Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

She assumed it would have been fear, at least. The call of an all-too-familiar name. The quiet that fell over the audience, broken only by tiny sighs of relief that the name didn’t belong to them.

Ona felt none of that. A tiny jump of her heart at the sound of her name, followed by stillness.

It is what it is. Nothing but a shame.

She walked up with no fanfare and a deep-seated acceptance of her death. Sadness took root in her heart. A sadness at a future unlived. No more fields. No chasing a rare approving nod. Nothing but the quiet to welcome her onto the stage.

Not true silence. True silence was what she had in the fields while Paco slept, before the farmhands arrived, where her mind could wander full and freely. Here, in the middle of District Nine, was far too loud.

As her eyes fell across the crowd, three sets of eyes fell upon her more deeply than the rest. Ona didn’t stay with them long. There was nothing to say. Reality wouldn’t bend for her.

No one would save Ona Ríos from the 123rd Hunger Games.

From the moment Ona was born, her life had been nothing but ordinary.

She lived with it. The little she had was all she needed, and she couldn’t imagine any more. Any more would be too much. In a house with three rooms, one occupant per room, she had all she needed.

There she was, in the room that faced the fields. On the same side of the house where the sun set. Each evening, she watched it disappear behind the fields. She slept when it slept, and worked when it rose.

(The sun rose with Ona, but its warmth never seemed to reach her.)

In the largest room was Raul Ríos, her grandfather, who worked harder than anyone else. He owned as many fields as the District would allow. He raised Ona with a sense of purpose, dedication, and work ethic.

In the middle was his daughter. Iria Ríos was all Ona could wish for in a mother. Independent and humble, Iria taught her the value of quiet.

She was first brought out to the fields when she was five. Iria and Raul were by her side and showed her all the fields had to offer. Ona listened quietly. Took it all in. Even at five, she understood the importance of it all.

When she was eight, she worked without supervision.

It wasn’t hard or scary. Iria was near, but Ona didn’t need her. So Grandpa gave her more tasks, more difficult tasks. Ona did them without hesitation, as quickly and flawlessly as she could.

And when she was done, she would look up towards Grandpa with longing. And when he returned a silent nod, she was overjoyed.

She sought that same feeling for weeks after, completing tasks as quickly and accurately as they were given. When she was done, she would find Grandpa.

Sometimes he wouldn’t react. Sometimes he would teach her how to do it better or more efficiently. Only rarely did he offer a silent nod.

Those were what she wanted most. A break in the monotony of it all. A flutter of appreciation in her heart.

Either way, she was always glad to help. A way to pass the time before it inevitably came to an end.

There was a perpetual calm over Nine that Ona always appreciated. A consistency in a world of irregularities. The calm allowed Ona to be. More importantly, it allowed her to work.

Although it was early and the farmhands wouldn’t be there for hours, Ona got to work. There was much to be done, and never enough time for it all. Even as Ona grew, got stronger, taller, and more efficient, it was never enough. Even without the commitment of school, she wasn’t able to give enough.

She didn’t let it bother her. She simply got to work.

Hours passed when the monotony was broken. A tiny rustle in the weeds. First a sound, then a sight. Ona watched and listened. Sometimes rats or birds found comfort in the fields but fled from the workers.

This didn’t flee. It got closer.

A hitch in her breath forced her to take a few steps back. Rationality kicked in. An animal? Or an intruder? Fourteen-year-old Ona wasn’t sure. Either way, she knew it wasn’t her fight to fight.

A growl, but maybe that was from Ona’s heart racing. Another rustle, maybe that too was from her fearful feet.

And then it emerged, and a breath left Ona.

It yipped at her. Skinny and scruffy thing, tongue hanging wildly from the side of its mouth. She had seen dogs from a distance, of course. Some neighbors kept them as pets to ward off other wildlife and intruders — the same things Ona feared today.

“Shoo,” she said, waving the creature away. It tilted its head and followed the point of her finger, tail wagging. It took a step closer, and Ona stayed still.

What now? The thing plopped down in front of her, tongue still out, tail still wagging. It gave a friendly bark. At least, Ona assumed it was friendly. She really had no idea.

“Alright,” she said as she got back to work.

It stayed on the ground near her, alternating from panting to sleeping to a weird tilt of its head whenever Ona transitioned tasks. She didn't know what to make of the thing, other than it took away her quiet.

(It gave her something else, though. Something she couldn't quite place.)

