#the red light district trinket crying laughing

[lacystar]

I missed amongus server drama? 🥲

Qwerty no amount of update accounts could describe what happened

[cdyssey]

Sorry

Summary: When both Peeta and Katniss's scores come back as perfect and punitive twelves, Haymitch finds himself in Effie Trinket's room with a bottle of gin.

A/N: I've been re-reading The Hunger Games trilogy and got all up in my Hayffie feels again. The grip that these two people had on me as a middle schooler, omg.

AO3 Link

—

It’s a corridor on the twelfth floor that Haymitch knows a little too well. Over the long and unending years, he’s taken to calling it Capitol Row because it’s where people like the stylists and their prep teams have been given temporary residences during the Games. All fully furnished and luxurious, the kinds of suites that would comfortably house entire shacks from the Seam. His uneven footsteps mechanically carry him to the door at the very end of the hallway, where a faint sliver of golden light seeps through the cracks and fans across the mahogany floor. He slams his knuckles against the paneled wood rather harshly, not even bothering to stifle the violence.

It's the only way he knows how to carry himself in the world.

“Not now, Haymitch, please,” Effie Trinket calls out from somewhere within the room, her voice high, pitched with audible strain. “I’m a little… indisposed at the moment. Hardly suitable for company.”

He laughs roughly at this, leaning heavily against the nearest wall to support his tenuous equilibrium. His other fist is clenched around one of the cloudy bottles of District 11’s gin that Chaff managed to smuggle on to the train. Strong stuff. Could probably clean the rust off of an old threshing machine. Was probably originally distilled for that very purpose anyway.

“Is that a fancy word for drunk, sweetheart?”

“No!” He can hear her bristling indignation in just the one syllable. “Just… I don’t have my makeup on or my wig… or any of my other necessary accoutrements! Furthermore, it is well past midnight, and—“

“And I’ve seen you without all your fancy shit on before.” He says this a little more quietly—far more carefully—wriggling it through his chapped lips as though he’s negotiating a key in a lock. He glances behind him, craning his head, but the six or so doors beneath Effie’s room are undisturbed, the hallway silent and dark. 

It’s just them awake after an exhausting day.

For the most part during the Games, it usually is.

“I’m… not in the mood tonight,” comes an even quieter reply—close to him, he thinks, just on the other side of the door, the sound pressed right against the grain. “Surely you’re not either, Haymitch—not after, you know…” She trails off awkwardly, but he has no trouble following her thoughts.

Dinner.

The kids’ tiny rebellions.

Their dual punishments of a perfect score.

The boy painted Rue in a bed of flowers.

The girl hung Seneca Crane.

Heavensbee is likely furious; they can hardly stage a proper mutiny if Katniss and Peeta are both immediately killed by jealous Careers at the Bloodbath.

“I’m not here to fuck you,” Haymitch agrees gruffly, taking a long drag of the gin, almost ecstatic that it burns his abused tongue. He swishes it around in his mouth a little and lets the pain erupt down the column of his throat before finally swallowing. “I just wanna talk.”

“So vulgar,” Effie whispers disapprovingly.

“Let me in,” he only returns, knowing that he’s won when her strongest counterargument boils down to manner—which both of them are well aware that he doesn't have. There’s an infinitesimal sigh and the telltale ker-clunk of a lock before the door suddenly sweeps inwards, and Effie Trinket is standing there in the triangle of light, bathed in golden fluorescence. As she had complained, she’s not wearing any makeup and that ridiculous orange wig is just behind her on a table, sitting neatly atop of a custom mannequin head. Her natural hair falls in soft waves across her shoulders, light and flaxen and not bleached to oblivion yet like her nonexistent brows. Beneath those very same brows, he can see that she’s been crying recently, the redness of her eyes unmistakable.

“I like you better without all that crap caked on your face,” he offers by way of greeting and waddles past her into the room, giving her the time she needs to collect herself. She closes the door with a quiet click, and he hears her sniff surreptitiously at the exact same time. With Effie Trinket, he’s come to learn that timing is never a coincidence with her.

They’re in her small living area where there’s a comfortable couch, a large television screen embedded into the wall, and a full mini-bar outfitted with all the precocious wines that District 12’s bubbly escort likes to drink. He heads there first and scoops up two crystalline glasses from the display cabinet, studying them with a knowing smirk. They’re far too elegant and expensive for the bootleg hooch that District 11 herbalists brew in their back rooms, but still, he pours himself a generous finger from his bottle anyway. And he reaches upwards towards the shelf, instinctively grabbing the Prosecco he knows to be Effie’s favorite, and fixes her a glass too, filling it to the rim.

