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DEAL WITH THE DEVIL
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  ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ

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THE FIRST THING that Ontari notices when she's escorted into President Snow's private office is the overwhelming stench of perfume that makes her nose sting and eyes water. As soon as the Peacekeeper who'd led her here steps out of her way to resume his place guarding the door, she realizes why: the room is covered in Snow's signature flower. White roses fill two wide-mouthed vases on either end of his desk made of shining, well-polished oak, flourish from bouquets perched on the windowsill, and sit pinned to the lapel of his suit. She's heard the rumors about why he keeps these perfumed monstrosities around. However, the noxious fumes are already giving her a headache, so she doesn't have the mental capacity to recall the stories whispered about Panem's sadistic leader.

"Miss Nightfall," the president greets. His ice-blue eyes watch her like a hawk, appearing to see down into her very soul as he smiles a grin dripping with poison and knives. His hair is nearly entirely white now and it matches his favorite flower almost perfectly. Though his face is beginning to show more wrinkles and signs of old age, it doesn't make him any less dangerous.

"Hello, President Snow," Ontari greets with feigned politeness, folding her hands in front of her so their shaking is less obvious. She keeps her tone formal. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting?"

His smile widens at her response, showing more of his teeth. He gestures to one of the two chairs placed in front of his desk and does not answer her question right away. "Sit. You must be exhausted after the fight you put up. It was quite the showdown between you and Miss Lockwind."

"Thank you, sir, but I'm well-rested." Every hair on the back of Ontari's neck stands up as she sits in the plush seat, urging her to get as far away as she can from this vile man. Her stomach churns at the mention of the ginger-haired Career. "The medical team is wonderful."

"Indeed." Snow pins her in place with his penetrating stare. There's a pause as he examines her once more before taking a breath and beginning, "Well, I suppose I should tell you why you're here. Usually I do not see the victors before the closing ceremony tonight. However, for you, there are some... special circumstances I would like to tell you about."

Ontari swallows. Special circumstances? Woof and Cecelia hadn't warned her about anything like this.

Snow presses a button. A small hologram appears above his desk, the image on it sending shards of glass blasting into Ontari's heart. It's her family. The photo must have been taken in the Main Square of Eight when the games had ended– she recognizes the Justice Building behind them and their neighbor's face half cut out of the frame. Her mother is clinging to her father, head buried in his chest as relieved tears roll from his brown eyes. Cassian, her younger brother, is staring at what must be the screen with his mouth slack in shock. She's surprised to see her older sister, Hestia, with her hands on Cassian's shoulders and her mouth pinched in pride. The nineteen-year-old usually has nothing but a scowl on her face.

"This is your family, yes?" Snow questions as he regards the image with a certain degree of curiosity that prickles Ontari's spine. She nods, and he doesn't look at her when he continues with, "Do you love them?"

Ontari doesn't know what kind of question that is, but she immediately answers with, "Of course."

"Ah, yes, I suppose you do." He presses another button and it zooms in on Hestia's face. With the details enlarged, Ontari can see what looks like tears lining her sister's lower lids. The sight shocks her. Hestia has always preferred to grind her emotions down to fine dust instead of expressing them– she hadn't even cried when they'd said their goodbyes in the Justice Building. "This is your sister, Hestia, correct? A spitfire, that one. She should learn to control her temper. It would be such a shame if something were to... happen to her."

Her blood goes cold. "What do you mean, sir?"

Snow pointedly ignores her and switches to Cassian's face. His youthful appearance – he's only fourteen – makes her heart hammer furiously until it's pounding against her ribs, blood roaring in her ears. Her hands become clammy with terror that snakes itself deep into her gut.

"And Cassian. So young. He enjoys books, doesn't he? I believe he was found holed up in your house some days, reading instead of watching the Games– he couldn't bear to look. Such a handsome young man he's turning out to be."

Ontari swallows shards of glass but doesn't dare to ask another question.

"Your parents. Your mother, a seamstress, and your father, a textile factory worker. Well, both of these jobs are former, now. Your family won't have to work a day in their lives anymore. Isn't that nice? One less burden on their shoulders."

Snow finally faces her, his face utterly blank, and somehow that's worse than the bone-chilling smile he'd given her earlier. His voice turns deathly blunt. "If you don't do exactly as I say, I will kill every single one of them. And then, when their lives are lost, I will move down the line and find every single person you came into contact with at school. I will obliterate District Eight if I have to." He zooms back in on Hestia's face. His message is clear– she will be the first to go if Ontari steps out of line. "Do you understand, Miss Nightfall, or would you like to test my word?"