Hours passed, and the sun continued to rise, dispersing any hope of silence. Farmhands would start to arrive soon, and every task would be occupied. There was nothing left to do except go home and help Ma clean.

She gathered her things and walked towards home.

"Stay," she whispered without turning back. She kept walking. She didn't look to see if it stopped following.

She knew.

When she got home, it was there. When she set down her tools, it stayed. And when she went inside to fill up a bowl with water, it eagerly shook its backside until the bowl was placed on the ground in front of them. Ona sat down beside it.

And soon, it became Paco Ríos.

Paco wouldn’t remain a secret. It didn’t take long for Grandpa to take the first step outside that morning. Her heart jumped when he locked eyes with the pup. She didn’t like that feeling, but it seemed all the more common when awaiting Grandpa’s assessment. His approval.

She distracted herself with Paco, kneeling and brushing his fur with her hand. He leaned into it, sloppy tongue hanging out the side of his mouth.

“Is he useful?” Grandpa asked. Ona nodded without hesitation, and Paco barked in confirmation. Grandpa shrugged. “So he stays.”

The days lost their silence with Paco around, but Ona didn't find she missed it. Paco gave more than he took, and for that, she was thankful. His company was warm. He listened without judgment. Her presence was enough to please him, which could not be said for anyone else.

That was okay with Ona. She was enough for Paco.

He never left Ona’s side. Not on the farm nor in the house. Ona’s bed was barely big enough for her growing body, but Paco joined her anyway.

And when wildlife did make a rare appearance in the fields, Paco’s large presence alone made them run far, far away, even if his actions didn’t.

“Sometimes sleeping is the best defense, huh?” she asked the tired pup. He simply groaned in response.

With Paco by her side and the rhythmic beating in her chest, she spent less time looking behind her. There was an ear to listen to words that otherwise wouldn’t have been uttered. Someone to watch her back when the sun set and darkness fell upon her.

A friend.

And that was enough.

Three years passed. Ona wouldn’t say it passed slowly or quickly, just that it did pass. Days were one and the same. Wake up, work, sleep. She liked routine. Routine was predictable.

Paco liked routine too. He learned it quickly, and he stayed with her every step of the way. Ona liked the way he trotted alongside her as she walked across the fields. She liked the way he would spin in circles, making himself so dizzy he would fall over. She especially loved the way his eyes would light up when he saw her. She swore he would smile. Ma said it wasn’t possible for a dog to smile, but Ona saw it. And Ona thought no one would smile at her like Paco.

The human boy struck her as odd the first time she met him. At a glance, there should have been nothing gripping about another farmhand. She had met dozens, all the same. All happy to avoid Ona and her grandfather. Complacent enough to do the work, go home, and come back the next day.

Yuma was different. And it started with a smile.

She didn't think he was smiling at her. Many workers would see the duo and smile at the one with four paws. Paco loved the attention. It was one of the few times he would leave Ona's side for another. He would roll around, enjoy the attention, then return to her. It was one of the few times those boys smiled on the Ríos' field.

So when she first saw him smile, she assumed he was one of the same. He was standing across the fence line separating two sections of the Ríos' fields. He must have just arrived for his shift, as his skin wasn't weighed down by hours of sweat and dirt. Everything about him seemed too put together to be here.

The most unnatural part of it all was the smile.

Ona assumed he would pet Paco, compliment him in any way possible, and let the duo go on their way. But Yuma didn't look down. His eyes locked with Ona's.

And she didn't know what to do with it.

"Do you work here?" he asked. She didn't know if he was talking to her or not. She glanced around for another worker, another person he could be talking to. There were none.

"I-I guess," she stammered. She could feel her pitch rise to an uncomfortable level. She knew it was true as Paco's ears bent back, a telltale sign of discomfort.

"Yuma," he held out his hand over the fence. She had to step forward if she wanted to shake it. She almost didn't.

Their hands met. Even the sun couldn't warm Ona's face this quickly.

"I'll see you often, then?" he asked.

Ona pulled away, and for the first time in a long time, she was at a loss for words. She left them in silence, something she was used to.

(Even that had changed.)

Yuma stuck around.

She didn't think he would. Farm hands came and went so frequently, replaced by more desperate, younger workers. A few weeks, months at best. She assumed the end of the season would be the last time she saw him.