“You only say that because you have no taste,” she accuses, and he hears her dainty footfalls as she comes up behind him. His entire body tenses, primal instinct, muscle reflex. Ever since his own Quarter Quell—almost twenty-five years ago to the day now—he doesn’t like when people approach him from behind, where he can’t see their faces and what they’re holding in their murderous hands. But then she’s right beside him, nearly a foot shorter than he is without her heels, examining the gin skeptically, and the moment passes. He lets out a breath he didn't know he had been holding.

“Case in point,” she frowns obliviously, tapping the bottle with one of her long fingernails, “this simply looks abominable, Haymitch. When is the last time this bottle was washed?”

“It’s gin, Princess,” he snorts, nudging her glass towards her. “It’s doing all the cleaning itself.”

“That seems like a dubious fact,” Effie shakes her head, capturing her glass in a delicate tangle of fingers. But she’s decidedly anything but delicate as she knocks back a long swill, nearly getting a quarter of it in one go. He almost laughs at her, almost calls her out on the impropriety of it all, but then he sees that her fingers are quivering.

“Hey, what do I know?” He shrugs gently, absently swirling his own drink around. “I’m just an alcoholic fuck up from District 12.”

She stops short and stares at him with wide, impossibly blue eyes. If he didn't know any better, he'd almost wager that they're surgically altered.

But no, she's Effie, and she's frankly vain about having all of her natural parts.

("Boobs 'n ass too?" He'd teased her less than a year ago, when they'd been sweating in the sheets in her room on the Victory Tour train. It was a damned better way to deal with the night than succumbing to the nightmares.)

("Crass," she had just rolled those vivid eyes, lithe and luminous in the faint light emitting from the overhead vents. "I despise that in a man.")

(And they promptly went at it for another hour.)

“You’re a victor.” She briefly touches his wrist, right on the jagged scar he’d gotten from one of those wretched birds that had skewered Maysilee. Its swordlike beak had nearly gone through bone before he’d hacked off its head with his axe, scaring the flock away. But it’d been too late for his once ally—his almost friend—the girl whose blonde hair cascaded down her back like water. He still nightmares her blood, how it bloomed across her sliced open skin, how his calloused hands were covered with it, long after he left the arena.

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” Haymitch says flatly before taking a long drink himself. “In fact, one caused the other.”

Effie doesn’t look like she knows what to say to this, gaping silently, and a ripple of familiar disgust shudders through him as he is reminded of the escort’s  utter Capitolness, how the stench of it rolling off of her is even stronger than her trademark floral perfume. She’s never known true suffering, never been driven to the bottle or a morphling drip ‘cause she’s seen the life leave someone eyes and maybe even caused it. Her hands, her mind, her sheltered life are perfectly manicured, and not for the first time since their informal bedtime arrangements began a few years ago, he wonders how he can lay in her bed and kiss that very same perfectly manicured body and be inside of her and—

But then, just as he’s thinking about leaving, she is carefully bending down and pressing her pink lips to the leathery skin of his scarred arm with all the tenderness of a lover. And when she straightens up again, he can see the fresh tears clinging to her pale lashes. 

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, almost inaudibly. He has to lean forward to really hear her. “I am.”

He freezes, unsure of what to do with an unguarded Effie Trinket, how to navigate this unexpected moment. He doesn’t want to say it’s okay because it damn well isn’t—none of this is. They’re all pieces in a chess game that ends in the deaths of twenty-three goddamn kids nearly every year. They are bodies shuffled around by the hands of a malevolent god. Reap. Kill. Rinse. Repeat. And sorry is insufficient in the cruel reality of that fact; tears are more than useless when the gong rings and the Bloodbath begins, whether for the tributes of the new year or in his nightmares every night, Maysilee just to the left of him, the candy-colored sky stretching like taffy above them both.

So Effie’s sorry isn’t sufficient because it just damn well isn’t okay, but still—both the fight and the need for flight gutters through Haymitch’s tired body, like a drain unplugged, replaced with an unpleasant epiphany that he has about the District Twelve escort every now and then.

