The voice of the presiding judge was quiet, but to her, every word sounded as if it was imprinted in her brain.

"Donna Blues, you are found guilty of Counts Two and Four and not guilty of Count One."

Hands clenched tightly in her lap so that nobody could see them shake, Donna tried to swallow, but couldn't. Guilty. She had expected that, of course, even before the eleven identical verdicts that had preceded hers. No matter how unexpectedly fair the trial, the Rebellion wasn't going to let the 'key criminals' go. Donna had known that. Her entire defense had been a hopeless refusal to admit that the rope was already on her neck, a desperate approach from an unexpected angle. Even her lawyer had considered her strategy foolish, but he wasn't the one fighting for his life.

They hadn't managed to tie any sort of overarching conspiracy to her, but that left the implementation of the Hunger Games and crimes against humanity. That meant that in less than an hour, she would hear her sentence. The prosecution had demanded death for Donna. Would that be what she heard when she next entered the courtroom? Her mind refused to ask that question, let alone answer it. Instead, she focused on the verdicts being spoken. Guilty on all counts. Guilty on Counts One and Two. Guilty, guilty, guilty. It felt strange to think that her neighbours, with some of whom she had worked for decades, would soon be dead.

Now came the turn of Theodosius Coll. He had offered to be on a first-name basis with her when she had taken partial responsibility for those who had died in the Arenas she had worked on, and he - for the actions of the government he had been part of as Minister of Resources. Donna had never told Theodosius that his willingness to take on partial general responsibility combined with reluctance to name any specific event or policy (which made sense given that the Districts were rightly pointing at him as the source of oppressive quotas and demands) was off-putting to say the least. Their co-defendants, though, were unimpressed with the hypocrisy, not like they were any better, and resented the glimmer of chance that Donna and Theodosius' positions offered.

The verdict was, predictably, guilty. It was followed by another, and it was finally the turn of Irma Slice, who had once decided what the Districts could and could not see on their televisions while also hosting a moderately popular talk-show.

"Irma Slice, you are found not guilty of the charges brought against you and will be released once the Tribunal adjourns."

What? Donna felt dizzy for a second and wondered what was happening before realizing that her head had whipped around to stare at Slice. This made no sense! Why Slice? Why not her, then? Donna had gotten used knowing that she would be found guilty, but to find out there had been another option all along? Anxiety squeezed her chest as Donna tried to reorient herself. Slice was leaning against the railing and eating a wrap. For a second, Donna wanted to strangle her.

For breakfast that day, they had all received a wrap sealed in wax-paper and a tiny apple Donna could hide in her hands. Both were in her pockets right now, as she had been unable to eat. Slice clearly wasn't suffering from that problem anymore. She was accepting the handshake offered by Theodosius and saying something to the guard behind her. The defendants were all getting to their feet. Clutching the back of the bench with one hand to stop herself from trembling, Donna also congratulated Slice.

"You deserve this," said Donna honestly if not sincerely. "The case against you was weak, everyone knew it."

Slice seemed to be deflating slowly. "Yes, but now what? They'll just arrest me again, and this time, the charges will be harder to dodge." She shook her head, shoving the wax-paper into a pocket of a clean if bland-looking jacket. Donna wore a similarly drab suit. Slice tried to twirl a lock of tight curls around her finger, but her hair was too short and she gave up. Another way their individuality had been scrubbed away, with removal of body modifications and the close-cropping of hair.

"Well, good luck to you," said Slice. Donna wasn't sure what to say, so she just shrugged. Slice seemed to realize a barrier had been drawn between them, so she stepped back as all but one of the defendants were led out of the courtroom to their cells.

Donna stared at the photograph of her children and husband that stood on her rickety table. If she was sentenced to death, they would be allowed to visit her one last time. And if she wasn't? Donna couldn't think about it. The air felt stifling, and she unbuttoned the top buttons of her shirt. It still felt hard to breathe, and her heart seemed to be hammering away as if it wanted to beat as much as possible before the end. Biting back a mad whine that was bubbling up inside her, Donna stared at her husband's face. Dem was smiling in the photograph, but was he smiling now? A stay-at-home parent with five children, no extended family, no qualifications, how was he coping? He always put on a brave face for their visits, but how he must be struggling.

There was a jangle of keys at her door. It must be time. Donna stared at the tiny cell that had been her home for eleven months. She would only be back if sentenced to death, but a part of her longed to return to this place that was almost like home now.

Warden Vance was looking at her with that familiar emotionless but relaxed expression. "Fasten your buttons, don't look so slovenly!" The guards agreed with the prisoners that the warden's obsession with neatness and precision was extremely irritating.

The air in the hall wasn't any better. "The air is stuffy," explained Donna, "and it's hard to breathe." The soldier behind Warden Vance smirked, but the warden's face seemed to soften a notch before returning to its usual state.

"Oh, don't act like a child!" he snapped. "You are a woman, face your fate like a woman!" Chastened, Donna buttoned her shirt, even though the collar felt way too tight. How had she not noticed it before?