She was wrong. Day after day, he would work. In the morning, a smile was plastered on his face. By the end of the day, it was still there. Winter came and went, and when the fields were ready for the season to begin, Yuma was the first one there, ready to work.

It was the most peculiar thing to Ona. Grandpa wasn't a cruel foreman by any means. His hours weren't cruel, and wages were liveable, but neither led to elation. Neither lessened the dullness of Nine. Nothing took away from the fear of the reaping, or the fear of a harsh winter destroying a field's worth of work. But none of that seemed to affect Yuma's smile. Even as the reaping neared, his smile never wavered.

When she was alone, she tried to smile like that. Tried to replicate the feeling. She failed every time.

She thought she was content with acceptance, but what Yuma had to smile about filed away in her heart. It left her wondering.

It was all so unusual for her. So she avoided the fenceline as best she could. Yuma wouldn’t change anything, after all. She would still work. Manage the things Grandpa couldn’t. So she took longer walks around the fields, avoiding the place she knew he would be. Stopped her legs from strolling too close.

It wouldn’t stop her curiosity from wandering, though. She wandered throughout spring and into the heat of summer. She thought that one day she would find the courage to approach him again.

She was wrong.

Ona didn't find purpose in sitting. Sitting would mean comfort, and she had little space for comfort. When she thought about the Hunger Games, she thought about the spectacle that was shown on television. The loudness and extravagance of it all. She never once thought it to be comfortable.

So there was no point in trying to make it comfortable. It wasn't uncomfortable either. It was just a thing that happened. A certainty like the sun rising and setting. Nothing could stop it. Nothing could slow it.

The door creaked open, and Ma and Grandpa entered. Neither of them was crying. It was a waste. Tears solved nothing and changed little.

Ona could not change her fate. Death was always a certainty. She only thought it would be later than seventeen.

A few words were shared, but Ona was thankful for the hugs. None of the Ríos were big on hugs, but today was the exception. They didn't need to justify it. Not this time.

Before they left, Ona's eyes lingered on Grandpa. A skip in her heart longed for something so far from reach she assumed she would die without it.

But he caved. He gave her a nod. He offered a weak smile.

"You make me proud, mija. Now it’s time to make yourself proud."

Her heart skipped again. Her throat closed.

And then they were gone.

What did he mean? Ona couldn’t wrap her head around it.

Make herself proud. What did he mean by that? What could it possibly matter?

An artificial silence lingered. Ona didn't like it. The heat was rising — was that the room or her cheeks?

What difference did it make?

The door clicked open again and caused another shift in her chest.

There were few certainties in life. Death was the biggest one. But somewhere along the way, Ona started to wonder if there were more. Like Yuma's smile.

She had never seen him frown before. Her throat stayed closed.

(Another lost certainty. Another thing for Panem to take.)

"Ona..." He opened his mouth to speak more, but no more came. He kept trying, kept failing. Ona shook her head.

“There’s nothing to do about it,” she said with a sigh.

He looked away. He clenched his fists. His entire face dropped.

Ona had no more words for him.

"I am so sorry," he said, looking back towards her. "This shouldn't have happened."

"It did."

"Ona...."

(Why did her name sound so different on his tongue?)

"I’m…going to die."

"Don't say that." He stepped forward. "Please."

"It’s certain."

"Nothing is certain."

"Death is. It…just came for me a little early."

"No. Not yet." Yuma reached for her. She let him. "Do whatever you can. For yourself. I can't ask more than that."

Ona nodded. What else was there to say? To do?

"Can I hug you?"

Ona tried to speak, but nothing more than a stutter escaped her. Like a punch in the gut, but sweeter than that.

She could only nod.

His arms were warm. Comforting. Strong. Everything she thought they might be. She hugged him back. It probably felt weak.

He probably didn't care.

"Please watch over Paco," she asked.

"Of course."

He could have hugged her longer, but he pulled away, still forgetting the smile that defined him. There was something else there, though. Something new from the hug.

Ona accepted that this was the last time she would see Yuma. Her heart stirred before it settled. A pain lingered.

She didn't like the pain, but the pain didn't care. It never did.

The pain lingered on the train.

It was a magnificent place. Ona noticed the other reaped tribute looking carefully at everything, like even that was a crime. She didn't think it was, but she didn't care to find out.

She and Blair Fallows were sitting on a couch, one that sank in too far for Ona’s preference. Silent workers moved around them, refilling water glasses, setting out bowls of food, and bringing the pair anything they requested. Blair already requested fruit. Ona had no requests.