She actually cares.

He can’t say that about many other Capitol lackeys.

“So many broken people goin’ into the arena this year, sweetheart,” he smiles at her sadly, “two of them my—our—kids.”

Of course they’re both of their kids. He remembers that last year, it was Effie by his side in the Donor’s Lounge, charming potentially sponsors and directing them back to Haymitch with a winning smile. She’d stayed up in the monitor room on many a night too, helping him keep an eye on Katniss and Peeta even if they were just sleeping in that cave, trying to stave off various infections. He and the escort were the first in the clinic after the star-crossed lovers had been pulled from the arena, bloodied and half-mad, the boy on the brink of death, and Effie had snarled at one of the doctors for daring to suggest that they might do some cosmetic alterations on them while they were both under the knife: breast augmentation, jaw sculpting, lip fillers. 

“They’re children,” she had shrieked, getting into his face, feral and ferocious, a lioness standing between a surgeon and her cubs. “Save them. Save Peeta’s leg, but don’t you dare, don’t you even think about—!“

It’s this visceral memory that prompts Haymitch to suddenly breach the space between them, gently lifting her chin so that she’s not staring at the ground—so that she’s looking at him—and he can see her that her lower lip is trembling from a concerted effort not to cry.

“Our stupid kids,” he laughs hoarsely, drawing his thumb across the soft plane of her cheek, over and over again, until he soothes the sadness from her. “Gettin’ perfect training scores because they wanted to stick it to the man. They’ve got balls, I’ll give ‘em that, but they’re not making it any easier for us to help them.”

To save them, really, if Heavensbee’s batshit insane plan works perfectly—not that the woman across him can know anything about that. Not yet, at least, until Haymitch is sure that he can secure her a spot on a rebel hovercraft. Because if the hijacking succeeds, and they can get the Katniss and Peeta out, then one of the first things that happens is that their teams will pay for it—arrested, tortured, interrogated, maybe even killed to prove some sick point to the people of Panem. He can’t save them all, and he’s so fucking sorry that he can’t, but maybe, just maybe, he can save one person.

It’s the responsibility of the mentor.

He always has to choose just one.

“No,” Effie sighs, leaning into the touch ever so slightly. “But they never have, our darling children. So naughty… always stirring up trouble...”

These final words stir the dregs of his memory, and he remembers why he had lumbered here in the first place. Because Effie had said something curious at dinner—shocking even—after she'd learned what the kids had done. She had betrayed much more knowledge about the unrest in the districts than he could have ever expected from a career Capitol.

You’ll only bring down more trouble on yourself and Katniss, she had pointed out, directly indicating that she was well aware that the young victors were in trouble to begin with. He’d suspected as much when she spent her entire post-Games interview circuit last year tearing up over her star-crossed lovers as she sat across from an emotionally sympathetic Caesar Flickerman. Most escorts during their winning years tended to talk about themselves and their overstated roles in their victor’s success.

But not Effie.

If the entire team, from the stylists to Haymitch, was consciously united in trying to convince Snow that Katniss extending those berries was the desperation of a besotted lover, then Effie, without having ever been prompted, contributed her ample talents to the machine as well. 

But what had surprised him most at dinner was that she’d known what had happened to Seneca Crane. Rumor has it that he was made to eat the nightlock berries that started this all: tumbling dominoes, a glass Capitol, and an even shakier nation of cards. From what he can tell, the citizens of the Capitol just think he’s retired to the Pax Romana Islands for a well-deserved retirement at the respectable age of thirty-six.

But not Effie.

Oh, Katniss…. How do you even know about that?

“So Seneca Crane,” he puts it out there bluntly, causing the escort to flinch so violently that she spills a little wine on the side of her hand. Letting go of her cheek, he swipes it off for her with the cuff of his very nice sleeve, earning a remonstrative glare. 

“Don’t,” she says sharply, turning away from him. With graceful footsteps, she heads in the direction of the couch, where he can see that her brightly colored notebooks are piled. She sits down next to them, places her glass on an end table, and fusses over them, even though they’re already immaculately arranged. “We shouldn’t discuss such matters.”

“And why shouldn’t we?” He challenges a little recklessly, following her, sitting down on the couch right next to her. He doesn’t give up his gin, though, keeping it close to his chest. “You’re a Capitol darling. Your room isn’t bugged.”