Ontari nods, her chest hollow and fingertips cold with dread. Her previously-trembling hands have gone slack in her lap. She feels heavy, like a crushing weight has just been dropped on her shoulders and she's been forced to buckle underneath it.

"Say the words, Miss Nightfall."

And, before she realizes that she doesn't even know what she's agreeing to, she clears her throat and says in a loud yet wavering voice, "I understand, Mr. President."

"Good." Snow's lips stretch into a serpentine grin. Ontari thinks that she'd like to stab one of the rose thorns through his eye, then inwardly shudders at her own violent thoughts. He leans back in his chair and she's grateful for the minuscule addition of distance. "You will become one of the most prized possessions of the Capitol. The job is what we call a desirable, and it is only given to the victors that we see most fit."

He doesn't have to say it. Ontari's curves and strikingly blue eyes have made some people look twice, but now they're going to nail her coffin.

"You will be assigned to various patrons in the Capitol," he continues. "Some will be loyal to me. Some, you have to... convince to rethink any thoughts of treason. You will be assigned an agent who will work with you on how to present yourself and organize the clients you will see. Your stylist, Venus, has already been informed and will begin working on your outfits immediately. I already have your first customer lined up."

She waits with bated breath.

"You know of Finnick Odair, I'm sure."

Ontari almost scoffs. Who doesn't know of Finnick Odair? As the youngest victor of the Hunger Games in its entire history – he'd won three years ago at fourteen – he's quickly become the center of nearly every girl's world. He's dashingly good-looking. His life in District Four had given him sun-kissed skin with a beautiful glow, hair a golden blond and his dimpled smile enough to make anyone's insides melt.

And then she connects the dots. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

"Consider him a test, if you will. He is well-aware of the rules and requirements that this job entails. If he thinks you're suitable, then you have passed. If not, and you fail, your sister's blood is on your hands." He leans forward again until his elbows are placed on the desk between them. "If you do not think you can do it, remember that you have one job: convince me, or you may find yourself in the rubble of a ruin that was your own making."

There's a pause that's so deafeningly quiet that Ontari hears a ringing in her ears. She wonders if she's imagining that the stench of the roses has gotten stronger.

Then he bares his teeth at her in another shark-like smile. "Thank you, Miss Nightfall. Your agent will be in contact with you shortly to set up your appointment with Mr. Odair."

-:-

Ontari winces as Sable plucks a rogue eyebrow hair out of its follicle with a pair of tiny tweezers.

"Sorry, darling," she says with a sympathetic pout, her striking, sapphire curls inches from Ontari's face. The young woman yanks another hair. "You'll have to get used to this, I'm afraid. Victors always have so much pressure to look their best, but you— you'll have even more of it. Yes, frequent visits from us to keep your eyebrows shaped, waxing appointments, weight measurements so Venus always knows how to custom-make your clothes—"

"Sable, if you keep prattling on like that, our poor Ontari is going to go cross-eyed," Flaxe cuts in with a grin of his own. His hair is nearly as curly as Sable's and completely silver despite the fact that he doesn't look old enough for the color. Unless, of course, it's been dyed to look that way on purpose.

Her prep team has been placed in charge of tidying up minor imperfections before the closing ceremony. That means shaving and plucking any body hair that they deem unnecessary, applying her makeup, and working on her hairstyle.

Ontari glances at herself in the wide mirror of her bathroom in the Tribute Center. Coming back here has been odd— she keeps expecting to see Wyatt sulking around as he always had before the Games, refusing to speak to her more than absolutely necessary. She sometimes catches sight of the ghost of his curly head of chestnut-colored hair. It makes her heart leap in surprise, but then she realizes her eyes are playing tricks on her and the shock dissolves into crushing sadness. Wyatt hadn't wanted anything to do with her. Yet, he'd been an innocent boy ripped from this world, and she remembers seeing his face in the sparkling night sky with an unappealing degree of clarity.

Leome, a blue-skinned man with hair nearly as long as Ontari's and a thick goatee to match, is busy doing her hair. Pins stick out of his mouth from where they're clamped between his lips. She realizes with a pinch to her heart that he's crafting her dark locks into some elaborately wide braid, complete with hairpins that have tiny pearls on the ends of them. It reminds her of how Hestia used to plait her hair. She's done it ever since they were little— it's one of the only times they're civil and not standoffish with each other.

