blood red

POPPY BATTENBERG. nineteen. tribute. rebel. "This is the story of a girl who has decided to go to war."

[swarthied]

there comes a time for old things to end and new ones to begin

R.D.

[poppy-battenberg]

[poppy-battenberg]

caroleyre​:

j-thegiant​:

.

There was no time for him to register anything else, not even a familiar voice coming from somewhere deeper in the room. The dagger dug into his right shoulder as soon as he turned around to face Poppy, tearing into flesh and muscle, deep, painful. Jupiter screamed something awful.

“Come on.” He finally clocked the voice as he watched blood seep through his jacket. It was Gideon. How was it that he was hearing his best friend’s voice here in the arena? The shock was almost enough to distract him from the pain. “Don’t be so dramatic. Just… keep a distance, alright? Fall back.” Finally, Gideon walked into his field of vision just next to Poppy, and he obeyed.

Jupiter staggered back, unlodging the dagger. His eyes darted between Poppy and Gideon. There seemed to be real concern in his friend’s face, but he played it off well, the way he always did, the way they always did in the face of adversity. But surely they both had to admit that they had never faced adversity quite like this before, didn’t they? Something was not right. Gideon was not right.

Yet his advice was. For lack of a better option, Jupiter kept stepping back and away, as far as he could get from Poppy as his unsteady legs could carry him. Blood continued to pour out of the gaping wound on his shoulder, making him feel lightheaded already. He then fell back as his foot tripped over something on the floor, or maybe it was nothing and he was losing his balance because of the pain, and the back of his head found the leg of the table in the centre of the room. It provided him the opportunity to re-orient himself.

“Settle down, J,” Gideon spoke again. “Here comes another.”

@caroleyre​

As he walked into the casino, plunging onto darkness, the grasp on his trident changed from passive to active, in case he needed to use it immediately. Things were already in motion. Carol could hear, not yet see, that people were already in there. The fountain cried tears of blood, and the pouring water was a distracting enough white noise, but he could catch sounds of motion as well.

“It looks like we’re a bit late to the party, dear,” he muttered, still at a distance and almost inaudibly, but this Rio didn’t need ears to hear everything inside Carol’s mind. Careful and trying his best to feign a collected state of mind, the young man from District Four stepped ahead and, suddenly, he could see them. Jupiter was already bleeding, but he didn’t care about Jupiter. Rio did not care about Jupiter either. 

He looked behind, over his shoulder, as if he had anything real to see. As if the figure stepping soundlessly existed anywhere other than in his own perception. Still, he could catch a dark glimpse of Rio’s everlasting smug expression, and sucked confidence from that. It wasn’t that he couldn’t have done it otherwise. It was that it was easier to pretend he was not completely alone.

“Look,” Rio instructed, “Is that a knife in her hand, or is she just happy to see us?” A dark chuckle left the ghostly apparition. Carol did not turn. He pretended to be focused, so he could actually shift into that state. "I don’t think she can see you, my dear. I think it’s just me,“ he breathed out, slightly taken aback, but not enough to turn around. That was not even an option he had. Everything behind him turned jet black dark. 

Carol tried hard to separate life from death. "How do we kill her?” The words came out in a nervous hum, trying not to make noise. Luckily, the distance still allowed for it. The sight of Poppy’s back of the head lit up his face. 

Rio hummed. “Ah, well. Maybe that’s for the best. We’ve always been the best team, especially when no one expects it.” Perhaps only the young man’s ghost could afford to be supportive, in the most twisted situations there were. His head slightly tilted forward, nodded at the trident. “You shove that thing in her stomach. With my weapon." 

Carol didn’t have the time to roll his eyes properly. To get her attention, he executed an intentional clicking noise with his tongue, the exact same one used for stray cats you wanted to pet. He didn’t exactly want to pet Poppy. It had more to do with wishing to drag her braided hair all the way through hell and worse.

There was an easy grace to how he carried himself towards her without hesitation. As if not scared out of his mind. “I really hope you’re ready for showtime, little shark,” he cocked his head to a side, in a half-shake, but didn’t have time for a more complex gesture as he attacked. Objectively, he didn’t know what to expect. A trainer for the Hunger Games was supposed to be capable of all sorts of sharp edges. Her quick aim led to Rio’s demise. Good. Promising. He wanted to see it.

Carol pushed his trident with all the strength he had towards Poppy’s abdomen, no further warning.

@poppy-battenberg

Poppy’s aunt was on one side, her brother on the other. Her brother hissed in her ear, telling her to chase after the boy, to kill him. Ruthless. Benjy had always been ruthless. Funny and brave and absolutely without care for the injury he caused others or himself. No wonder he was so happy to follow their aunt into a war. Maybe he’d always wanted to kill or be killed. And he had been killed. She ignored him, and turned to her aunt for guidance.

“The dagger,” she said plainly. Poppy did not move as quickly as she wanted. She was still sore, still had a fever rising through her as her arm infection grew worse. The granola bar that came with the dagger did little to help ease her hunger. But she was still living, she was still moving to some degree, so she stepped forward to pick up the bloody dagger from the ground. She kept her eyes on Jupiter, but his continued traction backward and his fall convinced her that he posed no threat. She could do what she’d done to Rio and Maize, walk away now for the arena to take Jupiter to his grave. “Finish him.” “Leave him.”