He’s already ascertained that at least ten times over the course of his nighttime visits, scouring every inch of her suite for a spying device and satisfactorily coming up short every time. She's Effie Trinket. The last thing from a threat to the perilous standing of the government. A model citizen. Voted the most stylish escort for three years straight.

The fact that she's such a reliable goody two-shoes occasionally has its perks.

Like freedom of speech in her inner rooms.

“And you’ll be the very one to change that,” she hisses without looking at him, now seemingly trying to reorganize the notebooks by color, “if someone gets wind of the fact that we were talking about forbidden topics in here. What is it that you always stress to me? Circumspection and precaution? Safety?”

Haymitch knows she’s right, as she annoyingly tends to be—but maybe it’s because he’s furious with his impulsive tributes or maybe it’s because he’s secretly impressed by their resolve—that he continues to push her anyway, wanting to see how far he can take this night and all the madness it already contains.

They're all probably going to end up dead soon anyway, so what the hell?

He’s got nothing to lose that isn’t being taken from him already. 

He turns up his glass again.

For liquid luck.

“There’s no safety in being anywhere near District Twelve these days,” he smiles at her mockingly as she now stacks her notebooks based on size, slamming one against the other with perfect and violent precision. “Surely you must know that by now, huh?”

Effie doesn’t say anything after this for a long time—hands carefully poised around the edges of what he knows to be her agenda—and he’s nearly decided that she isn’t going to say anything at all, too cowardly, too Capitol, but… then finally—

“Do you want me to say yes?” She asks in a cool, measured tone. “Will you go away if I acknowledge the unspeakable precariousness of our current situation? I fear for my own life, yours, and certainly Katniss and Peeta’s—though I can hardly do anything where the children are concerned. None of us can because this Quarter Quell, and it is... it's—" But before she can say anything that could potentially be construed as rebellious, Haymitch watches, in real time, as the escort, ever a perfect self-disciplinarian, cuts herself off, subjugating her feelings into a word that springs awkwardly from her accented tongue. "... unprecedented. Are you happy now, Mr. Abernathy?”  

“No,” he says plainly, any maliciousness sagging away from his face at her outburst. He had hardly estimated the depths of her feelings and the lengths she'd go to ensure that they never surfaced. “I’m never happy and definitely not about that.”

“Then why make me say it?” She barely whispers, her eyes glazed and her voice constrained. He has a feeling that if she lets go of her planner, there’d be nothing left to tether her to any sort of dignified display of composure. So she grips it far too tightly, her chest visibly fluttering beneath the silky fabric of her nightshirt. “Why do you insist upon hearing it aloud?”

It’s a pointed examination of what she believes to be his cruelty, and perhaps she’s right. Maybe he is just being a dick, pressing her to admit what she can’t possibly control, but Haymitch slowly shakes his head at the implicit accusation, his free hand tightly holding his knee.

“Saying it makes it real, Effie,” he tells her and doesn’t look at her, doesn’t want to see this particular realization register in her porcelain features like a blow. “We’re all in danger, and if we’re going to have a chance of makin' it out… it’s gotta be real. To you. To me. To those two unlucky bastards right down the hallway."

He hears but doesn’t see her shuddered breath, how a sob audibly hitches in the back of her throat. But to her credit, she pieces herself together remarkably fast, a rebuttal soft on her lips.

“I don’t want it to be real,” she says, almost whimpering it, like a child in the throes of a nightmare. He pities her, suddenly reminded that she’s young and terribly naïve—not unlike a child—and he is simultaneously disappointed in her for not realizing the ultimate truth of the Hunger Games.

All of it is real.

The brutality and the carnage.

The bodies and the bodies and the bodies and the—

“But it is, sweetheart,” he says. Almost kindly. “Seneca Crane's not sipping’ piña coladas at a beachside resort.”

Effie closes her eyes at this, the faint lines beneath them stark in the warm light that floods the room, and finally lowers her agenda to her lap, even as she continues to sit primly—with perfect discipline.

A single tear slips down the pointed architecture of her face, falling in such a straight line that he imagines that she arranged for it to do so.

“He was two years above me in grade school,” she murmurs, lacing her shaking fingers together just below her stomach. “Seneca. Our fathers were both product importation overseers, and Seneca would come over sometimes when they were working and talk to me about aesthetic game design.” 