Hestia, who President Snow is going to kill first if she doesn't do exactly as he says, no matter what the cost to herself—

Ontari doesn't realize a tear has fallen until Sable wipes it away with a gentle hand, immediately launching into a flurry of apologies for being so harsh with the tweezers. It nearly makes her scoff a laugh. If only she were crying about something as trivial as the sting of getting her eyebrows shaped.

After her stray hairs are gone and Sable is once again pleased with the state of her eyebrows, Flaxe begins with her makeup. His hands are steady and precise as he covers her acne — the dirtiness of the arena had not been kind to her pores — until her face looks so blemishless it's like she'd been airbrushed. Sable helps him once he's done with the base coats of foundation and concealer. She seems to go a little too hard on some glittery powder that illuminates her cheekbones, but Flaxe doesn't chastise her, so maybe it's supposed to be that way.

When they're finished, Ontari looks like she's been dunked in silver powder. The glitter starts at her cheekbones and travels up her temples, winking at her as she turns her head from side to side and allows the light to catch on it. A few tiny gemstones have been placed on the outside corners of her eyes. Flaxe had chosen to pack a bit more of the silver onto her eyelids, but with a more metallic shine to it instead of outright sparkles. Her lips are a soft pink that's barely noticeable.

"You're just beautiful, darling," Sable gushes, clasping her hands together as she regards Ontari with a dreamy expression on her bronze face. She's older than Ontari by almost six years, but her slightly childish personality makes her seem younger than her other team members. That, and the men both stand at six feet while she's five-feet-five-inches, which is still a whole two inches taller than Ontari.

She hopes she'll grow a bit more.

"I think you'll love what Venus has made for you," Leome says as he drapes a thin robe over her shoulders. His voice is strange even for a Capitol resident, making it sound like he's constantly trying to speak around an enormous wad of chewing gum. "We took a peek earlier. It's marvelous!"

Ontari is silent as she allows them to lead her out of the bathroom and into her bedroom. The industrial gray walls almost match her makeup without its shininess, and she almost snorts before stopping herself. Victors do not snort.

Her stylist is standing near the floor-length mirror beside her bed with his hands clasped behind his back, having clearly been waiting for them. Spread carefully over the mattress is a dress-shaped bag that contains her outfit for the night. A shoebox is placed beside it.

Venus beams his slightly gap-toothed smile at her, bald head gleaming in the light and clothing options no less extravagant than what she'd expected. He wears an elegant button-down shirt covered in iridescent rhinestones so that a multitude of colors swirl around his front every time he moves. Over that is a bulky coat made of black fur that must weigh several pounds, dropping to the floor and nearly concealing his black pants. He'd clearly chosen that option for his bottom half to bring more attention to his shoes, which are covered in the same gems as his shirt and nearly blind her as she walks toward him.

"Ontari," he greets, still holding his dazzling grin as her prep team scuttles out of the room. She gives him a halfhearted smile of her own and takes his outstretched hand. He leads her to the mirror, where he examines her makeup and hair with a pleased nod. "I was worried that the silver might be too much, but I think it will look perfect with the dress."

Ontari knows the drill. Her stylist prefers for his work to be a secret until it's finished— the mirror is more for his sake so he can see her front while standing behind her. According to him, it makes his job easier and faster. She closes her eyes as he rummages around for the dress. Then, he slips off her robe and helps her into a lightweight piece of fabric that surprises her— she'd been expecting a heavy gown. What feels like tulle covers her arms, chest, and neck, stopping at the base of her throat. The dress pools around her feet. If it's this long, that means she'll be in heels. She only has to wait a few more seconds before he helps her into a strappy pair of shoes.

"Open," Venus instructs, voice borderline giddy but mostly proud.

Ontari obeys. When her eyelids flutter open, she has to blink again in shock at how shimmery she is. Everything sparkles— the silver gown itself and the transparent tulle that covers the rest of her upper half. The sleeves start off slim and then enlarge the farther down her arms they travel, only to bunch up at her wrists again. The actual dress' neckline travels down nearly to her navel. She swallows when she notices that, wondering if it's a side-effect of becoming a desirable— the more sexual aspects of her body must be accentuated. Venus must be starting off slow, though, because that's the only indecent part of the entire outfit, and it's not too noticeable. It merely looks like fashion.

She glances down at the feet she can't see. The heels must have been at least four inches because she now reaches Venus' nose. He grins at her in the mirror, pleased with her appearance.

"I call it 'Stardust'," he explains. So far, he's named every single one of her outfits, and appears to enjoy doing so. Maybe it makes remembering what he liked and didn't like about them easier.

