[Word Count: 2,460]
Over the next few weeks, he tried to convince himself that nothing had changed.
The incident at the Victor's Tour would be forgotten, just a brief moment captured on camera but ultimately meaningless in the grand scheme of things.
He was wrong.
The first indication came three days after Wade Rankine's visit, when an unfamiliar Capitol-accented voice called out as he was heading home from the forge.
"You there! Thompson, isn't it?"
He turned to find a woman with pale blue hair styled in an elaborate updo, wearing clothes so vibrantly colored they seemed to hurt his eyes after the muted grays and browns of District 12.
A Capitol citizen, clearly. A journalist, based on the small recording device in her hand.
"Yes?" he answered cautiously.
She smiled, revealing teeth too white and perfect to be natural. "Venia Alcott, Capitol Communications. I'm doing a human interest piece on district life for the Capitol News Network." She gestured to a cameraman he hadn't noticed, lurking a few feet behind her. "Mind answering a few questions?"
Her eyes swept over him as she spoke, and he watched her expression shift from professional interest to something sharper.
This wasn't normal. Capitol journalists rarely bothered with outlying districts except during the Games, and they certainly didn't do "human interest" stories on random district citizens.
"I should get home," he said, trying to keep his tone polite but firm. "My family's expecting me."
"It won't take but a minute," she pressed, stepping way too close for comfort. "Everyone's talking about the big brother from the Victor's Tour footage. Such a heartwarming moment in an otherwise formal ceremony."
So the clip had aired. Wonderful.
"I was just looking after my sister," he said, careful to keep his face neutral. "Nothing special about that."
"But it is special!" she insisted. "It showed such... authenticity. Capitol viewers are absolutely captivated." She paused, studying him openly. "And I must say, the cameras didn't do you justice. You're even more striking in person."
Venia saw how the boy looked uncomfortable by her compliment. As if he didn't know what to do with that. Surely, this young man is used to being praised for his looks, she thinks.
Venia has seen many people in her life, especially in the Capitol. People sculpted themselves into whatever was fashionable that season: dyed skin, surgical alterations, wigs that weighed more than gold. More often than not, everything or at least a part of their bodies were curated, fixed, and artificial. To them, someone who looked the way Jake Thompson looked, all broad shoulders and cerulean eyes; a natural beauty that hadn't been designed in a surgical suite, someone who also seemed to be genuinely kind with or without any cameras in mind, was like seeing a unicorn. They didn't have a category for it. Not only was it absolutely fascinating to her, but people back from the Capitol were also incredibly interested!
The cameraman had moved into position, Jake noticed, the lens trained on his face.
He resisted the urge to look away or cover himself. Be polite. Be forgettable. Don't give them anything.
"What's your name?" she asked, even though she already knew.
"Jake Thompson," he replied.
"And what do you do here in District 12, Jake?"
"I work with my father. He's a blacksmith."
She smiled as if he'd said something fascinating. "A traditional craft! How charming. And are you excited about the upcoming Games?"
The question turned his stomach, but he kept his expression pleasant. "The Games are always significant," he stated, choosing the most neutral word he could find.
"Indeed they are," she agreed. "Tell me, Jake, how old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"So you'll be in the Reaping bowl this year," she said. "Any worries about that?"
Every teenager from age 12 to 18 in the Districts worried about the Reaping, but he knew the right answer.
"I try not to think about it. The odds are in most people's favor," he continued, hoping they'd let him go, "I really am sorry, ma'am. But I really need to get back home."
She seemed disappointed by the stock response. "Well, thank you for your time, Jake Thompson. Perhaps we'll see more of you in the future."
The threat—because that's what it felt like to Jake—hung in the air as she and her cameraman walked away, already scanning the square for other potential interviews.
When they turned the corner, he let out a slow breath.
He hurried home, his mind racing. She'd sought him out specifically and knew his name. That wasn't random.
His father was stoking the forge when he arrived, his face darkening as he relayed the encounter.
He looked at him directly, his eyes troubled. "Once the Capitol notices someone, they rarely look away."
