her mentor stumbles into the sitting room. He’s drunk, she can tell, though he doesn’t seem that surprised when he sees her. ‘You should be in bed.’
‘I’m not going to win, am I?’ In her head, she had sounded dignified. Brave. But her bottom lip wobbles and it is nothing of the sort.
‘Let’s try for some optimism, darling. Sponsors love it.’ She glares at him through the beginnings of tears and his face falls. ‘No. In my expert opinion - no.’
‘So,’ She takes a deep, shuddering breath and makes the effort to sit up a little straighter. ‘What’s the best way to die, in your expert opinion?’
‘Darling, I -’
‘Will you just do your job, for once in your life?’ Her voice hitches on the word. She never was any good at sounding angry.
There is a silence as he slumps onto the sofa next to her. He is not looking her in the eye and she’s actually rather glad about it. ‘Avoid the careers. No-one bothered to teach them any manners, so they like to play with their food a while before they eat it. The boy from eleven -’
‘Thresh.’ She corrects, automatically.
‘ -whatever. He’ll break your neck, won’t hurt for a second. Besides that, the girl on fire’s probably your best bet if you want to make the evening highlights.’ She must look hurt, because his arm wraps around her to pull her into an awkward hug. ‘You’re smart, you know. Smarter than you think. You won’t win, I don’t think, but you’ll get close.’ She knows he’s just trying to make her feel better, but she shifts into him all the same. ‘The thing to remember, darling, is that it’s the hunger games. Anything can happen.’
She picks the raisins out of her cereal. Her hands fiddle with her hair. The red contrasts with the white of her knuckles, and she’ll never admit to being nervous but this is the morning of the end of her life, ok, so cut her some slack. Her mentor’s strangely nonchalant, when he tells her it’s time to go, darling. She’d just thought she had the measure of him, as well. Fucking typical.
It’s a well-trodden route down to the hovercraft. She understands that this is to be her eulogy, if only for his benefit. She stays silent.
He’s not looking at her again, and it dawns on her for the first time that’s she only one in a list of many. There’s a solace in that, some peace that perhaps this isn’t the first time someone’s stood here and watched his heart break. Still, it hurts all the same when he leans in to kiss her forehead.
‘Show them how it’s done, little fox.’
end.
the underdog
thg, foxface. 1435 words. pg-13
her flaming hair does not burn bright enough.
i want to be something so much worthier than the doll in the doll's house.
charles dickens ; our mutual friend
the wasted years, the wasted youth
the pretty lies, the ugly truth
the day has come where I have died
only to find I’ve come alive
marina + the diamonds ; teen idle
When her name is called she almost doesn’t recognise it. And not in the clichéd way you’d think.
Her mother’s not even trying to hold it together, and she can tell her father’s grasping at what remains of his dignity. She feels oddly numb when they hug her, kiss her, tell her she’s beautiful.
‘You’ll be back before you know it.’ Her father half-smiles when the peacekeepers escort them out. She bites back the caustic remark about bodybags and wooden boxes forming on her tongue.
No-one else comes to say goodbye.
Her escort has a ridiculous accent, and there’s only so long she can avoid her for. The train is smaller than it first seemed.
Knuckles rattle across her door. ‘Come and have some supper, dear. The food really is delectable.’ She can see the painted lips curling around the word, the surprised expression that accompanies it and for the first time, she feels a bit sick.
She rubs her eyes. ‘I’ll be there in a bit.’
‘Well, don’t be too long. Your mentor would like to speak to you both.’
Both. She had almost forgotten her partner, a tiny bespectacled boy. She’s seen enough in the last sixteen years to know that he’s mincemeat.
It takes a couple of moments for her to realise she is too.
Her dinner does not stay down, that evening.
It’s late when she leaves her room, vaguely in search of some food. Her mentor’s still awake, and it’s clear she’s not the only one who hasn’t been sleeping well. He sits slumped on the sofa, half-naked. His voice is slurred and when he looks at her his eyes don’t focus. ‘What can I do for you?’
A shrug. She’s trying too hard not to care about this whole charade. So far, it’s not going well. ‘A drink?’
‘You’re too young.’ He guffaws, sounding older than he is. His forehead is lined but she finds it hard to place him at anything above forty.
‘Try everything once.’ She says, settling herself next to him. The sofa’s not quite wide enough and her thigh presses against his, ‘I’m kind of running out of time.’
This raises a grin. ‘Well you’re quite something, aren’t you?’ Her mentor says, sliding the grubby bottle in her direction. It threatens to spill onto the carpet, but she catches it quick enough.
The liquor is harsh in her mouth. It burns her throat on its way down, and she fights the urge to cough. ‘Thanks.’ She says, hoarse, thrusting the bottle back into his grasp. Her eyes are watering.
‘Anytime, darling.’ He says, and a smile breaks over her face.