"It's gorgeous," Ontari tells him honestly, staring at the spaghetti straps. His smile broadens.

"I know you aren't used to being in the spotlight yet, and I know it can be tough," Venus says, surprising her with this moment of sincerity. "I'm sure you've already been informed of what I have been... asked to do. I've never been one for subtlety, but I am now required to make sure that every one of your outfits is spectacular enough to capture everyone's attention. I'm afraid no one will be forgetting about you anytime soon, my dear. But rest assured knowing you don't need the makeup or the gowns to be beautiful— you're just as splendid without the glamour."

Ontari isn't sure where this speech had come from, but appreciates it nonetheless. She feels a rock in her stomach at his warning. If she's already a bit uncomfortable with this plunging neckline that doesn't reveal much of anything, she fears what her outfits will show in the future. And, at only halfway through her sixteenth year, her body hasn't finished developing yet. Her chest is already larger than she'd like. It seems that these feelings of self-consciousness will only grow as time passes.

Unsure of how to respond, Ontari nods mutely. Venus' all-knowing eyes remind her of Woof's— they seem to see everything that she's trying to hide, but he doesn't comment on them. He merely fixes a gemstone that had started to fall off of her temple and beckons her out of the room.

She's taken to the same auditorium that she'd had her interview. From her position underneath the stage, she can hear the muffled sounds of Caesar Flickerman warming up the crowd with a few good-natured jokes and comments on how exciting the Games had been this year. He reminds the audience of last year's victor, Augustus Braun, a Career from One who is known as the Capitol's son and nicknamed "the Cavalier Career."

"But this year's victor is not from the Career districts," Caesar reminds them in a sly tone. "Rather, she comes from District Eight – the place where the fabric you wear was made and also the home of just two other remaining victors. Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to Panem's newest victor of the Hunger Games– Ontari Nightfall!"

Ontari smoothes her trembling palms on the glittery fabric of her skirt and squares her shoulders the way Venus had instructed her to. The new posture makes her appear more confident while simultaneously pushing her chest out– something she'll have to get used to doing now. She shoves her nerves down to a place deep inside of herself that she can't access. And as the metal plate begins to rise, it takes every ounce of her being not to panic. She's not going back into the arena. The heat she feels on her head is coming from the heavy stage lights, not the scorching sunlight of a desert.

Her smirk doesn't falter. Not even when the plate stops moving and she finds herself surrounded by sand. The back of her neck is sweating, legs trembling and threatening to make her stiletto heels snap, but she composes herself and blinks. Her surroundings transform into the auditorium she unfortunately recognizes all too well. A year ago, her family had been crowded around the television in their living room, watching Augustus Braun conduct his post-victory interview.

Now she stands on the stage, the audience's deafening cheers ringing in her ears, with a wide smile plastered on her face as she waves and even blows a kiss to someone in the front row as she makes her way to Caesar. The older man's orange skin looks even worse up-close than she remembers and it takes all of her effort not to cringe as he embraces her like they've been friends for years. His hair has been dyed a surprisingly tame shade of baby pink. As he pulls back from their embrace with both hands on her shoulders, she's nearly blinded by the shocking whiteness of his perfect teeth.

Synthetic. Everything about them is synthetic. And soon, she won't be any better– this role she's been asked to play isn't her, but everyone is going to think it is. God, she'd wanted nothing more than to be relatively forgotten by the country and live a life in solitude like Woof and Cecelia, only returning to the Capitol annually to be a mentor. But now, she's going to become one of their shiny new toys.

She sits in the chair across from Caesar and wants nothing more than to vomit all over his impossibly shiny shoes.

"Ontari," he repeats her name in a dazzled tone as if he's starstruck by her presence. "My goodness, how long did it take to wash all of that sand off?"

She laughs like she's never heard a funnier joke in her entire life, deciding to play along to win over the audience even more. "I think I had to take five showers, Caesar. It was a nightmare. Who knew that sand could get everywhere?"

Caesar chuckles along with the crowd. "Well, you look great, and I think everyone here tonight can agree with me. How does she look, Panem?"

They both turn to look at the audience as their cheers rise to deafening levels of volume once again. Ontari keeps her smile glued to her face, cheeks aching. The lights aimed at her face are so blinding that she can't see past the tenth row, a fact that comforts her. She knows that this stadium seats hundreds, if not thousands. Seeing how many eyes are watching her every movement would surely send her spiraling into a panic.

"You're all too kind." Ontari places a hand to her heart, fingers cold and clammy through the tulle that covers her chest. "It's all thanks Venus and my prep team." She gestures in the general direction of their seats near the front row. The audience applauds politely, as does Caesar.