There was a strange sound behind her. She didn’t fully register it over the argument between Benjy and their aunt. Both fighting for Poppy to choose their suggestion for how to kill this child. The clicking sounded like a taunt, and when Poppy turned, she expected to see her aunt alone there. Her aunt always took hold of the conversation, and strategy, when it was necessary. But this was not her aunt, or her brother. This was not just a family gathering anymore, not with a trident aimed at her by a man she hoped to be swallowed by the arena instead of having to face him again.

“Take the weapon,” Benjy urged.

“Run!” Titaniara shouted. She only shouted when it was absolutely urgent.

“Duck!” Arissa’s voice, coming from behind Poppy.

“Take the weapon!” Adam parroted Benjy with a strained tone.

“Try to talk to him!” Ian. She could feel him try to reach for her shoulder, but he fell short.

“Please! Leave!” Sara, desperate and out of sight. 

“Poppy, go.” Her mother, reaching from behind to place a hand gently on Poppy’s head.

“Throw the knife.” Her father was calm, always calm. 

The trident was too long for her to find a way around now. Her family, the family she always tried to honor, full of rebels and clashing personalities, had taken up too much of her time. Her family full of ghosts that haunted her long before the arena; the dead bodies she used to give reason to every bad decision. She threw her dagger at Carol with little focus. She needed her hands free to try to grab at the weapon, to try to move, to try to duck, to try to run. 

Two prongs got her. One left her side split, the other went through her abdomen and sent her into shock almost instantly. She could not get a grip on the trident. She could not breath. She could see nothing in the dark as she slipped to the ground. Her mother held her shoulders, and her father knelt beside her. Ian and Sara stood behind him, both with arms folded tight to their chest, looking down at her. Her mother placed her fingers to Poppy’s mouth, where blood was beginning to spurt out as Poppy’s body barely managed to cough. She was drowning in her own blood quickly. Arissa, Benjy, and Adam stood shoulder to shoulder behind their mother, watching over her. A vigil for another Battenberg lost.

Poppy’s thoughts were not coherent. All she could register was the increasing tunnel vision that was taking her family away from her once again. Sara’s face was out of sight first, then Adam’s, Benjy’s, Ian’s, Arissa’s, her mother’s, her father’s.

It was dark. It was cold. Unable to see, she recognized the hand placed to her cheek as her aunt’s. The warmth could not save her now.

This is not the story of a girl who wishes to be a hero, who fights for the less fortunate. This is not the story of a girl who has known pain and wants to rise above it. Poppy will fight, tooth and nail and skin and bone and everything that she has, to keep her remaining family alive.

This is the story of a girl who has decided to go to war.

The war is lost.

[poems-of-madness]

Oh my man,  don’t you know? God created the world based on  a woman's  rebellion.

The Short Poems Series by Royla Asghar  (via poems-of-madness)

[quotemadness]

The marks humans leave are too often scars.

John Green  (via quotemadness)

[poppy-battenberg]

[poppy-battenberg]

j-thegiant​:

No further convincing was required to get him to follow the lights. Like moth to a flame, Jupiter willingly let the himself be led, back to the casino, back to where it had all started. Only this time, he was completely on his own. There was no more Elm to challenge him to be brave, no more Maggie to complain about the cold with, no more Troy to help him solve a riddle, and no more Smith to save his life a second time. His tale was his alone to write now. It had always been in a way, he knew that, but what he understood now that he had not quite before was that he had only made it so far because he chose to let his orbit intersect with others’, and because they returned the favour in kind.

But there were no more favours left now. He had to create his own luck.

The sharp end of the sword made a grating sound as he dragged the weapon by the handle across the pavement. It would not bring him the luck he needed, he knew that. Even if he somehow managed to find himself alive on the other end of whatever was waiting for him inside, it would not be because of a sword. So, not being able to think of a good use for it, he carefully slid  the weapon behind one of the sleeping tigers by the doors before stepping inside the building. Maybe that could be his souvenir if he got out of the city alive.

The casino looked messy, to say the least. At first glance, he thought that it was in disarray because of the quake that had rocked the arena yesterday night, but something seemed off upon further inspection. The way that all the tables except for the one in the centre had been flipped upside down screamed deliberate, maybe even purposeful. It quickly dawned on him then that this was no quake aftermath. No, this was another life-or-death hurdle that he had to jump over if he wanted to go home, another game that the gamemakers wanted him to play. Only this time, he was playing alone.

But that was not quite true, was it? He might be the only one playing for himself, but he had to be playing against someone else. And judging by the faint sound of footsteps behind him, at least one other player had arrived to join him, just in time.

@poppy-battenberg

Poppy had arrived.

Determined, steady, angry. She felt like Poppy for the first time in a long fucking time. Ready to go onto what was next, and beat through whatever was in her way. There was her aunt, that someone breathing down her neck, telling her to be better, telling her to win.

