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VICTORY IS NOT SWEET
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ONTARI WASN'T SUPPOSED to get this far. As the daughter of a seamstress and carpenter, she hadn't grown up prepping for this her entire life like the Careers have. She doesn't even have many valuable life skills. Average memory and average swordsmanship weren't supposed to carry her until the final two tributes of the sixty-eighth Hunger Games. But here she is, hunting down a Career before she can be hunted herself.

Her old allies are dead. She, Alder, and Dew had decided to split up as the numbers had dwindled so they wouldn't have to kill each other. They'd both been killed by the Careers that very same day. Ontari is completely and utterly alone in this. As a middle child and with siblings extremely close in age, she isn't used to being on her own. Not having anyone to watch her back has granted her sleepless nights and scarce breaks in the event of an attack.

Her lips are so dry and cracked that they'd started bleeding long ago, and now the pain that shoots through her mouth every time she pants is a distant memory. The sun must be synthetic because her ivory skin should be blistering with sunburn by now. Instead, it's merely caked with so much sand that she's positive it would take weeks to get all of it out. It's everywhere— in her brunette hair, burried under her nails, in her clothes, and stuffed in her boots.

It doesn't matter, anyway, because it's not like she'll be alive long enough to take another shower.

The sword in her hand contains the weight of a mountain. Her muscles ache from the effort to carry it, still not used to bringing a weapon everywhere she goes. Life as an upcoming seamstress in District Eight made her hands dainty. Now they're calloused, dirty, and coated with blood— both metaphorically and literally. The crimson staining them is from the District Twelve boy she'd killed two days ago, having whispered a prayer of forgiveness before sneaking up behind him and cleanly slitting his throat. He hadn't felt a thing.

Her steps are languid and uneven, the colorless scenery around her swirling together until she can hardly distinguish earth from sky. The sun beats down mercilessly, making her more fully aware of the dryness in her throat and how her mouth feels like it's been stuffed with cotton. She must be feeling the effects of dehydration. Even though she isn't medically trained, she's not stupid enough to dismiss that as a possibility.

A heavy exhale from her mouth. Two. Three. Her legs feel like gelatin, wobbling under her weight even though she'd lost a few pounds while in the arena. She's always been curvy, but now her hipbones are more prominent than they've ever been and her cheeks are slightly hollow. When's the last time she'd scored a meal that wasn't a single piece of cactus fruit? She doesn't remember. Time is irrelevant here. She doesn't even know how many days it's been since the bloodbath.

The choice for this year's arena – a desert – had shortened the length of the Games significantly. They must have done something to make the sun hotter or the air dryer, because most of the tributes had died from dehydration early on. Ontari knows that a lack of water usually doesn't kill people that quickly. However, this time, it had, and she had only survived this long because she'd read a book on cacti during her training and learned that it was possible to retrieve water from within them. The Gamemakers must have depleted all of it from the plants to make for a more interesting final battle; she hasn't had success tapping a cactus for a day and a half.

A crunch on the sand from behind her. Ontari whirls around, swaying on her feet from the rapid movement that makes her head spin and vision tilt. She squints, finding the final remaining tribute standing in front of a thicket of cacti— the tribute from Two, Cerise Lockwind. She must have been named for her fire-red hair, which is held out of her face by a messy braid that's sprinkled with beige grains of sand. Her pale, freckled skin is cracked and dry from the waterless atmosphere, emerald-green eyes glaring at Ontari and knives clenched in her hands. She appears equally as tired.

"You may as well surrender now," Cerise tells her, voice hoarse and yet mocking. "I'll make it quick— I promise."

When Ontari speaks, it feels like she's ripping her throat raw. "Not a chance."

The lithe girl shrugs. "Your funeral."

Then she launches into action, barely giving Ontari enough time to dodge the blade that comes spinning her way. The knife lands somewhere behind her in the sand. Cerise wastes no time in springing into action, but Ontari ducks and heads into the thicket of cacti.

One of the prickly plants rips a scrape into her bicep through her jacket, making her grimace as blood trickles down her arm. Another cuts her cheekbone when she pushes further into the mass of plants. The cacti are nothing but blurs as she darts between them, twisting and turning as an attempt to limit the amount of scratches she obtains.

"The hell are you doing?" Cerise demands from behind her. "You don't have anywhere to go!"

That's where she's wrong. Her opponent is clearly impulsive, hardly thinking about what she does before she's doing it. The redhead's bloodlust is making her clumsy. All she wants to do is kill Ontari— she doesn't seem to know how she wants to do it.

Unlike Cerise, Ontari has a plan.

Once she determines she's far enough into the thicket of cacti, she makes a sharp left turn and begins to loop back around, crouched low and eyes stalking their prey like a cat. Cerise comes into view moments later. She's panting, looking wildly around to see where Ontari had gone. Her fatal mistake is looking over the plants instead of between them.