"Hello," a woman said. A Victor. Ona only recognized her as that. Not her name, or year of victory, just the simple fact that she did, at some point, win.

Her sunken, dark eyes told the rest.

"I'm Hadley. I'm sorry you're here." She took a seat across from the two of them. Ona knew she was sizing them up. She'd seen it on the field. Two farm hands would size each other up, trying to intimidate the other. It never worked.

"Ona and Blair?" she asked. Ona didn't bother to nod, but Blair did.

"Unfortunately, there's only one of me and two of you. I can provide as little or as much assistance as you'd like. I can answer questions and offer strategies. Whatever you need."

What did they need? Ona knew what she needed; it was the same things she always needed. Air to breathe. Space to move. Food and water to eat. That was about it.

"How shitty will all this be?" Blair asked, crossing their arms across their chest.

"It's...pretty unpleasant. The parade will be first, followed by three days of training. On the last day, you'll be able to privately demonstrate your skills to the Gamemakers for a score. Then, you'll have a three-minute interview, and then they'll whisk you off to a Capitol party. After that..."

"We die," Ona finished the sentence for her. Everyone in the car gave her a sharp look, like she had said something offensive.

What was offensive about the truth?

"You go into the arena."

Little difference.

"Tonight, I expect there to be a lot of feelings. We have two nights on the train. Spend tonight decompressing. Eat. Sleep. Cry."

Ona nodded. She stood.

"Where do I sleep?"

Hadley stood and led her out of this compartment to another. A long hallway with doors on either side.

"You're here," she said, stopping in front of a door.

Ona nodded, then moved to go inside. Hadley stopped her.

“I do want to help you,” she said. “I know it’s easy to feel hopeless now, but you do have a chance.”

Ona shook her head. She tried again to go inside, to end the conversation. Hadley held her place.

“There isn’t hope for any of us,” Ona said simply. “It’s just the way it is.”

Hadley stepped away from the door, and Ona disappeared inside her room.

Ona sighed. There was no quiet on the train. The mechanical components were too loud to even wish for it. She moved to the window, looking out at the District she was leaving behind.

Weird, how something could feel so permanent for so long, and be ripped away just as easily.

She moved to the bed. Like the couch, it sank too far for Ona’s comfort, but it would do. She lay down, letting her mind do its own thing, trying to distract herself from the space beside her.

Her dreams would never allow such a thing.

As she slept, she saw Paco. Yuma. Ma and Grandpa. She longed for them. She reached for them in her dreams, only to watch them slip through her fingers.

For the night, she was too weak to stop the longing, too weak to stop the pain from spreading.

Tomorrow she would pull it together.

She would allow herself grace for the night.

Ona didn't care much for what she was wearing.

It was too loud, too sparkly. Nothing as she'd ever worn at home. The green tank top was tight, compounded by the vines of gems across everything. The skirt was too short, equally as stiff. There was a long piece of fabric wrapped around her waist that trailed on the ground beneath her, a combination of greens and embroidered leaves and gems.

It was a lot, but even so, it was benign compared to some of those around her.

"Are those butterfly wings?" Blair asked as they joined Ona by the horses. Ona's eyes followed Blair's finger towards the Eleven chariot.

"I guess," Ona responded. "I wouldn't know."

"You've never seen a butterfly before?"

"Are they more common in Eleven?" Ona asked. Maybe she had seen a few, but none ever stayed in her memory.

"Okay," was all Blair said in response. Instead of continuing to talk, Ona examined Blair's outfit. It was almost identical to hers - same shape, embroidery, and gems. The only difference was the shift in color to an earthy brown, rather than the green on Ona’s.

"I don't know what to make of you," Blair said. "Do you not want to win?"

"I don't want anything," Ona responded. "Death will happen regardless of what I want."

"Not if you do something to change it." Blair shook their head.

"Like what?"

"Like try. Fight." Blair shook their head. "Forget it."

Ona couldn't understand Blair's point. Of course she wanted to win, but when did her wants ever matter? They've never changed the course of her life. It was much easier to suppress them and go about her day than to dwell on the things she couldn't have.

She didn't know how to explain that to someone like Blair.

"I want to see my dog again," Ona said.

"What's the name?"

"Paco."

“Fight for Paco, then.” Blair moved past Ona to climb into the chariot. Then, they offered her a hand.