Because it didn’t just matter in the Hunger Games. It mattered in all the board games, video games, every other game she’d ever played with Titaniara in her life. Auntie Ti told her to win. And she lost - to her aunt’s more strategic mind, more nimble fingers, quicker thoughts. So Poppy hit harder when the kids taunted her at recess. Poppy ran faster in the races. Poppy kicked more accurately. Poppy screamed louder than anyone to hype up the crowd, to motivate her teammates, to instruct her tributes. To get attention.

Call it middle child syndrome. A girl crying for attention and rebellion and to live through it all. So she took a step toward the casino, and another, and another, and another, another, another, another, until she was twirling the dagger over her hand in an expert fashion, in tandem with her footfalls. She had only one person to leave this arena for now, and her aunt would be devastated to see her die now. Her aunt would be devastated to see her die as anyone but Poppy.

She’d never thought much about an afterlife, but she could only think about it now with Titaniara on her heels. “Be careful,” the President’s voice said, cool, without real concern. Only warning her because she had to find a point of criticism. Poppy was just glad it was not about her unkempt hair, but maybe her aunt could look past that. Maybe her aunt could look past the slow walk, the scratches, the infection growing on Poppy’s bicep. Maybe it could all be overlooked if she could win. All she needed to do was get to the casino, apparently. Hadn’t she killed here before?

Jupiter. She’d seen him earlier. There was no mistaking him for Ian, not this time. Her aunt drew closer, placed her warm hands on Poppy’s shoulders to stop her. Poppy came to a halt. Her aunt whispered to her to stop, to stay in the darkness, to wait and see who else approached. “You know who’s left,” her voice whispered. She did. She knew there was a trident awaiting her somewhere, in the darkness or beyond.

And then she saw him. Right in front of Jupiter. 

Benjy. Her darling older brother. Her daring older brother. The dead man whose leather jacket she’d clung to like a lifeline. 

“Do it.”

There was no visible weapon. There was no sign that Jupiter could or would hurt Benjy, but her brother asked, and she obeyed. She could not save him before, so she would save him now. She would have a victory in his rebellion now. He always fought for what was right, he always knew what was right. She should listen to him, follow him, do everything as he would’ve wanted. He was the real reason for all of this, wasn’t he?

She lunged and dug her dagger deep, with a two-handed grip, into Jupiter’s shoulder.

[poppy-battenberg]

in the dead of the night (part three)  //  self-para

Poppy Battenberg has always been quite a girl. 

She hopes to meet herself again one day.

Tragedy hollowed out her soul. And she had a lot of soul to lose, because it wasn’t always this way. The circumstances of the world had not always aligned to tear at her heart. 

Her home smelled of flowers and her mother draped her in leftover, sparkling fabric to make robe-like dressed. Benjy talked to loudly, Arissa fussed with her hair, Adam told them all to quiet down, Ian was tracing a coloring book in the corner, and Sara was watching them all with the smile of learning life is beautiful and full of love. Sometimes her aunt Titaniara came to visit, and their home was filled with the scent of her perfume and the restaurant food she brought. 

The history of the Battenbergs throughout Titaniara’s rebellion has already been accounted for. Benjy died, Arissa died, and the family’s suffering did not end there. It worsened when the betrayals began. When a beloved sister-in-law turned on the government, when the favorite niece let the shreds of her heart harden into deadly points.

And still... Poppy thought it was over. Poppy thought even if she died in the arena, that would be the last bit of suffering for her family. Adam was protected by his closeness to Titaniara, and her father and Ian and Sara were safe. She knew none of them would risk what she had. They were smart enough to learn from others’ mistakes.

It was so dark where Poppy huddled between a warehouse wall and an empty box that she almost didn’t see the parachute. Not until it landed in front of her with a soft thud. She jumped, woken from her half-dozing state. It wasn’t loud enough to be another tribute, but every unexpected noise registered as a threat. She reached out, felt around the edges of the box until she opened it up to hear something hard fall out. She snatched up the note in her left fingers, and felt around on the ground until a familiar shape was in her palm.

A dagger. Finally.

She should’ve stayed in the dark, stayed safe and hidden, but she wanted to know who sent the weapons he desperately needed. With her survival knife in one hand, her dagger in the other, and the small paper threatening to slip from a loose grip between two fingers, she found her way toward the casino. It didn’t take long, once she drew closer, to notice the shine of the brand new dagger. It was so sharp she feared to even hold it too close to her own face or she might hurt herself just breathing on it. 

When her eyes first passed over the note in the flashing neon, she didn’t process it. It was just a short scribble to her. She knew the notes had to be kept short, but this was especially short. She blinked several times, and peered closer.

Adam lied. 

She did not move. With lights exposing her to any approaching tributes, with her grip on the dagger now so loose it might fall at any moment, she did not move. Her heart was still beating. Fast, hard, rushing in her ears.

Adam lied.