She was led, alone save for the warden and the other guard, through the halls. The silence pressed down on her. Her thoughts raced frantically but latching on to one was impossible, she couldn't focus. There was no fear of what lay behind those doors, just crushing anxiety that made her palms sweat and chest hurt. Each step seemed to be weighed with lead and yet take her ten metres in one bound. So close now. The door opened, and Donna faced the lights and the cameras and the hesitant silence alone. She had never liked the spotlight. It was not the place for an engineer, even the Head Engineer of the Hunger Games.

Donna was suddenly, strangely calm. It was too late to worry now.

"State your name."

Leaning towards the microphone, she spoke. "Donna Blues."

"Defendant Donna Blues, on the counts of the indictment of which you have been convicted, you are sentenced to twenty-five years' imprisonment."

She suddenly realized that it was loud in the courtroom, conversation and typing and photography and who knew what else combining to a dull roar that filled her ears. Dazed, Donna looked around and met the wide eyes of Dr. Fisher, her lawyer. He seemed shocked.

Donna bowed without thinking, and was quickly led out through the doors for the last time. Her thoughts skittered through her mind, scrambling for purchase. Twenty-five years. She wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry, she wanted to throw up. How she had dreaded the words 'To death by hanging!', and yet, it had been almost a shock to hear that she would live.

For some reason, she thought of Slice. So unfair that Slice was already free, and Donna was behind bars for a time that seemed to be as long as eternity. Cuffed to a guard, she walked down the corridor, slightly surprised to realize that she was breathing and nobody would be stopping her from doing so.

In a new cell, one floor above the old, that was to be her temporary home until the executions were over and the rest transferred to the Supermax, Donna took the paper off the wrap, and devoured it in a few bites. The apple, she ate with the seeds. She was hungry again, hungry enough to not care that the wrap was bland and stale, and the apple had clearly seen better days. They had been given sufficient calories for the trial so they wouldn't look drawn and pitiful, but the taste of the food left much to be desired. Would they get even that much now, she and the rest of the prisoners? The new leadership could subject her to anything now that she would be hidden behind bars.

And she had to consider herself lucky to be behind bars, even if the guard outside her door claimed it would be at the old Supermax where the most important political prisoners had once been held. Theodosius would be with her - also sentenced to twenty-five years, the two of them were the only ones who would walk out of the prison alive. Six had been sentenced to life, fifteen - to death. If Donna thought about it, none of the sentences were particularly surprising. It was still hard to grasp that fifteen of them would be dead soon.

Donna set aside the wax-paper and unpacked the box that held all of her belongings. The guards had told her secretly that the executions were almost two weeks away, so it made sense to unpack. Toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, comb, deodorant, pads. Towel, extra underwear, extra socks. A book that she would get to read to the end. Paper and a flexible pen. Photograph of parents, photograph of brother, photograph of her husband Dem and the children.

The children. They all bore her last name, of course - Dem had been born to a family higher up in society than hers but had cut all ties with them already in university. Donna only vaguely knew the reasons (she knew that his parents had been horrible people, that was it), and now she wondered if those mysterious reasons were really worth saddling five innocent children with her now-infamous name.

The eldest, little Donna(Dem had insisted on naming the eldest daughter after her; what sort of consequences would that have?) was twelve. She would be thirty-seven when her mother came home, the same age as Donna was now. Lars was nine; he would be thirty-four. Aulus would be thirty-one, but she could only imagine him as he was now, six years old. Laelia was four, but she would be a long-grown woman of twenty-nine. The youngest, Octavius, was only two now, and even he would be twenty-seven, a man with children of his own, when Donna was released.

And Donna herself would be sixty-two. An old woman.

Thinking about her children growing up without her hammered home the impact of the sentence. Twenty-five years was going to be an eternity for them, especially the littlest ones who would never remember her before prison. Donna felt as if she was entering a very long tunnel.

She reached for the pen and a piece of paper. Since arriving here, she had written notes daily, usually about what had happened to her that day, and passed them to her husband through a sympathetic guard from Eight who also missed her family. Dem wrote back sometimes, but Donna was sure he was putting on a brave face. His clandestine responses were almost the same as what he wrote in the official (and heavily censored) mail every week.

Pen silently glided over paper. I was led alone through the doors of the courtroom for the very last time…

Donna watched Dr. Fisher sit down on the other side of the glass panel. He was a small, pale man whose thoughts always seemed to be far away even as he focused on the task at hand. For the first time, Donna wasn't enraged by the seemingly vacuous expression.

"I suppose this is our last meeting," she said loudly. The panel was hard to talk through.

Fisher nodded. "Are you going to petition for clemency?" he asked. Donna had to strain to hear him, but it somehow wasn't as annoying as before.

Donna shrugged, trying to think of a way to phrase it. "No," she eventually said. Neither her nor Theodosius (according to two separate guards) were going to petition. Since they had the lightest sentences (twenty-five years was now considered light!), it would just look idiotic to outsiders. Anyhow, Donna knew that none of them had even a single chance of getting their sentences reduced. Someone had apparently asked to have their life sentence replaced with execution, but Donna wasn't sure who that was.

