the game of survival { poppy x Maya } blitz

[lionel estrada d5 ᥫ᭡ kiah]

maya gomez

Hands, bloodied and broken, are wrapped around a throat. They squeeze tighter and tighter until they can feel the wild pounding of the boys pulse against them. A broken prayers is rasped, filling the space between you and the boy. Their face is turning from red to blue and their nails dig into the flesh of your arms, but you do not release your grip. You squeeze harder, writing your fingers around their neck so sightly that you image them tearing through flesh and muscle and bone-

My eyes fly open as I bolt upright in bed. A cold sweat coats my body and my heart pounds so loudly in my head that it takes me a moment to remember where I am. Looking around myself wildly I press my hand to my chest, noting the way the curtains billow wildly due to the rising winds that whips loudly against the house. I am home. I am safe. I am alive. In the growing light of the morning I touch the scars that wrap around my wrists, silently reminding myself that I am free.

A sudden, loud, knock at the front door as me climbing from my bed, my jaw clenching with annoyance. Who the HELL could that be? Flinging open the door a scowl is on my lips. "Do you know what time-" my words cut off and a frown pulls at my brows as I take in Poppy Suaali. What fresh hell was this? "What the fuck are you doing here?" I growl as I cross my arms against my chest.

[ines izar d11a 🖤 cait]

poppy suaali .

Nothing changes for six months.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I guess what I mean is, nothing changes between the start of the Games and now.

Well... okay, that’s not true either. For starters, I actually have a job now – albeit one that I am severely underqualified for, but I keep turning up at the front door of the Capitol every day, and they haven’t turned me away yet. That has to mean something, right?

But... I still don’t really know what they want me to do. The lanyard around my neck has some made-up title of “Junior Gamemaker” emblazoned on it in capital letters, but I know my record on the electronic database says something along the lines of “Costume and Styling Intern.” It probably doesn’t really matter either way. When the Games – which are now well and truly a staying feature of Panem – only come around once a year, there’s not a whole lot to do in the dead space between events. I half-heartedly sketch some designs for tribute uniforms, but they’re as uninspired as the oatmeal paper I draw them on.

There was the whole ordeal about keeping an eye on Maya, too, but after a week of celebrating her victory, she’d returned to Three without so much as a goodbye. My temporary role as her babysitter had ceased to exist, which was honestly a relief. Despite everyone assuming I’d be able to, I could never get through to her. It’s simple – we were just too different. It was never going to work.

As for Wolfgang? Your guess is as good as mine. She’s practically vanished into thin air, and honestly? It kinda pisses me off. Seems a bit rude to me to leave your apprentice directionless and alone, but maybe that’s just her style. She’s probably just waiting for the fanfare around the Games to die down.

Speaking of, I still can’t really tell if they were even a success or not. Nobody wants to tell me anything, and why would they? I feel eyes follow me wherever I go, and I know it’s not just paranoia responsible for the itchiness at my neck. They’re silently branding me as an imposter, and I get it. I think the same thing.

But six months after Maya Gomez is crowned the Victor of the 7th Annual Hunger Games, with no word on Wolfgang’s whereabouts, I’m called into the same office I had started my Capitol career in and sat in front of a board of six grumpy looking white dudes who apparently have the power to change the entire trajectory of my life in sixty seconds flat.

“Miss Suaali.”

You butchered my name, I want to say. I bite my tongue instead.

“Thank you for meeting with us. I’m sure you’re wondering why we’ve called you in.”

I start to respond – to ascertain that yes, I would love to know exactly what the fuck I was supposed to be doing in general – but he barely pauses to take a breath before he’s running onto his next sentence. And that’s cool, I guess. I love rhetorical questions!!

“Maya Gomez has returned home to District Three. As you may or may not know, she was being held in prison prior to the Games, awaiting execution for treason.”

Um. No. Of fucking course I didn’t know that. Why would I have ever known that?!

“She has rebellious tendencies that we require someone to keep an eye on.”

UM.

NO.

No fucking way was I going anywhere near that girl ever, EVER again.

I open my mouth to speak, determined to make myself heard this time, except no words come out. Go figure. I clear my throat subtly and try again, praying the waver in my voice isn’t embarrassingly obvious.

“I don’t mean any disrespect, but don’t you think I’m a little... underqualified for that, sir?”