And she’d believed him. Like an absolute fool, she’d believed him. He’d looked her in the eye and lied about their own fucking family. He’d lied a million times before, but she knew what this meant. It didn’t matter how anyone found out; maybe everyone already knew, and she’d just been even more of a fool than she thought. All the times he lied before didn’t matter. She hadn’t clung to life for his past lies, not like this one. 

Her hands were shaking. Adam lied.

Her father would not greet her with the warm, reassuring hug she needed. Her brother and sister, who had their whole lives ahead of them, would never be seen again. The last bit of life, the last bit of innocence, that existed in her family - and they were gone. She should’ve known. Too much was burning. She should’ve known, she should’ve gone back. She should’ve asked Adam more questions, she should’ve asked her aunt.

Her shoulders were shaking. Adam lied.

She should’ve just behaved. Just once in her life, she should’ve let the obvious risks keep her in check. She should’ve suggested a different hiding place. She should’ve mended fences with her aunt and brother, gotten them more protection. Her father would be hesitant, but she knew how he missed his estranged sister. If she’d just taken a different fucking risk, they would all be okay. They would all be alive. They never would’ve been so close to the rebels.

Her chest was heaving. Adam lied.

A brother, a sister, a parent dead. Was this rebellion any better than the one before? That killed a brother, a sister, a parent.

Her lip was quivering. Adam lied. 

At least Benjy and Arissa sacrificed for family. All Poppy had done was send her family to the slaughter.

Her legs grew weak. Adam lied.

Ian should’ve been in school right now. He should be bragging to her about being considered for higher classes.

She could not stand. Adam lied.

Sara should’ve been sitting in front of her right now, holding up an elastic as she waited for Poppy to finish braiding her hair. Like Arissa taught her. 

Adam lied. 

She screamed. Months of silence in solitude, days of measured speech. 

She sounded like a wounded animal. When the air was gone from her lungs, she sucked in more oxygen, and screamed again. Her throat ached. She sucked in more of the cool desert air, let it sooth her throat, dared the sand caught on her tongue to choke her. She screamed, and screamed, until she fell to her hands and knees. It did not stop her. The pavement was just there to support her as her throat went raw from the screeching.

Tragedy hollowed out her soul. And each time, her family had filled in the space with love. With small actions, with big actions, with words and songs and bad jokes and good jokes and pleas to quiet and pleas to be honest and good meals and burnt cookies and braided hair and fireworks and reading aloud and sitting in quiet and boarded up windows and busted up bottles and smiles and tears and the scent of flowers and draping sparkling fabric. And the scent of perfume and restaurant food.

Poppy curled her hands together on the ground and rested her forehead on top. Her breathing was ragged. There was deafening music playing from a building nearby. Her knife was out of reach where it clattered to the ground. Her face was to the sky, to the world, unable to see anything through eyes scrunched shut. She had not allowed herself to be so vulnerable in three days. 

Adam lied. 

Poppy sucked in a breath, and spat out saliva tinged with blood and sand. She rested back on her knees. She rubbed at her eyes, wiping at the tears that made the neon blur together into a nauseating mass. She crawled forward, grabbing only her dagger. She dug the point into the ground to help push herself to a shaky crouched position. As she stood, she cringed against a sudden lump rising in her throat.

Adam lied.

But someone found Benjy’s jacket for Poppy.

Someone got her a knife in prison.

Someone told her to win.

Someone smelled of perfume and restaurant food.

It was time to get out. 

[poppy-battenberg]

A silver parachute drifts slowly to the ground. A small container is attached with a note from Honey Bellerose. Inside is a dagger and a granola bar. The note reads: "Adam lied. - H.B."

Adam lied.

In a separate car, tucked away from the District Twelve team, Tarta Battenberg brought his children home. There was an empty apartment above a now defunct butcher shop.

...

There are two days of quiet during the searches. Then rebels break into the jailhouse, freeing everyone inside before an attack on the multiple merchants’ buildings.

...

They lined up again. Poppy could do nothing but sit on her bed as she waited for lights out. She tried to ask Seela if anyone there was from Twelve, and Seela told Poppy to find a hobby.

...

Whenever someone new showed up, she asked if they knew anything about Twelve. When they did not, she never spoke to them again. When they did, they never had the answers she was looking for. No one seemed to know what happened to the Battenbergs who’d been hiding in Twelve.

...

“Sara-”

“Safe. Of course. Your friends aren’t nearly as good at keeping secrets as you think. We got them out of Twelve before you even got to the Hob.”

Adam lied.

[poppy-battenberg]

caroleyre​:

He turned to face her properly, legs crossed in a half lotus position. And he paid great attention, even though she seemed to be elsewhere, her mind travelling faster than his words. Carol minded. He felt ignored. Even the conversation she picked from what she wanted to answer to. Who would have known the President’s niece was camera shy?

For a little, he wondered what her game is. But it couldn’t have been that deep. She simply didn’t think to dignify him with enough attention for a solid conversation. Suddenly, he didn’t want to say anything, back. Her justification was fair enough, in every way. It upset him that she had been the one to walk out of the fight, but there was nothing he could do. Those were the rules of any sort of combat, mortal or not. Despite the pout on his face, he understood. Not that he wanted to.