He considers her a moment. ‘You should smile more. Suits you.’ He reaches up, tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
She ignores the tenderness with another shrug. ‘Happiness is a little thin on the ground here.’
‘Who said anything about happiness?’ He shoots back, loses the irony in the alcohol.
So she smiles until her cheeks burn and he falls asleep, cooing her name. She gets the feeling this is what people would call inappropriate, but it’s the least she can do. Really.
The sun reflects off the breakfast table a little too brightly. She’s feeling faintly sick again.
She’s halfway through her cereal before she realises her district partner’s missing. ‘Where’s- ’ she begins, but their escort cuts her off.
‘He’s not feeling very well.’ Her accent is still ridiculous.
She glances at her mentor and she could swear there’s a smirk forming. She avoids his eye. Her fingers knot in her lap. The cereal is forgotten. ‘That’s a shame.’ She takes care to measure her voice. ‘Sponsors watch training closely, don’t they?’
‘Can’t be helped.’ Her escort replies, too brusquely. She doesn’t go for the Capitol style as much as some of the others, but her nose is still a touch too small to be natural. She can’t read the emotion when the other woman turns to her. ‘Go and get ready, then. They won’t wait for you.’
It takes about thirty seconds for her to decide she hates training. Her hands reach for her hair, the old reflex.
The guy running the edible plants section seems to like her. When he smiles at her, he flashes teeth. She lets herself smile back. You can’t win if you can’t survive, the old man says. His sneer is directed at the careers and she thinks he might be onto something there. Her eyes flick to the games-makers. Seneca Crane is watching her intently.
She nods along.
At dinner, the bile rises in her throat. ‘How do the interviews work, then?’ She says, and hopes her voice isn’t wobbling too much. She tries hard not to dwell on the fact this is her last supper. It seems too biblical, and she’s not sure how.
Their escort explains the process slowly, and she tries her best to appear interested. Her mentor just stares at his plate. His fork scratches against the china. She ignores him.
‘So,’ her voice is forced, ‘tonight is when the majority of bets are placed?’
The other woman nods, ‘This is your chance to sell yourself.’
‘I never was any good at that.’ She says, quiet, and her mentor finally has the decency to tear his unsteady gaze away from the plate of pasta. Her life is suddenly very finite and he won’t even fucking look at her.
To think, she always used to laugh at the girls competing for attention.
Caesar Flickerman is a nice man. He laughs at all her rehearsed jokes and when his hand flutters across her knee she almost feels wanted. Modesty and decorum, she reminds herself, just try and be yourself.
The crowds warm, but not rapturous. Her flaming hair does not burn bright enough, it would seem.
It’s long gone midnight when her mentor stumbles into the sitting room. He’s drunk, she can tell, though he doesn’t seem that surprised when he sees her. ‘You should be in bed.’
‘I’m not going to win, am I?’ In her head, she had sounded dignified. Brave. But her bottom lip wobbles and it is nothing of the sort.
‘Let’s try for some optimism, darling. Sponsors love it.’ She glares at him through the beginnings of tears and his face falls. ‘No. In my expert opinion - no.’
‘So,’ She takes a deep, shuddering breath and makes the effort to sit up a little straighter. ‘What’s the best way to die, in your expert opinion?’
‘Darling, I -’
‘Will you just do your job, for once in your life?’ Her voice hitches on the word. She never was any good at sounding angry.
There is a silence as he slumps onto the sofa next to her. He is not looking her in the eye and she’s actually rather glad about it. ‘Avoid the careers. No-one bothered to teach them any manners, so they like to play with their food a while before they eat it. The boy from eleven -’
‘Thresh.’ She corrects, automatically.
‘ -whatever. He’ll break your neck, won’t hurt for a second. Besides that, the girl on fire’s probably your best bet if you want to make the evening highlights.’ She must look hurt, because his arm wraps around her to pull her into an awkward hug. ‘You’re smart, you know. Smarter than you think. You won’t win, I don’t think, but you’ll get close.’ She knows he’s just trying to make her feel better, but she shifts into him all the same. ‘The thing to remember, darling, is that it’s the hunger games. Anything can happen.’
She picks the raisins out of her cereal. Her hands fiddle with her hair. The red contrasts with the white of her knuckles, and she’ll never admit to being nervous but this is the morning of the end of her life, ok, so cut her some slack. Her mentor’s strangely nonchalant, when he tells her it’s time to go, darling. She’d just thought she had the measure of him, as well. Fucking typical.
It’s a well-trodden route down to the hovercraft. She understands that this is to be her eulogy, if only for his benefit. She stays silent.
He’s not looking at her again, and it dawns on her for the first time that’s she only one in a list of many. There’s a solace in that, some peace that perhaps this isn’t the first time someone’s stood here and watched his heart break. Still, it hurts all the same when he leans in to kiss her forehead.
‘Show them how it’s done, little fox.’
end.