She took it.

Ona wandered the training center without a purpose.

Not from a lack of options. There was everything: weapons of all types, survival, climbing, running, hiding; anything anyone could imagine was crammed into the gym.

She didn't care for much of it. It all felt too performative for her. A way for others to watch her, cast judgment on her. No, she didn't care for the performance.

It was mandatory that she be here, so she came. There were no rules on how she spent her time.

By day two, she found a quiet spot behind the climbing wall. She sat back there, letting her eyes wander over the floor. She watched more than she thought she would, learning far more about the other kids in the room than she ever thought possible. Like how accurate the One boy is with a spear, but how easily overwhelmed he gets face to face with another. She noticed how quick the Two girl is, but how heavy weapons slow her down significantly.

She even watched Blair, who was master of nothing but decent enough at everything. They could hold their own in a fight, and they struck Ona as smart enough.

Maybe they would win.

She shook her head, dug her fingers into her palms, and pulled her attention away from Blair. She couldn’t think like that. Not now.

Instead, she focused on enjoying the silence until it was futile.

To her surprise, it wasn't a trainer that found her, nor was it Blair. It was the smallest boy in the room, the little boy from Eleven. He cried when his name was called, but managed to stay brave during the parades. In training, he had stuck close to the Eleven girl. She didn't seem to mind.

"Is this a good place to hide?" he asked Ona. She nodded. He took a seat across from her, pulling his knees to his chest.

"Tired?" she asked.

"Scared," he answered.

(She didn't have the heart to tell him how she really felt.  That fear was a waste of time. That fear didn't care who lived and who died. That it would only slow him down.

No, she didn't say any of that. She let the silence do the work.)

“Romey,” he said so quietly that Ona wasn’t sure she heard him right.

“Ona,” she finally said in return.

Quiet returned, and Ona went back to watching the tributes train. Part of her thought that maybe she should join them.

The logical part of her knew better.

It seemed Ona couldn’t hide in the shadows forever.

To her surprise, it wasn’t a trainer who forced her to participate or Hadley. It was Blair.

"Come with me," they said simply as the elevator doors opened. Ona should have known it was a trap when Blair lingered on the ninth floor, waiting for Ona to head down.

(Maybe she did know. Maybe she wanted to be wanted.)

So she let Blair lead them to a new corner of the gym, one with a variety of crafting supplies. Blair sat her in front of an empty one, one filled with ropes and ties and nets.

"Learn something today," they demanded.

Ona didn't really know what to say. She wasn't used to being directed. Grandpa stopped directing her years ago, when Ona got a handle on the farm and the duties. Once she took over managing the workers, Grandpa rarely had to intervene.

A part of her wanted to tell them no. To walk away and sit in her corner for the second day in a row.

Instead, she stayed.

"I spent some time here yesterday, but not enough." Blair looked at Ona. "You're a farmer?"

"Something like that," Ona replied. She picked up one end of the rope, getting a sense for it and its capabilities. Soon enough, a trainer came over to teach them both.

Time passed more quickly with a task in front of her. By the end of the morning, she learned the basics of tying knots and how they translated into a variety of snares. She checked her work twice before showing the trainer, and each time, the trainer gave her an approving nod.

She might have seen the point of it all if she were looking for it. Instead, she was fine staying content with her newfound knowledge. Plus, Blair seemed pleased.

"Why are you trying to die?" Blair asked once the trainer left. Ona looked at them with confusion.

"I'm not."

"You're not trying to win."

"What are my odds?" Ona asked. Her eyes wandered the gym. She pointed towards the pair from Four, throwing spears faster than she could blink.

She saw Romey as well. He was dodging knife attacks from his District partner. He looked so unlike the boy Ona met yesterday. The fear had been replaced with some kind of determination.

It made Ona’s heart twist.

"So you're just going to roll over and die?" Blair asked, pulling Ona’s eyes back towards them.

"No." Ona shook her head.

"It feels that way."

Ona sighed. Then, she asked, "Why…does it matter to you? I’m not in your way."

"I won’t work with someone with a death wish."

"Work together?" Ona's question was one of actual confusion. Never once had she and Blair talked about working together. At best, Ona assumed they would come to an understanding about what they each would be faced with in the arena. If it came down to it, she hoped that whatever happened, neither would blame the other.

"We're both from Nine. We should both want to win." Blair's frustration seeped through their words, and Ona didn't know how to meet it. She tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat.