For a little, he didn’t say anything, either. Something about imagining the fight. There was no way he would ask Poppy about it – he’d see the tapes once he got out of there, and if he didn’t get out of there, then it didn’t matter in the first place. Problem solved. When he became aware of their deafening silence, he scoffed. “Why this silent? Don’t tell me I’m this unworthy of one last quality conversation. Since, you know, I reckon we won’t be doing much talking from now on.”

The silence that followed felt electric to Poppy. Her grip on the knife was so tight her jagged nails were starting to cut through the skin of her palm. Cuts from her first day in the arena were reopening along her hands and wrists from the tension. Her mind was reeling as she focused more on the large weapon than the man holding it. After so much talking, the quiet felt like the most daring threat. If he approached, she would need to act quick. 

She shifted the knife into her left hand. It wasn’t big enough to do damage. She’d need her free hand for that. A targeted strike to the throat, hopefully enough to do damage. She’d heard rumors someone could be killed with a single hit to the chest, throat, or nose. The nose was better. At the very least it’d break and bleed and cause immediate confusion. At most, the bone would splinter dangerously into his brain. Regardless, she would need to move fast. The knife would have to go through his wrist to try to loosen the grip on his trident. 

She should’ve paid more attention to him in training to guess what he might do first. She should’ve begged for a weapon from sponsors before food or water. She should’ve pulled that bone out of Rio and kept it in hand.

Standing still, strategizing, her skin was soon covered in goosebumps in the cold. When Carol spoke again, the hair on the back of her neck stood up. It did the same when she heard the guards grunt or whistle or make a single sound as they slid her dinner through the solitary door. It was a noise that she did not make, and it was terrifying after so much time alone, in the quiet, with only her occasional declarations to the wall. The noise of the resort had jolted her back into a world of conversation, and just as quickly it’d been taken. Replaced by the desert. She didn’t know yet if the sand or stone made for a better audience to a monologue. 

“What the fuck do I have to say to you?” she then asked. It wasn’t aggressive. She was too tired to sound anything more than weary. She hoped he was right, that they wouldn’t be talking much after this. Holding her own in a fight felt daunting right now, but it still felt more manageable than holding her own in a conversation.

[poppy-battenberg]

j-thegiant​:

.

Could he trust her? In spite of her words, and even if he wanted to let his guard down, he felt like he should not. Just watch out for them, Jupiter. I know a thing or two about narcissistic assholes. Smith’s warning from a different lifetime echoed in his head, reminding him of the danger of trusting others, of exposing vulnerability. Only now did the words make him feel a little naïve. Now, after every tribute that he trusted had likely died. Now that Smith had. He knew then that he had been lucky so far, but if he was not careful moving forward, that luck might very well run out.

Her question reminded him of something she had said in her interview. Even if he no longer remembered her exact words, the bluntness of the remark had left a lasting impression, along with the audience’s reaction to it. “Are you surprised that I’m getting gifts?” he asked, returning the favour of replying to a question with another question. “Because everyone out there is supposed to like you more than their own tributes?” Rather than venom, his voice was mostly tinged with caution. Most of his gifts had come from Selene. If Poppy, with her connection to the president, ended up winning and getting out, he did not want her to give Selene any trouble for supporting him.

“Honestly, I don’t know who sent many of them.” It was not a lie, not exactly. There had been a couple gifts with initials he did not recognise and gifts with no initials at all. “Doesn’t matter. You can take whatever you want if you let me go this time. I’m only here because I followed the lights, but I can scram before you can spell Las Vegas, if you want me to.” It was getting dark anyway. As much as he wanted to solve the mystery of what lied beyond the fence, being stranded in the desert at night would be terrible for his survival.

Poppy was impressed by his response, and embarrassed with herself. Her cheeks warmed up a little more beyond the desert heat as she thought about the things she’d said in her interview. It was probably the most she’d talked at once, on her own, in months. She couldn’t recall her own words exactly now, only knew that they were not the boost of confidence she needed for herself or sponsors. The interview felt almost like a nightmare that she’d accidentally shared with too many people, like it was a brilliant dream.

“I don’t need anything,” she said with a shake of her head then. She didn’t, not right at this second. The biggest need anyone had was for water, and she still had some left. She wasn’t willing to offer it to anyone else in exchange for something that wasn’t really useful. The sun was setting, and she could go back to the city for warmth when it grew too cold. “And I can go first.” If she died tonight, she’d rather not have her last thoughts be consumed by how she should’ve chased after Jupiter to kill him. She knew that’s what would happen, what would be on her mind. She didn’t know who else was really left, if he was all that stood in the way of getting out alive. But so far, it did not hurt to kill instead of die.

“Don’t fuck around out here too much,” she suggested, pointing to the sky above the fence as she backed up slowly. She squinted as she looked through the chain links, trying to see if her fried fanny pack was still on the other side. “This is the end.”

[antigonick]

She swallowed down the urge to say: I’m sorry, I don’t hate you, I just kind of hate myself right now. Instead, she coolly looked away, which was the opposite of an apology.

