checkmate // olete&xaa

It’s my self-assigned job to know more about everyone else than anyone else does. Knowledge is power, after all. I’ve made it my business to uncover the darkest of secrets, pull them out of places so far buried, they may as well have their own memorial service.

Watching all of the Reapings was the first part of my plan. After exchanging a few introductions in the District Nine train, I’d excused myself to my room and watched the replays all the way to the Capitol, not even bothering to enjoy the luxurious food that had been oh-so-temptingly left on a gold table in the centre of the room.

By the time I arrived in the Capitol, the plan had gathered steam. Watch the Reapings, then make the first contact.

It just seemed logical to start at the top. Next thing you know, I’m standing in the dining hall, one eyebrow cocked curiously at the sight before me.

District One, Xaahira Mahdavi admires her reflection in the mirrored surface of the bluntest butter knife I’ve ever seen. She couldn’t be less intimidating if she tried, and yet.

Mahdavi. A family name more wrapped up in secrets and illegalities than an asp strangling its prey. Both, equally as striking. And here it was: the crown jewel, seemingly bored out of her mind, not even bothering to pretend to eat the few slices of fruit strewn across her plate. Looking the picture-perfect sight of withdrawal.

Excellent.

“Didn’t your parents ever tell you that it is rude to stare? Sit down, love. Use your words, what do you want.”

She never even looks up.

I smile.

I obediently take a seat across from her; it goes without saying it was my choice to sit.

“It looks like you’ve seen better days.” And it was true. You didn’t have to be the sharpest tool in the shed to see that the girl was going through the wars. Her glossy hair hung limply around her face, and the bags under her eyes were a deep purple stain.

It reminds me of home, seeing her like this. Reminds me of a boy I met down a back alley, desperate for another hit, another high, another chance at family. So desperate for his vices, he’d do anything, give up anything, just for a chance.

I blink away the memories, ignoring the stabbing pain in my chest. There was work to do here.

“Here. For when you decide to give up the sobriety act, ‘cause let’s be real? It’s only a matter of time before you slip up.” I pull a small bag out of my pocket and wave it around a few times, white powder sliding inside the plastic sleeve, the sound of rapture and relief.

It’s playing with fire – she’s a drug lord’s daughter, after all. Sure, when she finally decides to pull herself away from her own sad reflection, it will take her all of five seconds to see the crushed poultice is nothing more than flour squirreled away from the kitchen. But one thing I’ve learned is that the best way to reveal someone’s truth is to play on their strongest emotions. Even if it means throwing yourself into the snake’s den.

I watch her closely, waiting for our eyes to meet – waiting for her desperation to win out and set her face alight, if only for a sweet, fleeting moment.