"Truly wonderful," the host says, drawing everyone's attention back to the stage. "Well, I suppose we should roll the tape. What do you think?"

Ontari's brain screams, No, not that, anything but that, but all that comes out of her mouth is, "I think that's a great idea, Caesar."

Three hours. Three hours of this, and then she can be crowned an official victor and go back to her room after the banquet. It's this thought that keeps her sane as the lights dim and the enormous screen shows the reaping in District Eight.

Ontari doesn't recognize herself. The girl whose name is called is not her, but some fairly innocent girl who still has a bit of light in the pale blue of her eyes. She walks up to the stage in a yellow polka-dotted dress that her mother had made by hand, seeming younger because of the white barrette that pins her hair out of her face. Then Wyatt's name is called. His chestnut hair is smoothed down, chocolate-colored eyes cold and calculating as they're forced to shake hands. She remembers how firm his grip had been and how he'd dropped her hand like he'd burned her. He doesn't look at her again.

Again, she feels that pang for the family whose son won't be returning to his home district. She wonders if the Creek family hates her. When she comes home, will she be greeted by their hostile stares? Do they wish she had died in the same way as him? Do they wish she had suffered a worse fate?

By the time she snaps out of this rabbit hole of worries, they're already showing her training scores, meaning she had missed the opening ceremony. Hopefully nobody had noticed the fact that she'd been trapped in a daze.

After the reaping, it's like Wyatt had never existed. His interview is completely chopped out of the recap and he's only shown for a brief second during the Games to acknowledge his death. Ontari's gut twists as she watches herself figuring out how to produce water from the cacti and which of the fruits she could safely eat. She has to force herself not to openly cringe as she kills the District Twelve boy by slitting his throat. The angle they'd chosen makes it seem so much more gruesome than it had been in real life– it shows the blood going everywhere, the light leaving his eyes and the tears in Ontari's own on-screen.

She had slit his throat from behind, so she hadn't been able to see the expression on his face when he'd died. Now she's certain that it will be in her nightmares.

There's a punch to her gut at the sight of her old allies, Alder and Dew. Alder had been a handsome boy of about fifteen with Asian heritage and silky black hair. Dew had looked like one of the fairies in Cassian's fantasy novels– her pixie-like face had been petite and hair colored a white-blonde. Neither of them last very long after their split.

Ontari's body aches by the time that the Games start to come to a close. Sitting in the chair – no matter how luxurious – is uncomfortable and making her backside numb. She's ironically grateful when the final battle begins, though she barely sees herself tricking and then killing Cerise because her eyes are glazed over. It still doesn't feel like any of this is real. She feels like she's floating above her body while some robot controls her movements. Like she's going to wake up in the desert at any moment.

Then the voice of Claudius Templesmith announces her as the victor of the sixty-eighth Games, the screen goes dark, and Ontari can breathe again.

The audience applauds as Ontari gets to her feet and turns toward where President Snow is walking onto the stage. The sight of him alone makes her stomach coil into painful knots, heart thudding dangerously against her ribs and body temperature increasing until she feels like her organs are on fire. She's so hot from all of the stage lights. Even though her gown is breathable, she feels like she's sweating too much.

A little girl trails behind the President with a pillow in her outstretched arms. A crown sits delicately at the center of it, twinkling under the lights. The girl and Snow stop in front of Ontari, who stands with her spine so straight it aches and her hands clasped in front of her so their shaking is undetectable. Her muscles ache with the force it takes for her to stay in one spot instead of running away. Every one of her nerves screams at her to back away from him, nausea roiling through her gut.

Snow places the crown on her head with a smile, but his eyes are unfeeling and as cold as the color blue within them. They seem to laugh at her, sneering, I've got you, I've got you, I've got you, and you're never getting free.

This crown feels too much like shackles chaining her to the Capitol.

_________

a/n:

proof that alexandra daddario is literally ontari:

this chapter pained me to write and this is only the beginning for our poor girl. things only get worse for her from here :( and for those of you who are wondering when her siblings will make an appearance again, i just have a few more things to set up in the capitol and then she'll be able to go back home to her family! trust me– i'm anxious to give cassian and hestia some "screentime" too.

here is the reference photo i used for ontari's dress!

also, i based wyatt's looks off of brenton thwaites, so that's how i picture him! you're free to imagine him as anyone you like, of course, but that's how i wrote him.

–kristyn

( word count: 4.9k )