Tamsyn Muir, The Locked Tomb: Gideon the Ninth (via antigonick)

[poppy-battenberg]

caroleyre​:

She had a way of being funny unintentionally that Carol couldn’t ignore. A simper formed on his lips, almost genuine, almost giving in to tiredness and dehydration. “No, I don’t think so,” he confessed, almost distracted in an attempt to appear nonchalant. He wasn’t. Poppy Battenberg became, without notice, personal to him. Instead of treating her just like another tribute in the way of victory, the hovering, dangerous need to make it count somehow was sitting on his shoulder. And she always did give him so little, barely a couple of words and some passive, impersonal glares. 

So he sighed. And he was about to say just the snarkiest comment ever, if it weren’t for Panem’s pompous anthem interrupting. Carol tightened his grip on the trident, just in case, as he looked up. Smith, Elm, Troy, Maize, Brigit’s faces flashed before them, seconds worth of mentions before they would forever be forgotten. The feeling weighed heavily on the boy from Four, who could only think of his dead district partner. Had he seriously missed Rio’s face, as big as the moon, broadcasted on the night sky? Pity. That would have been a sight.

Maize had to be addressed. Carol didn’t know what the deal was between the two, but, if he trusted his gut and what he’d gathered from Maize just moments before she passed, it was, once again, Poppy’s half-doing. His finalization. They did have this unspoken deal going on, it seemed, but Carol no longer wanted to participate. He never wanted to, in the first place.

“Let’s get some things out of the way. If you attack, I attack back. At best, you’ll be all holes when you meet the, um, the remaining one. If my count is correct, it’s just us left. Just us and…” His mind delayed his calculation by a few seconds, until he could finally recall whose face hadn’t been shown on the sky. “Five.”

“So, you can shoot your shot now, but I’m not Rio. He’s always been…” A soft sigh exited his mouth. It had a villainous perfume to it, though Carol seemed just plainly sad about his own revelation. “So brutal. Instinct is great, but, Poppy, you don’t want to fight someone who actually plans ahead. Not yet, at least. It’s not the right time for either of us.”

Carol was talking too much already, as opposite to Poppy’s vertiginous silences. It didn’t matter. The sound of his own voice gave him strength. It was almost as if his mouth was no longer dry to the point of being one with the sand. “If you attack, I attack back. And you won’t make it, Poppy, not right now, because right now I’m quite upset with you still.”

The pause was to clear his own mind. Without even having noticed, his heart started booming, almost out of his chest. “You should have left him to me. That was rude of you, intervening. I was hoping we could address that.”

Poppy was ready to take his statement as a threat to leave, and took one step backward when the anthem began. She wanted to close her eyes, wanted to crouch down and dig out a hole in the sand to bury her head. She didn’t want to see this. Even without looking up from Carol, some of the images still caught her periphery. The unique shape of Elm’s jaw, but without the swelling from their bloodbath fight. A stray curl from Maize, not matted down by her time in the arena. Elm who kept trying to help her; Maize who somehow always meant well without ever being honest. 

Poppy was so focused on not looking at them, that she finally realized the water behind Carol wasn’t water at all. It was unmoving, and the faces reflected off it at odd angles. She didn’t quite know what to call it, but it was definitely not water. Carol with his trident was still terrifying as the faces faded, but without the backdrop she’d first assumed, he seemed more mortal. She dragged her foot back to place it in line with the other.

Maybe he knew it, but his calculations of who remained in the arena were something she’d been desperate for. She told herself during training she would need to count cannons, count faces in the sky. But that was far easier said than done. She didn’t know what she lost before waking up in the Chapel, or after the reaction to the casino water, or just in the spurts of sleep she’d gotten tucked up around building corners. She pulled her shoulders back, standing up a little straighter as the truth became apparent: three left, and two were facing off now with a wild discrepancy in weapons available.

The eulogy for Rio, as that was all she could fathom this sidebar to be, was just another reminder she was not ready to fight again. She needed some time - for wounds to scab, for bruises to fully form, for her body to rest. She wanted to finish her canteen, maybe get some more food from a sponsor. It all felt so luxurious, to wish to be even partially nourished. But she’d gotten by on deprivation before. Perhaps even thrived on it. Not that Carol had to know.

It took a moment for Poppy to realize what Carol was implying. It was so selfish, to think her actions were all intended to be an insult to him. It was so selfish of him, to think this arena was about anyone but her. Deprivation for months had still not yet reached the point of starving her ego wholly. “Take it up with Rio,” she said, gripping her knife a little tighter. She worried what leaning into this conversation might lead to. And he was right - she would not make it if they fought. “He attacked, and I attacked back.” A case could be made that she was telling the truth. She was the first to lunge; he was the first to taunt.

[poppy-battenberg]

j-thegiant​:

He eyed the knife in her hand; sharp, shiny, dangerous. Even if he knew how to fight, his glass shard likely would not hold up against an actual proper weapon–and he did not. Besides, this was Poppy Battenberg, the president’s niece, a tribute with a ten, someone capable of knocking Elm’s teeth out. He might as well just wave the proverbial white flag now. It was what his exhaustion and frustration compelled him to do anyway. The rest of him, however, was not quite ready to give up just yet.