Over the following days, his prediction proved correct. Two more 'journalists' approached him with similar questions. Neighbors commented that they'd seen his face in Capitol broadcasts. Even their local Peacekeepers began treating him differently, more watchful, as if he were now something that needed monitoring.
School and the forge became his refuge, the repetitive work of shaping metal providing a rhythm that helped calm his growing anxiety. In this small space, with the heat of the fire and the weight of the hammer in his hand, he could almost forget the cameras, the whispers, the sense that something had been set in motion that he couldn't control.
It was during one of these moments of focus that he barely registered the forge door opening until a throat cleared behind him.
"Excuse me, Mr. Thompson?"
Jake turned to find Mayor Undersee himself standing in the doorway. He looked like he belonged in an office rather than their forge. He had salt and pepper hair with green eyes, around late 40s. He looked a bit polished with his pristine white dress shirt but his body language looked uncomfortable.
Thomas emerged from the back room, wiping his hands on his apron.
"Mayor," he greeted with forced calm. "How can we help you?"
"Actually, I'd like a word with your son," Undersee said, his eyes flicking to Jake. "Privately, if possible."
His father's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "You can use the house. Eliza's at the apothecary, and Lily's at school."
Jake set down his tools and followed the mayor across their small yard to the house, his heart hammering against his ribs. Mayor Undersee rarely made personal visits to anyone in the district.
Inside, he declined Jake's offer of water or tea, getting straight to the point.
"Jake, I've received communications from the Capitol about you."
The words hung in the air between them, ominous despite their simplicity.
"What kind of communications?" he asked, glad that his voice remained steady.
"Inquiries," he said carefully. "About your character, your background, your eligibility for the Reaping. They asked for physical descriptions. Photographs, even."
There it was.
"I don't understand," he said, playing dumb. "Why would the Capitol care about me?"
Undersee sighed, suddenly looking much older than his years. "The Capitol has taken an interest in certain... telegenic young people from the districts lately. It seems the footage of you with your sister caught someone's attention, Jake. Several someones, actually."
"But that was nothing," he protested. "Anyone would have done the same."
"Yes. Perhaps," he conceded. "But combined with your... well, let's be frank, your appearance... you've created interest."
He hesitated, then added more quietly, "The kind of interest that might manifest in certain ways during the upcoming Reaping."
Jake let that sink in for a moment, keeping his face steady even though his pulse was pounding. "Are you saying..."
"I'm not saying anything definitive," Undersee said carefully. "I'm merely suggesting that you prepare yourself for all possibilities. And perhaps consider how you might present yourself should certain events transpire."
He was warning him. Warning him that his name might be called instead of a random unfortunate boy. That he might be headed for the arena.
…Well—shit.
"I see," he managed. "Thank you for telling me, sir."
The Mayor looked faintly surprised, as if he hadn't expected gratitude from Jake, but rather anger.
Certainly, most people would rage at the thought of the unfairness and cruelty of the Capitol by being targeted with no way out. But Jake respected the man for taking the time to personally warn him at considerable risk to himself. He didn't have to, but he did.
The Capitol commands and the Districts obey. No choice in between.
"The Capitol appreciates certain narratives," he continued, his voice so low Jake had to strain to hear it. "Tributes who show particular qualities tend to attract sponsors. Your protective instinct toward your sister was… noteworthy."
Translation: If he does end up in the Games, he should play up the protective big brother angle. It might keep him alive. Got it.
"Thank you for the advice, Mayor," he said, matching his quiet tone.
He nodded, standing abruptly. "I've said all I came to say. Good day, Jake. Give my regards to your parents."
After he left, he remained seated at their kitchen table, staring at nothing. The Reaping might not be random. Not Peeta. And that changed everything.
What would that mean for the story? For Katniss's survival? For the rebellion that needed to happen?
His father found him still sitting there an hour later, lost in thought.
"What did Undersee want?" he asked, concern etched in the lines of his face.
He told him everything. When he finished, he sat heavily in the chair across from him, his calloused hands flat on the table.