“So you were friends,” Haymitch surmises, watching a uniquely painful expression twist her pale features into unsalvageable convolutions. “More than that?”

His gut inexplicably lurches at the added supposition, but to his surprise, Effie laughs humorlessly at this, finally opening her eyes again.

“Less than that,” she smiles faintly, as though she had heard what his stomach had done in the timbre of his voice. “Acquaintances, really. I partially despised his arrogance, even when we were children… but even still, I knew him, Haymitch. I played tag with him in our gardens. I danced with him at balls. We congratulated each other with bouquets and champagne bottles when we both assumed our respective positions. He didn’t retire. He would have never retired—Head Gamemaker was his dream job—so I searched until I chanced upon an answer that I had to live with.”

“He was dead,” Haymitch doesn’t sugar coat it, doesn't see the point in doing so.

“He was executed,” Effie amends, with unmistakable bitterness in her quiet voice, before she suddenly realizes what she has said. All of the color leaches from her face, and she presses a hand over her mouth. 

“He was a friend,” he repeats himself, reaching over again—a little awkwardly this time—and curling a hand over the one she’s still resting on top of her stomach. The spines of her knuckles peak sharply beneath his palm. “You're grieving for him.”

She nods but doesn’t take her hand from her mouth, looking faintly green. He’s starting to think that he’s taking this too far, pushing this Capitol sycophant towards and off the edge of no return, where he and so many other thousands citizens of Panem already are. But he can’t stop himself, the words spewing from him like the vomit he’s well-acquainted with from all the collective years of killing his liver.

“I know what it’s like,” he shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “I’m about to lose a lot of friends myself.”

Chaff. Seeder. Finnick. Johanna. Cecelia. Mags. Maybe even one of the kids if Plutarch can’t get them out. Maybe even both of them if his plan entirely fails. He’s not stupid enough to believe that the Head Gamemaker can make the impossible happen and save all of these victors from their imminent dooms, and he’s cynical enough to know that the cost of winning a war is going to involve losing a few battles. The other rebel victors intimately know this too, and they’ve calmly accepted their fates.

There will be no long and drawn out goodbyes over the next few days.

Just strategizing in the dark.

Exchanging notes.

Whispering secrets.

Hoping for rebellion and simultaneously understanding that they might never live to see it. Haymitch knows all of this—goddammit, he’s immersed and committed and so perfectly aware—but even still, his hand violently shakes around his glass of gin, and there’s blood on his palms again. Maysilee’s blood. He can’t stop the bleeding. He’s so sorry, Chaff. And he’s sorry, Finnick. Johanna. Seeder. Mags. Jesus, he’s sorry, Katniss, and he’s sorry, Peeta. They're both too young to be living through this shit. Wasn’t he once upon a time? Weren’t they all? There’s just too much of it, the blood. It’s bright red and sticky, and he can’t fucking do any—

Just as his gin falls away from his fumbling fingertips, he feels a pair of arms slide around his neck, slender and smooth. The glass hits the wooden floor harshly, exploding into innumerable shards—so much damage bisecting Maysilee's neck, the artery clearly nicked, and the eruption from the volcano, he's gotta find high ground quick, is that what flesh smells like when it's fucking burning?!—but there’s a chin resting against his shoulder preventing him from immediately assessing his immediate surroundings. The foul-smelling alcohol seeps unpleasantly into his shoes—all the water sources in the arena are poisonous, everything except the rain, tributes twitching on the ground, their skin an unnatural shade of blue. He's so thirsty. Just one sip wouldn't hurt...? District 12 tributes aren't supposed to live this long anyway...

The mouth pressed into the skin beneath his ear is unbothered.

“I’m so sorry,” Effie whispers against his jaw, her manicured fingertips curling into the nape of his neck, and the gesture grounds him in the same way booze makes it all sort of float of way.

“You’re bleeding,” he says numbly, his quivering fingertips finding purchase in her nightshirt. He’s looking down at her white leg, where shrapnel grazed the side of it, leaving pops of bright blood.

“That’s something I can handle,” she returns gently, but surely she must be crying again. He can feel a telltale wetness against the column of his throat.

“And me?” He rasps, burying his own face into Effie’s bony shoulder so he doesn’t have to look at the blood anymore.

Her blood. Maysilee’s blood. Katniss’s. Peeta's. Chaff's. Seeder's. Johanna's. Finnick's. He held his own guts in his stomach—waiting for District 1 to come and find him—and felt his intestines slide against the crumbling wall of his abdomen.