His brows furrowed at the question she asked in response to his own. “I don’t need to give you a reason. You want to be the one to get out of here alive as much as I do.” If she did not, she would not have made it so far, would she? It was probably unwise to point out why she should want to kill him, but he was in a testy mood to say the least.

That said, he realised that this was not the direction where he wanted to encourage the conversation to go, and tried to switch gears. “I’ll give you a reason not to. People tend to not love older tributes who kill the younger kids, even if they end up winning.” He did not actually know that, he was mostly talking out of his ass now, but it sounded right enough.

His eyes drifted back down to the container she had pointed at. He no longer felt as sick as before, but that did not mean his appetite had returned. With one foot, Jupiter gently pushed the container closer towards Poppy. “You hungry?” he asked with a tilt of his head. “It’s a proper meal, larger than what I normally get back home even. I ate some of it but there’s more than half left.” If nothing else, perhaps a peace offering could work in his favour.

For a brief time, she thought it might be best, for her and her family and her friends, if she did not get out alive. She’d seen firsthand how arena moments from years ago, decades ago, haunted her friends. But her own actions were outpacing her thinking. What she’d done to Maize was proof enough of her unbending will to live. She didn’t feel very alive, not standing tired and gaunt and overwhelmed in the middle of a desert. But she wanted to feel alive again. She wanted to be one less ghost to her friends and family.

Still, he made a good point. Maybe Jupiter was just still alive because some sponsors liked younger tributes, and the older ones he crossed knew better than to risk their own support. And Poppy thought the politics of the arena stayed outside, among the mentors and escorts and sponsors. It was just as deeply strategic right here, but with an ounce more of humanity. “I don’t think I could kill you,” Poppy said finally. 

The offer of the meal immediately brought to mind the image seared into her mind, of her holding the canteen of poison out to Maize. She could hear Lara’s suggestion, to poison all the food and water a few days in. Had it been a few days now? She was losing track of time, wasn’t even sure if a whole day passed while it was still night. “I got sent food, too,” she admitted, shaking her head a little. That was hours ago, and she was growing hungry again. She would gladly fight through another round of hunger pains if it meant waiting for wholly untainted food from a sponsor. “Who sent you all this?” She couldn’t help the curiosity. She wanted to know who he had help from outside the arena.

[poppy-battenberg]

maizehammond​:

Maize considered it for a moment. She did have the darts, tucked away in a pocket of the armor, but she didn’t want to give those away. “I have nothing,” she told her, a final lie for the road, perhaps, for old times’ sake. “But if I see something I’ll keep your wish in mind.” She lifted the canteen to her lips, tilted her head back, opened her throat, and poured the water into her mouth, fully expecting the refreshing taste, almost wanting to show off that she’d gotten this from Poppy, that she wouldn’t give anything in return — and instead, her entire mouth and throat were on fire immediately. She coughed, choked, tried to spit it out but she’d already swallowed some, it was her fucking hubris. “What the fuck—” she coughed out.

Poppy didn’t want to see this. It wasn’t someone anonymous like the girl from Three or Railey. It wasn’t Rio, someone she could justify harming or else she might not get away alive. Whether she gave Maize the poison or not, she could’ve turned and walked away. She could’ve just walked away, left the rest of the arena to take Maize. 

There was no way to avoid it. There was nowhere else to look as she watched the poison pour out. If only Maize knew how brazen she looked, like not even the poison could hurt her in her armor, with all her cleverness. Poppy’s chest seized up so tight she wondered if she’d accidentally taken a sip from the wrong canteen herself. She raised a hand up, pressing against her sternum, trying to keep her own heart pumping as she watched Maize react. Such a stark, weak contrast to the confidence of just a moment before. How quickly the arena could ruin things. Poppy’s hand fell away from her chest. She cringed as she let out a long exhale, but none of the pressure released. It wouldn’t go away if she apologized, if she tried to clear the poison out of Maize’s mouth with water, if she begged a sponsor for an antidote. It wouldn’t go away, because despite the rushing thoughts of what to do, how to fix this, she knew she would not help. She’d tried to help before, and look where that got her.

Poppy looked at Maize one last time, breathing in sharply as she realized this might be the image of Maize that stuck with her forever. But forever might only be five more minutes.

She turned and walked away.

[poppy-battenberg]

caroleyre​:

He couldn’t breathe anymore. It was as if every breath was sticking to the insides of his mouth, like gum way too chewed. In lack of water, in search for water, desperately. This time, for less damage on his brand-new shoes, Carol decided to follow the highway, but after a few hours of walking and after enough swallowed dust that it became clear he’d never be hungry again, he began to think it was all pointless. Deserts roads led nowhere. The Gamemakers were making a solid point.

In the distance, a pool of water glimmered. Carol actually blamed it on his eyesight, not quite expecting it to be real. As he approached the spot that bathed all the moonlight, he became convinced that he hit the jackpot. With his last soundly, determined steps, he rushed to get there. The reality was quick to become depressing. Carol collapsed (almost dramatically) in the sand with a heavy sigh. He had his trident with him. He had his dagger with him. What he didn’t have was the slightest source of water.