They sat in silence for a while until one of the guards present told them their time was almost up. Fisher rose to his feet.

"I would shake your hand," he said, "but the barrier is in the way."

"We'll shake hands when I get out," said Donna. "After all, you're the reason I'll still be around in twenty-five years." At that, Fisher smiled slightly. He gave her a brief bow before leaving.

Donna was cuffed to one of the guards and led back to her cell. For the next week, she would only be let out for her half-hour daily walk. How was Theodosius doing? Donna hadn't seen him at all since the sentencing even though their cells were close to each other. She hadn't even seen the other women when taken to wash; they were now brought out one by one. Was she going to be kept in isolation like this for the next twenty-five years? Donna wasn't sure if she was going to last the next seven days.

Back in her cell, she started a note to Dem. I never really understood just what it means to be able to talk to someone…

The sound of hammering woke Donna up in the middle of the night. She could see darkness outside, but in her cell, the light never went out. It made it hard to fall asleep, and Donna was furious that she'd have to do it again now because someone had decided to do repairs in the middle of the night. She stretched out on the cot, trying to ignore the hammering and the lightbulb, with its light that didn't go away when she closed her eyes.

Realization hit her like a vise around her heart. It was probably already early morning of the day before the execution. They must have been putting up the gallows.

All desire to sleep was gone. Donna drew in ragged breaths, trying to prevent hyperventilation. Her thoughts raced frantically as she slowly calmed herself. Why was she panicking? She wasn't the one heading for the noose. But the thought set off a fresh wave of anxiety, and she curled up under the blanket, feeling like she was going to have a heart attack. Breathe. Breathe. Focus on something else.

Over the course of the day, the anxiety steadily grew worse until Donna was worried that she was going to have a full-blown panic attack. Time dragged on. She refused to go on her half-hour walk, afraid that her legs wouldn't hold her. Donna couldn't focus on anything. Dr. Aurelius, the psychologist, visited her for a brief time but it was clear he was more concerned with the condemned. She wrote a note, and hid it in her sock. Would there be someone willing to smuggle notes for her in the Supermax, or would she be limited to official mail?

She ate without tasting the food. She tried to read, but couldn't focus. Her thoughts were darting in all directions. Why couldn't this all just be over already? Even as the sun set, Donna felt no desire to sleep. She was exhausted, but her eyes wouldn't stay closed. She sat on her cot, mindlessly doodling on the blank page of her book and trying to force her brain to realize that everything would be alright for her.

A door opened with a slam on the floor below. Footsteps. It must be time. Donna couldn't breathe. She sagged limply against the wall, listening to the footsteps fade. Silence. Her heart was beating so hard and fast, she was afraid it would smash itself on her ribs. The very air seemed to choke her, and Donna had to undo the top buttons of her shirt. It didn't help, it was still just as hard to breathe. Another door slammed open. Donna started to hyperventilate, her breath coming in desperate pants. She wheezed, trying to hold back sobs, hoping she wouldn't throw up. She couldn't stop, couldn't hold her breath to try to regain control over herself, it was her first actual meltdown in years.

The doors slammed fifteen times. Fifteen deaths. Whoever it was to request death instead of life, they clearly hadn't gotten their wish. Donna fought to control her breath, hands fidgeting with her shirt. Footsteps in the corridor, it must be a guard change. Keys jangled in the lock of her cell door, which was thrown open.

Everything started to fade to black before returning. Donna swayed, grabbing the mattress so she wouldn't fall off the side of the cot. She wasn't panting anymore, but taking huge gulps of air as she suddenly felt like she wasn't getting enough oxygen.

"Five minutes to pack your things," said the guard at the door.

Five minutes later, Donna walked down the hall cuffed to the guard, trying to smooth out her short hair which was sticking up. Since her free hand was holding her box of belongings, Donna had to fix her hair with her shoulder. It wasn't working very well. She was exhausted, her nerves were shot, and she felt like she was going to collapse at any moment. The other prisoners were around her, but she didn't try to nod to them or even make eye contact.

Donna was brought to a grey van without windows. The prisoners were uncuffed from the guards and ushered inside, hands now fastened in front of them. The box felt like it might slip from Donna's hands. Trying to figure out a better way to hold it, she sat back in the tough seat as the driver warned them to not say a word. Donna looked around, meeting Theodosius' gaze. He looked like he had been crying. Slowly, he smiled at her, but the smile was a sad one. Donna returned it, but then lowered her gaze to her box as guards sat down next to all of them and the van sped off.

The trip was faster than she had expected, but the driver seemed to have no idea that speed limits existed. Were the roads truly that deserted? Donna had no idea. There were no windows, and the guards sat in stony silence as the van bounced up and down on potholes. When the van came to a stop, the prisoners were taken out one by one. Donna looked around.

It was still night, and chilly at that. They were far outside the Capitol proper, in a large, overgrown meadow cut through by a single road. Behind her was an open gate, before her - an open door.

The Panem Supermax. Donna's home for the next twenty-five years.