Because it wasn't her own words that were in danger of coming out. It was Yuma's.

Do whatever you can. For yourself.

Is this what he meant? Is this what he wanted from her?

(But how could she cheat death? No one could. That's why they were all here. And only one of them would see the other side of it.

A flicker of a question she was too scared to face lingered in the forefront of her mind. The Victor could be any one of them.

Any.)

She shook her head. Shook the thoughts and confusion away.

"What could we do together?" Ona asked. "Train together?"

Blair shrugged. "I'm not forcing you to do anything else. I just needed to understand."

"Understand what?"

"What you're willing to do to survive."

Blair stood up.

“Think about it.”

Ona watched as they walked away with a newfound curiosity inside of her.

She gave herself a few minutes of thoughtful consideration. Then, she moved on to another station without a satisfactory answer.

Despite a day and a half of actual training, Ona wasn’t sure what to show the Gamemakers.

As far as she was concerned, there wasn’t anything to show. No hidden talent or crazy skill she could show them.

So she didn't think about it. She just entered the gym and worked at the stations she felt comfortable in. Her fifteen minutes went by without her even offering a glance up at the Gamemakers watching her.

So it really was no surprise when they awarded her a 3.

Ona shrugged it off. A number wasn't going to change anything. She never expected it to.

She read it again. And again. Like it might change into something better.

Stop it.

She pushed the thoughts away before they could turn into something more. She focused on the people around her. She let herself wonder what score Blair would get.

She got her wish as the TV moved on.

“Blair Fallows, with a 6.”

"Nice work," Hadley said, clearly only talking to one of them. "How are you feeling about the interviews tomorrow?"

Ona shrugged. Blair sighed.

"I don't want to talk to them," they said.

"I know. But you have to."

"They're going to pry,” Blair said, irritated.

"Then tell them what they think they want to hear." Hadley's eyes fell on Ona, only for a second, then back to Blair. "Would you like to strategize tonight?"

Blair shrugged. "It wouldn't hurt." They looked over at Ona. "Unless you needed her."

Ona shook her head. "Three minutes will pass quickly."

"It feels much longer when you're on stage," Hadley warned. Still, Ona shrugged it off. "Alright. Come find me if you need anything. I'll find you in the morning?"

Ona didn't nod. She didn't shift as the only two people in the room with her disappeared, leaving her to her own accord.

She lay out on the couch, mind racing. Three. Such an insignificant thing, a score. Reducing them to numbers. To what, make it easier to assess their worth?

Ona had never really contemplated the value of her worth. It never bothered her. She always did what she was supposed to do.

So why did it sting so much?

And how come every time she closed her eyes, it wasn't herself she saw, but everyone else? Ma, Grandpa, Yuma, Paco. Every time she did anything, they were the only people on her mind. What would they think? What would they say?

She closed her eyes tightly. She let them in. Let their words echo through the darkness, desperate for something. Anything.

She'd never quite felt desperation this strongly before.

"Try. Fight. Don't discredit yourself."

What was the point?

"To see us," Ma said. "To see home."

I can't escape death.

"If anyone can, mija, it would be you."

Ona felt her heart skip. She wanted to open her eyes.

She didn't.

"Come see us again," Yuma pleaded.

It sounded so much easier than it actually was.

The four of them faded, replaced suddenly by everyone else called to participate in these Games. Trained Careers. Blair. Young kids, like Romey.

She knew what winning would take. She never once thought she would be the one who would have to do it.

Could she? Could she take a life so carelessly?

They were only trying to survive. Same as her.

So why was guilt already creeping its way into her heart, making her doubt everything she'd ever done?

She opened her eyes, but the feelings didn't fade. The pain stayed.

It had been doing that a lot recently.

As Hadley promised, she came by Ona's room first thing in the morning.

"I'm not sure how you want me to help you prepare," she admitted.

“I’m not sure either,” Ona replied.

“They’re going to pry,” Hadley said. “Force you to talk about things you don’t want to talk about. It’s easier if you have something memorable prepared.”

“Okay.” Ona still wasn’t sure what that could mean.

“You’re going to have to talk about family. Work. Daily life. A secret you don’t want to share. Romance. Friends.” Hadley leaned in, desperate to force answers out of Ona. “Start telling me about them.”

Ona sat quietly for a long time. What was there to tell? She wanted to say that, but knew Hadley wouldn’t accept that as an answer. And it didn’t seem the Capitol would accept it either.