All of a sudden, the possibility of dying of thirt became palpable. And so damn dumb. He knew it could happen, even though he had never seen it happen before in the Hunger Games. It was a long-lived myth of faded days. However, it felt as if he was going to become the first one in a while. What an undeserving ending.

With no cacti in sight, maybe he was doomed. There was something sisyphic in his quest that he couldn’t help but appreciate. There it was, human nature at its finest. With his driest chuckle yet, Carol stretched out his neck, as if to catch a camera’s attention. His words were less suffering than he thought they’d come out. For that, he was grateful. Finally, a drop of dignity (and no drop of water). “I could really use something to drink, thanks and please. I might actually die, so…”

Then, something in the distance moved. Carol looked back, his neck snapping in the direction of where the noise came from. Having expected a coyote, he was both intrigued and alarmed to recognize the President’s niece. “Oh, please, find your own part of the desert to die in,” he sighed out, exasperated but suddenly revitalized enough to jump back on his feet and give his best attempt at a fight, if needed.

@poppy-battenberg​

Poppy thought she was making her way back to the city, but she’d started too early. The sky was not dark enough for the light to guide her well, and she found herself wandering through new territory. How strange, to be able to recognize this was not the sand she’d trudged through before, but yet be too disoriented to go back to where she’d spent so much time. Maybe Maize was still there. Maybe the poison diluted with time, and the cannon hadn’t been for her. Maybe it was best to avoid the party scene for a while.

The fresh water of the canteen had revitalized her, but she’d drunk it nearly dry. She didn’t want another canteen or meal sent to her. She wanted something more useful than what was little more than a box cutter, held slightly in front of her as she moved through the dark. From the lower angle of her periphery, she could see the moonlight glinting off the few spots of the blade were still clean. Then there was something ahead, something so bright she thought she might be back on track to the city after all.

No. But it was a lake. All this time, all the dehydration and brown piss, and there’d been a fucking lake if only she’d walked more through the desert. Before she could get close enough to see if there was movement in the water, she spotted the tip of a trident. It was up, and then so was a figure. From where she stood, through her tired eyes, he looked like a shadow standing right on the silver surface of the water. If not for the bit of shine ont he tips of the trident, she would’ve thought everything, right down to the water, was made of smoke.

The figure spoke. Her heartbeat sped up suddenly. Carol, with a weapon he surely knew how to use. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut and will him back into a shadowy mirage; she wanted to dig her toes so deep into the sand she was swallowed whole by it. His comment gave her pause enough not to run away. Not daring to come closer, the shine off the lake was still leaving him mostly silhouetted. She couldn’t tell if he was hurt. “Are you planning on dying here?” she asked. She didn’t believe it for a second that a Career who came this far would give up. 

[poppy-battenberg]

j-thegiant​:

His fingers clawed into the chain link fence and rattled it against the bolts, as if demanding a way in, knowing nobody would answer. He had stopped crying at some point. Grief still pooled behind his eyes threatening to spill over again at a moment’s notice, but anger and exhaustion had taken hold stronger now. He would find out what those lights were if it was the last thing he would do.

With his hearing still partially impaired, the sloshing sound of water only reached his ears when it was already far too late to run. Jupiter turned around to find the president’s niece there with a canteen over her shoulder. His eyes briefly darted to the identical one on the ground by his feet, along with the jacket he had not yet worn and the container of half-eaten meal he might never get to finish. Shame.

She was dangerous; he knew that much from Elm and her training score. Perhaps this was it for him then. The storm had not returned since yesterday, it would not conveniently save him again. There was still the shard of glass nestled in his pocket, but what good had it done him last time? “Are you going to kill me?” he pointedly asked, voice coming out more tired than scared.

Poppy continued to squint at the boy, this time trying to take in all of his appearance, everything littered around him. She assumed it was all gifts. Enough gifts to be left lying around. Sponsors liked him. It was easy enough to understand, from all she’d observed in training and interviews. And there were always sponsors with a soft spot for the young kids, for the underdogs left in an arena full of people who knew how to kill efficiently. Even her fucking aunt would probably have preferred to bet on him than Poppy.

She got stuck staring at the meal on the ground. She’d gotten one from Clementine, kindly labeled as “comfort food.” All it really was to her was fuel. Still, for a moment, she’d let herself imagine it was almost as good as her favorite greasy pizza of choice for her worst hangover days in the Capitol. Had the rebels destroyed it? 

Her eyes darted up immediately at his question, finally actually taking in the features of his face. She’d never actually looked that closely before. He didn’t actually look like Ian at all. “Are you going to give me a reason to?” She hadn’t done much talking in the arena; and what little of it she did, rarely had she answered questions. She refused to promise anything. Would that really give her one less thing to be guilty about if she lived? “Animals will come for that if you don’t eat it,” she then said, using her knife to point toward the meal. “And they’re probably definitely poisonous.”