#➤ 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚔 ┊ thomas & francis ➷ (𝟎𝟎𝟏.)

[flownintothesun]

            ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── a closed starter for @threecardtrick .

       𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐄 𝐖𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐀 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐄 𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐑. That is the knowledge that his grandfather wishes him to carry with him. It’s a wasted lesson, and wasted time. Despite the fact that he’s been watching the games for weeks now, his outlook on the circumstances has not changed. It is, however, curious, that the tapes from the tenth games have gone missing. Were he to ask, he’d be given an excuse that could pass for an answer — because Francis knows the whole truth (or, he’s learning) — he would be wrong to underestimate anyone.

     Every part of the closed fist his grandfather strangles both Capitol and districts with is based on one thing, and one alone: fear. Us versus them. The Capitol fears what it doesn’t know — these nameless heathens. The districts fear the Capitol, because its face is his grandfather’s — and, of course, because of the games. Victors are left alive to be shown clemency, but treated as zoo animals afterward — among them, but never a part of them. Everyone at a distance. Peace is about control. Too much exertion becomes pressure. Under too much pressure, everything snaps.

     “You’re from District Ten,” he says, without looking up. “You won your games because people underestimated your capabilities.” Thomas had slipped into the picture while no one was looking, too focused on those with the higher numbers. The games won’t start for a few weeks — the tributes haven’t even been reaped yet. He assumes that the arena is mostly built based on what will give a good show, based on the tributes’ strengths and weaknesses. This room will transform into a hub of game activity by then — and no one will be able to look away. “I suppose in a way, you’re still in the games.” They always are. They’re told if they win, that they get to live in peace. But his grandfather always finds a way to keep the punishments going, no one ever really wins the games. “Does it keep you up at night? The lives that you inevitably destroy?”

[flownintothesun]

     𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐄 that he is steeped in due to the very luck and nature of his birth. When his sister Cassia was born it had been celebrated through all of Panem. He remembers the little white suit he’d worn, and waving to the citizens of the Capitol — every bit the modern day prince, even when he’d just been a boy. He imagines there was the same amount of fanfare in regards to his own birth. He’s a Snow, after all. He’s a celebrity just as much as the victors are — and they all have their roles to play. He listens to Thomas as he speaks, and it’s scripted — but what more does he expect, and moreover, how is he to tell the truth from a lie? It’s all a masquerade — each of them unable to say how they truly feel, they instead exist like dolls — moved around by his grandfather’s hand with their scripted lines and lack of anything substantial.

      Most people would be surprised to learn that Francis is not his grandfather’s mouthpiece, nor is he the key to Coriolanus Snow’s legacy or immortality. Discussions of his grandfather’s age or impending demise are never dinner-table topics — but they don’t have to be for Francis to know that Cassia is his grandfather’s favorite. She believes in the world he’s created — worships the ground he walks on. Francis, in turn, has mostly kept his head down. Cassia believes in their grandfather’s love — Francis believes in his wrath.

      It’s polite conversation with a charged undercurrent — things that are both said and not said, challenges issued, appearances maintained — “Are you asking me if I believe in divine chance?” Francis wonders, his hands locking behind his back as they carry on, “The probability of one’s name being drawn, followed by the probability of being the one child out of twenty-four children that is vicious enough be that of mind or body, if you will, to make it out alive?” He’s always thought the games were needlessly cruel — and that’s before the speakeasies, before the history books — “I believe that one can play God, or sway the hands of fate. I also believe in cost — does the cost outweigh the benefit?” A cheerful smile that does not speak to the severity of the conversation, “I suppose I should never have to find out.”

There was still too much to do ahead of the upcoming game, which would likely mean sleepless nights until this year's entertainment was over. But he had gotten here precisely because he had the work ethic that the majority of the elites lacked. Handed everything from birth, they didn't see the need to bother working very much... or understand the consequences for not doing so until it was too late. It was an immense accomplishment that he, a boy from the Districts, now was part of the Gamemakers... Which had also left him without the position to refuse personally touring the president's grandson, even when it likely meant half a day of his time would be wasted. But as he went about his professional explanations, awaiting questions that he could answer... he had not been expecting that sharp commentary offered by the other. Thomas doesn't flinch; the perfect vision of calm even while the very fabric of his soul was in question. Was it a trap, he wondered? Questions relayed from the president, to test his loyalty? To see if he would speak against the government? But Thomas would not falter.

"On the contrary, the Games provide great opportunities. The tesserae system was a life saver to my family." An individual could add their names additional times to receive supplies for their family. Thomas had added his name an additional four times each since he was twelve: for himself, his father, and his two sisters. "And for the Victors, their lives change dramatically. I am living proof of that, and immensely grateful." The boy who had survived against all odds, and now thrived in the Capitol. "Do you disagree that those in the Districts should be given such chances?"

[flownintothesun]

     𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃 beyond what Francis has ever learned in a classroom. If one were to call anyone or anything divine here — it would be his grandfather, who sits on his pedestal — untouchable and worshiped like a god. Francis may never know what the Dark Days were truly like — there is little left beyond relics he should not have access to. He isn’t about to give that particular secret up. The god that is Coriolanus Snow has fancied himself teacher a time or two — a relic of the glory days where he once served as mentor — another thing that no one speaks about. The Capitol is rife with secrets, and if you know the questions to ask, they’re easily loosed.

        His grandfather has taught him to never betray a deep emotion. Cautious amusement is fine, condescension even. As ever, Snow lands on top. Be what they expect him to be, and no more. His grandfather has no idea just how long he’s been using that advice as a shield against the man himself. Even now, Francis’s lips form a thin line — it could be a smile, it could be a frown — neither, or both. He relishes in the chance to sharpen his wit. 

      “I don’t believe that human worth or significance is defined by birth. Before the war, there was a game that men would play with a gun. They would load the chamber with one bullet and leave the rest empty, and spin it around. The circumstances of one’s birth are no more than that, Mr.Cromwell — the luck of the draw. Of course, that means very little, I suppose, to the one who gets shot.”

       He’s silent for a moment or two, fighting not to fidget even a little bit — “I am young, and I did not live through the war. I am loathe to understand why one would believe fighting in a war, or participating in the games to be a matter of worth or opportunity. Is there truly honor in death, or is it just a waste of potential?”

Oh, what a life he'd have if he'd been born a Snow! The ground would not be so treacherous underneath his feet. He would not have to fight for every shred of respect, and not turn the cheek at every insult. But one day, that will be different. One day, his peers will call him equal, no — they will know him as superior. But for now, he takes every trivial, tedious task in stride that is passed onto him. Better men are working at their real jobs while he is a glorified tour guide. But don't they see? There could be an opportunity here, too. The young man is not president, no, but for Thomas, the proximity is close enough. Footsteps continue on, stopped every so paces, silent off-hand gesture at some thing or another as the other gathers his thoughts. Words misunderstood, or perhaps, could they have ever been heard by another such as him in the way they were meant to? How could Francis understand? He chuckles, low, supposing he should correct the other before it should come about that anyone should think Thomas Cromwell has said that he was divinely chosen to win! "No, quite the contrary. There is nothing divine about it." He would spit upon anyone who would say that he had some higher power to thank for his victory. "Out there, in the arena, we are all equal. Destiny is firmly in one's hands, if they have the skills to seize it. And if we do, we may be afforded the chance to come here, to the Capitol, and be among its esteemed citizens." An impossibility otherwise. "Or do you think so lowly of us that we are not worthy of that opportunity?"