The men exchange furtive looks, before the guy on the far right speaks up in a hilariously baritone voice.

“It’s not your combative skills we’re interested in, Miss Suaali. It’s your youth. Your ability to connect with other people your age.”

Oh, no. Absolutely not. “Sir, we’ve tried this before. It didn’t work–”

“Not in the Capitol, no. But she’s back on familiar territory now. It’s obvious she’s not the type to adopt the Capitol lifestyle – not like Ms. Blake has so beautifully done.” Their eyes practically roll around in their heads at the mere mention of Cordelia, and it takes all of my willpower not to roll my own in embarrassment. “Ms. Gomez might find herself falling back into old habits if she starts to feel comfortable again. We can’t have her straying too far from the Capitol’s direct line of sight.” He pauses for dramatic effect, before delivering the punchline.

“That’s why you’ve been approved for unrestricted travel between the Capitol and District Three, as a means for befriending Ms. Gomez and ensuring she does not cause any... issues.”

There’s barely a moment to register his words before the man next to him starts to speak too, with an almost whimsical cadence to his voice.

“Be a friend – a comforting presence, a light in the darkness. Show her that despite our differences, at the end of the day, we are all a part of the same human experience. Make her understand her life is a gift – that she should feel so fortunate to have been given this second chance. Help make her life worth living.”

Without warning, the men stand up, eerily synchronised, but they don’t make for the exit. They just remain standing, staring at me, still stunned and seated.

Oh. I’m being dismissed.

I make myself walk out, ignoring their beady eyes on my back. But the entire time I’m contemplating which is the worse of the two evils: being a babysitter, or being a spy.

---

District Three at 8am is as bleak as you’d expect it to be. All metallic and grey, devoid of colour and vibrancy. The only positive thought I have as I step off the train is of how absolutely certain I am that I would rather be anywhere else but here.

Help make Maya’s life worth living? In District Three? Hilarious. Not to mention, I could barely hold my own life together at the best of times.

Yeah. This was going to be a disaster.

The Peacekeeper in the carriage with me had pointed out the direction of Maya’s newly erected residency. I guess the home she had lived in before she was arrested had been torn down. The thought of it makes my heart ache in an unfamiliar way as I try to imagine myself in her shoes – try to feel how she would have felt when she finally came back to the place she grew up and realised all her childhood memories had been left to perish.

Now, standing in front of her new home, I can see the sad and derelict reality of living in Three. Maya’s shack was a shabby dwelling that you could clearly tell had been hastily put together with the bare minimum of materials and effort. The Peacekeeper had sighed to himself, almost disbelievingly, as he’d explained: “She’s slumming it. Couldn’t imagine why anyone would choose to come back and live here over the Capitol.”

But I could.

And really, isn’t that why I was here in the first place? I might be one of the only people on the Capitol’s side that, for no reason other than empathy, had the capacity to get close to Maya. Even so, I can’t imagine a world where a friendship would ever form between girls like us – one of whom had a hand in contributing to the other’s becoming a murderer.

I try to smooth my face into a mask of neutrality, ironing out the frown lines across my forehead. A smile finds its way onto my face exactly 47 milliseconds before a disgruntled girl opens the door to greet me.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Rude. She keeps grumbling aloud and yes, obviously I knew what time it was – way too fucking early, I get it girl, believe me. I’d been awake at 3am being herded onto a rickety carriage and hadn’t even been able to fall back asleep, the nausea from the motion of the train proving too great to overcome. But I wasn’t going to let that dampen my mood. I had a mission to fulfil. Finally, some kind of purpose had found its way into my life, and the relief of not having to question my next ten moves in life was liberating.

“Rise and shine!” I chirp overzealously, in a sugary voice. “Remember me? It’s Poppy, in case you forgot.” It’s at this moment that I realise I probably should have prepared better and come up with a proper cover story, but my sleep-deprived brain had been too incapacitated to do anything more than stare out of the train window at the blurring trees.

It didn’t matter – I’d improvise. By now I’d gotten pretty good at it. If I just got my foot in the door – literally – I’d be well on my way to becoming better acquainted with Maya and getting back home to my real friends and life.

I try to subtly peek around her shoulder, but her body does a good job of shielding the inside of her shack from my view. “Can I come in? Or should we go for a walk instead? You can show me the sights of Three!”

Ha. Funny.

“And for the record, there is no third option.”