The raven-haired girl pops out of the cacti with her sword raised, prepared to hack off Cerise's throwing arm if necessary. Her opponent senses the shift in the air and swiftly sidesteps, unfortunately falling directly onto one of the sharp monstrosities surrounding them. Cerise screams as the needles pierce her unprotected flesh — her jacket is gone, leaving her in just a t-shirt — but she pushes herself off of the cactus and swipes out at Ontari in an arc aimed at her chest. Ontari swiftly ducks, slashing out with her sword and successfully producing a long but shallow gash along Cerise's thighs.

"You bitch!" Cerise cries, slashing out at Ontari's face with her knife. She actually cuts the skin this time, making her gasp as blood runs down her forehead.

Ontari, breathless, agrees, "Yeah," and then drives the point of her sword through Cerise's midriff with every ounce of her remaining strength, effectively impaling her to the cactus plant.

Cerise blanches, her hand going slack and knife dropping to the sand. Blood dribbles from her mouth and down her chin. It begins to mix with the crimson covering her hands, arms, and side where she'd slammed into the needles, creating a morbid scene painted with enough red to match her hair.

Her body goes still, held upright only by the weapon nailing her to the cactus. The cannon blows. Cerise's green eyes stare at nothing, emeralds glazed with death.

Ontari's chest heaves in time with her heavy breaths. Even so, she can't seem to get enough air into her lungs. She can't even process what she's just done— what killing Cerise means for her. The sun is too hot, and everything is too bright, and she's so thirsty.

The speaker overhead crackles. Moments later, the voice of Claudius Templesmith booms over the arena containing only one living soul, "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the victor of the sixty-eighth annual Hunger Games: Ontari Nightfall!"

She doesn't know what happens after that, nor does she get a chance to react, because Ontari passes out from exhaustion and crumples onto the scorching sand.

-:-

She lingers in a strange, dreamless state of unconsciousness for what seems like years. Her body catches up on the many hours of sleep it had lost during the Games– if the arena had been scorching during the day, it was nearly freezing at night, making her thankful for the jacket she'd been given that absorbed her body heat during the day, but even it hadn't been enough. Now, instead of shivering so violently it had hurt, she lies completely still on her back, as motionless as a porcelain doll.

Until her eyelids flutter open after the second day.

Ontari blinks at the light that sends searing brightness directly into her eyes. Her face scrunches as her pupils adjust and her mind whirls, trying to figure out where she is. A few slow blinks inform her that she's lying in some kind of cot with half a dozen machines surrounding it. One of them has an IV connected to the inside of her right elbow. Another is attached to the back of her left hand. Both of the liquids inside of them are clear, meaning they could be countless substances that Ontari doesn't even know exist.

The first thing she notices is that she isn't parched anymore. For the first time in days, her mouth doesn't feel like sandpaper and it doesn't seem like a handful of nails are sliding down her throat every time she swallows. When she twitches her nose at the strong scent of antiseptic, it doesn't feel like her skin is going to peel off in a sheet of dryness. All of these factors combined lead her to assume that she's been injected with fluids in order to rehydrate her.

Ontari struggles to pick her head off of her pillow. It aches, sending pulses of agony down to her toes when she examines what she can see of her body. It's clean. As she turns her hands over – slowly, since the skin around the needle is sensitive and bruised – she notices that they've already been scrubbed clean with not a speck of sand in sight. One of the shallow cuts she'd gained in battle, which had been right below her thumb, is gone. The skin is perfectly intact as if she had never obtained the injury.

The throbbing in her temples makes it impossible for her to hold her head up any longer. She plops it back down on the pillow with a huff, noticing with slight panic that her vision is starting to go blurry. At first, she thinks it may be a concussion, but as her eyelids grow ever-heavier, she realizes that it must be whatever's in the other IV that's pulling her under. Her healing process is not complete. Any fight her body puts up is ineffective– within seconds, she slips back into the comforting blanket of darkness with no sign that she'd ever woken in the first place.

Ontari's eyes open again and, if both IVs hadn't been taken out of her body, she wouldn't have been able to tell that any time had passed. There isn't a single window in the blandly-styled room– all of the light comes from fluorescent bulbs that shine from the ceiling. She realizes this time that the walls are bleak and bare, colored a dull white that's so unlike every other place in the Capitol that it's almost humorous. In fact, everything is colorless except for her tribute outfit, which had been placed at the end of the cot.

Ontari's gut twists at the sight of it– the beige jacket that had helped her blend in with the sand. The brown cargo pants. The boots and thick socks that had killed her to wear during the day but saved her extremities at night. Even the white fingerless gloves are there. Ontari had shoved them in her pockets during the day because they made her hands slip on the hilt of her sword, and she recalls them also being covered in sand, but now they've been restored to their original pristine condition as if the games had never happened.

For a terrible, gut-wrenching moment, she blanches, wondering if they had actually transpired. Maybe she'd fallen unconscious prior to getting sent in the tube and everything had just been a dream, fabricated by her brain as a product of her fear–

No. Ontari shakes her head. It couldn't have been a dream. She remembers the blazing-hot sun too vividly, and though her skin doesn't have a single blemish on it anymore, she can still feel the weight of the sand as if it's still clinging to her like a second layer. And what she'd done– all the people she'd killed– her brain couldn't have made that up.

The people she'd killed.

The Games she'd won.