"I was afraid of this," he said finally. "Ever since that damned camera caught you."
"What do I do?" he asked, feeling like a child seeking reassurance despite the fact that he was already running scenarios in his head.
He looked at him, his eyes full of a father's helpless pain. "You prepare. And if the worst happens, you fight like hell to come home."
His mother took the news even harder when they told her that evening, after Lily was asleep. She wept silently, then wiped her tears and became grimly practical.
"You'll need to build your strength," she said, already planning. "I'll adjust your meals: more protein, more energy. And you should start running in the mornings, building your endurance."
"Mom—" he began, wanting to reassure her it might not happen.
"No," she cut him off. "We prepare for the worst and hope for the best. That's how we survive in Panem."
She was right, of course. Hope was a luxury in this world. Preparation was survival.
The following weeks took on a new intensity. By day, he attended school, after he worked in the forge, his father pushed him harder than ever, building his strength and teaching him to use various tools that could translate to weapons if it came to that. By night, his mother taught him which plants were edible, which could heal, which could kill, knowledge that might mean the difference between life and death.
He began to take stock of what he actually had going for him. Jake Thompson's body was stronger than Jake Carter's had been, hardened by years of forge work. He had good reflexes and decent endurance. He knew things about how these Games tended to play out, from the limited perspective of a guy who'd only gotten through two movies.
But he'd be facing trained killers, the Careers, teenagers who had prepared their entire lives for this moment. And he'd be changing whatever script was supposed to unfold.
These thoughts haunted him as he added running to his morning routine, as he practiced throwing knives at targets behind the forge, as he studied every edible plant in his mother's apothecary books.
The day before the Reaping, he ran into Peeta Mellark at the Hob, where he was trading some small metal tools for a length of rope he could practice knots with.
"Jake," he greeted him with his usual friendly smile. "Getting ready for tomorrow?"
"As much as anyone can be," he replied.
He nodded, his eyes showing the same fear every teenager in Panem felt before a Reaping.
"My father made special cookies," he said, offering him a small wrapped package. "Says everyone deserves something sweet before..."
He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
He accepted the package, touched by the gesture. "That's really kind of you. Both of you." he meant it.
In a world that tried so hard to grind the kindness out of people, small gestures like this meant more than Peeta probably realized. "Good luck tomorrow, Peeta."
"You too," he said earnestly.
That night, he shared the cookies with Lily, telling her they were a special treat for being such a good sister. She accepted them with delight.
As he tucked her into bed, she asked innocently, "Will you be okay tomorrow, Jake?"
He forced a smile. "Of course, munchkin. My name's only in there five times."
"Promise you won't go away?" she pressed, her small face suddenly serious.
He couldn't bring himself to make a promise he might not be able to keep. Instead, he kissed her forehead. "I promise I'll always try to come back to you. Now go to sleep."
Later, he stood outside their house, looking up at the stars, the same stars that shone over his world, over Jake Carter's life that now seemed like a distant dream. Tomorrow, he would find out just how much his presence here had changed things.
A soft step behind him announced his father's presence.
"Can't sleep?" he asked, coming to stand beside him.
"No."
They were silent for a long moment, both contemplating the possibilities of tomorrow.
"Jake," he said finally, his voice rough with emotion, "whatever happens tomorrow, know that I'm proud of you. Proud of the man you've become."
The words pierced him deeply. He was proud of Jake Thompson, not knowing that he was an imposter in his son's body. Yet in these weeks of preparation, of fear and determination, he had come to care for this family as his own. These weren't borrowed emotions anymore.
"Thanks, Dad," he said, and the word felt right.
He squeezed his shoulder. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow will come whether we're ready or not."
He nodded, taking one last look at the night sky before following him inside.
As he lay in bed, sleep eluding him, he thought of all the kids across Panem lying awake just like him, staring at their ceilings, wondering if tomorrow was the day their name got called. Not characters. Not a story. Just scared teenagers.
"If it's me," he whispered to the darkness, "I'll find a way."
It wasn't much of a promise. But it was all he had.