“I live with my Ma and Grandpa. And my dog. I work in Grandpa’s fields. I manage the farmhands.” Ona paused as rushes of home attacked her. The smell of the fields, the sound of the wind rustling the wheat, Paco’s yips of excitement.

The memories grabbed hold of her throat and threatened to never let go.

“What else?” Hadley asked.

Ona couldn’t speak. It was too painful. What she had, who she had. What she lost. It came washing over her like an avalanche.

It was painful and cold and beautiful all at once, and, for the first time since arriving at the Capitol, she no longer had the desire to lose it.

Her breaths became shallow, and at some point, Hadley got closer.

“Hey. It’s okay,” she said. Ona didn’t listen. Her mind was elsewhere.

Her mind was home, where she longed to be.

She closed her eyes and pictured it. The fields, the wind. Paco and Yuma. Ma and Grandpa. Their smiles. Her smile.

She didn’t know when the tears started.

“Shh, shh. It’s okay.”

(That was the worst lie of it all, and it was a shame it took Ona so long to realize.

This wasn’t okay.

It would never be okay. That was not a falsity she could live under anymore.)

All things considered, Ona didn’t do terribly in her interview.

She was able to practice with Hadley after all and get her story straight. She was able to emphasize Ma’s quiet strength. She was able to politely discuss the profound impact Grandpa has had on her work ethic. She was able to tell the story of how Paco came into her life, which was the winning piece of it all.

It meant she didn’t have to talk about Yuma for long.

“Who else is waiting for you at home? Other than your family, of course.” The last question the interviewer asked.

“A friend.”

That was all they had time for.

Hadley told her she did a good job. Ona believed her. Even Blair gave her props. That surprised her.

Even at the party that followed, where the tributes would be paraded around and forced to socialize with potential sponsors and important Capitol workers, Ona felt invisible enough. Within the first few hours of being there, only a few people smiled at her. A few more even came up to ask her about Paco. Only one tried to pry into Yuma.

“Who is waiting for you?” she asked. “A boyfriend?”

“No. He’s just a friend.”

She couldn’t pry the answer out of Ona even if she were given all night.

Fortunately, everyone was more interested in talking to the eager Careers. They congregated in the center of the room, leaving everyone else peacefully on the outskirts of the party.

Including Romey.

He was close enough to Ona with a glass of water in his hands. He stared down into the cup, into the liquid.

“You alright?” Ona asked. The boy jumped, then relaxed when he realized who she was.

“I don’t like crowds,” he said, chuckling uncomfortably.

“Me neither,” Ona replied. “Where’s…your District partner?”

“I don’t know,” Romey said. “I don’t think she likes me.”

“Why?”

“She thinks I’m weak.”

“Oh.” Ona shook her head but didn’t know what else to say. He scored low, like her. She knew there wasn’t anything to say about it.

“Where’s your ally?” Romey asked.

“Ally?”

“Your…District partner.”

“Oh. Blair.” Ona looked around the room but didn’t see them. “I don’t know. I don’t know if we’re allies.”

“Oh.” Romey sighed. “Do you think anyone would notice if we left?”

Ona looked around. The party had been going on for hours, and everyone who was left seemed to be struggling to stand upright. Finally, she responded, “No.”

That was all it took for Romey to set his glass down and flee towards the exit. He moved as fast as Paco when the dog saw a small rodent. More than once, Ona would have to chase after him to stop him from catching the poor thing.

So it made sense why she bolted after the boy, despite the lack of danger or logic.

She didn’t look back towards the party once. Maybe she should have. Maybe it didn’t matter. She made her choice, regardless.

They rushed from the ballroom and down the hall to the training area. The Peacekeepers didn’t try to stop them. Ona assumed they were only there to stop partygoers from going too far. Just like they were scattered outside, to stop tributes from fleeing.

Romey reached the elevator first and pressed the button. He held the door for Ona.

“Thanks,” he said softly. Ona nodded.

“Good luck,” she said.

“You too.”

The doors opened to Nine’s floor, and Ona stepped off. As the doors closed and blocked Romey from her view, her heart dropped, and a thought washed over her.

This might be the last time I see him alive.

She couldn’t process how that made her feel.

The last day of Ona’s life felt the same as any other.

She woke up before the sun rose. She started running through her mental checklist of all the tasks she had to complete for the day.