Before she can make her own mind implode, Ontari turns her head to the left and notices a cup of broth on the bedside table. She grabs it and nearly makes it spill over the edge of the green bowl when she pulls it to her mouth. Instead of using the spoon to carefully scoop it out, she puts the brim to her lips and chugs the chicken-flavored liquid greedily. Some of it drips down her chin and sends droplets onto her paper gown. She doesn't care– not when she hasn't had the liberty of consuming actual food – even if it's just broth – in what seems like forever.

When she's finished, she sets the bowl back in place with a dull thunk of ceramic on wood. Her feet swing over the right side of her bed. She feels the chill of the tiled floor before her bare skin even touches it, so she makes the decision to yank her socks on first before she stands.

Putting on the tribute uniform is jarring. It makes her head spin, the present mashing with the past as deja-vu invades her memories. She recalls slipping this same shirt on while Venus had stood nearby, instructing her on how to lace the boots so they wouldn't easily slip off. She hadn't thought she'd ever see her stylist again after that. His final words of advice would have been Don't take those gloves off, and she hadn't even listened. Maybe she should have. The blisters she got from holding the burning-hot hilt of the sword had been hell.

When she finishes, she pads to the door and wrenches it open with a surprisingly loud creak. Her head pokes into the hallway. It's empty, with no sign of another living soul and filled with nondescript doors. She notices that an electronic sign next to her room reads ONTARI NIGHTFALL – STABLE in bold text. None of the other rooms have a marker like this.

Ontari makes the ultimate decision to walk to her left. The right appears to lead to a dead-end, and besides, she's fairly certain she can hear muffled voices coming from the other way. They get louder as she walks farther. Soon, she's able to distinguish them, and her heart leaps into her chest when her brain recognizes their owners. Woof! Cecelia! And, less enthusiastically, Cabel, the tribute escort for District Eight.

She rounds a corner and the voices cut off instantly. Cecelia gasps, putting a hand to her mouth as if she may already start crying. Woof immediately launches to his feet and whirls around. Cabel, less modest in his emotions than Cecelia, promptly bursts into loud and obnoxious tears, his dramatic eyeliner running down his bronze cheeks in inky rivers.

Ontari isn't sure what to do. She stands there for a moment, trying to ignore Cabel's sobs, attempting to figure out if there's a certain way to react. Both of her mentors had been polite and earnest in their teachings, but had kept a safe amount of distance in case the two tributes hadn't survived. And while Wyatt hadn't...

Woof helps her out by spreading his arms for a hug. Ontari finds her face pinching as tears spring to her eyes, eyesight turning misty as she walks forward and accepts his invitation. Woof's stocky and sturdy body feels like a rock as she squeezes him tightly, head buried in the soft shoulder of his sweater. His embrace conveys all of the words he can't seem to speak. I'm proud of you. I'm here for you.

Ontari is in tears by the time he passes her over to Cecelia. The woman in her late-twenties holds her close, stroking her hair and feeling strangely like an older sister– if her actual older sister had any emotions to show. Her hands are rough and broken from spending her teenage years in a textile factory, but her hug is loving and gentle.

When they pull away, Cecelia brushes a tear stain off of Ontari's face with the pad of her thumb. Her pale skin is creased with worry. "You're alright?"

Ontari notices she doesn't say anything like Good job or We'd always knew you'd make it, because both of those things would have made her feel worse. She doesn't feel like she's done a good job at all. And they couldn't have known she would win– nobody could have. She'd gotten an average score in private training. Her interview had gained her a single sponsor. She wasn't remarkable, wasn't memorable, and she's sure she'll have hell to pay when she visits the Career districts on the Victory Tour.

Victory Tour. Her mind is so jumbled that she forgets to respond to Cecelia's question. Instead, she sinks onto the sofa, staring blankly ahead and ignoring Cabel's exclamations of "Such a wonderful display of courage–" "– was on the edge of my seat–" "– drinking from the cacti, brilliant!"

Woof shares a grave expression with Cecelia, his gray-blue eyes lined with age and knowledge. He places a steady hand on Ontari's shoulder and gives it a comforting rub as she gazes at nothing. It's only when he speaks that she snaps out of her daze.

"Oh, Ontari, before we leave to get you ready for the ceremony– President Snow wants to speak with you."

_________

a/n:

YOOOOOOOO.

i was really excited to touch on ontari's games and give a bit of an insight as to how she won. personally, i think impaling someone to a cactus is pretty badass! especially because she did it while half-delirious from heatstroke and dehydration.

also!! if you check out the introductory chapter, you'll see that i added the official casting of finnick! he's played by *drumroll* colin ford! a few of you suggested him and i can totally see it. one thing is that i imagine him being a bit more muscular since he's supposed to be really good with a trident.

i'm so pumped to get her family back in the story (especially cassian and hestia, my babes) but, unfortunately, ontari has to suffer a little bit more before she can see them again.

please leave a comment about what you thought! i'd also love to hear about what you're most excited about in this book. for me, it's developing her relationships with pre-existing characters and getting to write about her bomb outfits again. i have a few planned that are gonna be awesome!!

–kristyn

( word count: 3.2k )