This time, though, there was only one: Survive.

She got up and got dressed. She went to the kitchen for breakfast, where she was the only one there. She made herself a plate, finding herself not all that hungry.

There were no nerves or plans. No worries or thoughts about the arena. About the Careers. About Romey or Blair.

(It almost scared Ona with how little there was.)

Eventually, Hadley showed up, and Blair followed shortly. Hadley asked how they were feeling. Neither answered, and she didn’t press.

They couldn’t sit there forever, and both tributes knew it. Peacekeepers came to lead them to the hovercraft, and both followed quietly. Hadley walked alongside them.

Ona knew that, too, wouldn’t last.

They rode the elevator up to the roof. The sun still hadn’t risen above the horizon.

They stepped off the elevator and Hadley stopped them.

“Good luck. To both of you. I’ll be watching every minute and sending supplies when I can.” She met Blair’s eyes first, then Ona’s.

“Thank you,” Blair said. Then, they kept walking.

“They are not your enemy,” Hadley whispered to Ona once Blair was far enough away. “Don’t treat them like one, and they’ll work with you.”

“Okay,” Ona said. What else was there to say? She hadn’t considered Blair an enemy. She hadn’t considered them a friend, either. They were something in the middle. Someone Ona didn’t fear being near. Could they have been friends? Back in Nine?

It didn’t matter.

Ona boarded the hovercraft, taking a seat near the exit, leaving only the boy from Four to her left. He didn’t look at her.

The hovercraft door closed. Someone walked around to insert trackers into everyone’s forearms. It only stung a little.

Then, the hovercraft rose.

Ona didn’t know how long to expect the ride to be. She closed her eyes and tried to let her mind take her elsewhere. It didn’t really work. Every noise brought her back to the present, reminding her of her fate.

Reminding her that nothing could save her now.

Finally, the hovercraft descended, and the door opened. Avoxes led them into some sort of underground concrete bunker, a circular hallway leading to what Ona could only assume were twenty-four identical rooms. They were taken one at a time, unable to see where the others went.

Eventually, it was Ona’s turn. As she walked, the chill bit her hard. She shivered as she moved across the concrete floor, like the floor itself was sending the cold up her spine.

The hallway seemed to go on forever. Just when she was convinced it would never end, the Avox stopped in front of a door and led her inside.

The room was no warmer than the hallway. The only thing inside was a wooden table and a box. Next to that was a clear glass tube. Ona opened the box to reveal an outfit with more garments than she'd ever worn before. She was quick to change. First were the tight black leggings that helped dispel the cold that had sunk into her skin. On top of those were a pair of wide pants that made her even warmer.

More layers for her torso. First, a tight black long-sleeved shirt that sent warmth into her chest. On top of that was another long shirt, baggier than the first. There was a cloth bandana that fit over the lower half of her face, covering her nose, ears, and mouth from the cold. She tied it carefully around her neck. She picked up a pair of soft mittens and slid them into her pocket for safekeeping. Lastly, she slipped on fleece socks, then a pair of boots, leaving the box empty.

She assessed everything. She had rarely worn this many layers at once. Nine never got cold enough to warrant it. Fires in the fireplace and an extra blanket Ma sewed herself were enough.

It will be cold in the arena.

Ona sighed as a robotic voice indicated they had a minute to enter the glass tube. She took a single step before the warmth was replaced by a bloodless chill.

For the first time since stepping off the hovercraft, she hesitated.

I don’t want to get into that.

Ona took a step back. Her breaths became quick and shallow.

I can’t get into that.

Ona stumbled into the wall behind her.

I’m going to die.

It was like weeks of buried fear gripped hold of her heart, brain, and body all at once. Everything she had thought but never accepted was washing over her, and she was drowning. She was drowning, and the Games hadn’t even begun.

She had never felt this way before. Never felt so much resistance. It scared her, but death scared her more. It was like everything she had been avoiding had broken down the walls all at once.

And she didn't like it.

I have to get in the tube.

She released a shaky breath, but the fear stayed. She held herself. It didn't help her feel any more stable.

And then she walked.

The tube was colder than the room, and the glass moving around her caused a tiny yelp to escape from her throat. She placed her palms on the glass.

This was it. The end of Ona Ríos.

Unless she did something about it.

What was there to do?

(She knew the answer to that. Just because she didn't like it didn't change the facts.)

A mechanical pull echoed throughout the chamber. Then, she rose.