“How do I handle it?”

“It’s merely a simple scrape, Haymitch,” she says it dubiously, like she already knows that’s not what he’s talking about. 

“It never fucking is,” he growls, so relieved that he can’t see her face, already itching for another bottle, something to burn all these feelings away, to scald himself alive. But even in the midst of his sick cravings, he’s aware of a strangely gentle sensation along his scalp: Effie running her fingers through his hair—slowly, rhythmically, and smoothly. “Don’t pretend otherwise. This is just the pre-show for everything to come.”

He’s not sure if it’s fatalism or a subtle warning.

Maybe even both.

Probably both.

“Scrapes don’t have to become open wounds, Haymitch,” she insists fiercely, still clearly holding on to the delusional hope that none of this is actually happening: the danger, the Quarter Quell, the blood.

“And seventeen-year olds don’t have to become mockingjays,” he snarls into the sleek silk of her shirt and feels the desired effect course through Effie’s entire body almost instantaneously. She freezes in his arms, all ceramic and glass and an inhalation of utter shock.

A squeak and then absolutely nothing. She stops carding her fingers through his wiry, unwashed hair but but doesn’t let him go—even though she could—and he inhales the scent of her, all flowers and other lovely things that have no place in this godawful world.

Effie Trinket.

She scarcely knows that the world is godawful to begin with.

“Don’t say that,” she breathes, her heartbeat thrumming against his chest, quick and erratic, like the flapping of a bird’s wings.

“Why?” He tests and he provokes her. He resists the wild urge to press a kiss against her collarbone, where it sharply protrudes from the rumpled collar of her shirt.

“Because like you said, then the quiet part becomes loud.”

“Real,” he viciously offers her the exact word.

“Yes.” And he’s thoroughly surprised that Effie actually accepts it, though the sound is nearly unintelligible in the back of her throat.

But maybe she has no choice to otherwise. 

When he experiences rather than hears her wince, all her willowy limbs tightening against his own, Haymitch finally uncloses his bleary eyes and immediately sees all the blood, how it spirals down her shin in lovely ribbons—both beautiful and terrible to behold.

His fault. 

How many people?

His family.

His friends.

His fellow victors. He can't save them all.

District 12's stylists and prep teams.

Effie herself.

He might not be able to save fucking any of them.

His fault.

"Sorry," he chokes out as she wordlessly cradles his head to her chest, holding him and all of his endless horror; he doesn't think he's ever been held like this before, not since his mother was still alive, and he was just a gap-toothed boy scraping his knees on coal piles in the Seam. At the mere thought of her—the first person in the world who had ever loved him—hot tears prick his eyes and assault the sunken hollows of his face, dampening Effie's beautiful shirt.

"Sorry," he says again, even though he knows it's not sufficient; she could be dead three weeks from now, and she doesn't know it. Or maybe she does. Maybe it's all becoming real now. 

"Shh," she murmurs, easing the tortured syllable into his hair, and it is is not absolution. It could never be for either of them.

They are what they are, him and Effie Trinket.

There is no making up for the monsters they have become.

"Shh," she consoles him anyway and all the same.

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Choice

(Hayffie pregnancy. 6 years after the Revolution.)

Effie sat at the vanity in her Capitol apartment. The tabletop was neatly stacked with cases of makeup and bottles of polish, lotions, and perfumes. Nearly everything was in its proper place. She slid her fingers along the mahogany surface and paused on the one item that didn’t belong there; a plastic container which held two pills, the first to help her cervix open and the second to help her uterus contract. “Help,” the doctor had said to simplify the science, but the word felt as out of place as plastic on glossy wood.

She looked up at the mirror. Her face was bare and her hair natural. It was difficult to look at herself with imperfections glaring back. 38 years of smiles, genuine and false, had brought lines to her cheeks and to the corners of her eyes. The creases stayed now, even when she wasn’t forcing a smile. The illusion of agelessness was becoming harder for her to effect.

“Pregnant?? You MUST be mistaken. It’s just a stomach flu.” she had said to the doctor with incredulity and indignation, “I simply can’t be pregnant. I’m too... old.” She held the thought but left it unspoken.

“There’s no mistake, Ma’am.”

The “Ma’am” comment didn’t help matters. She’d glared at him in annoyance.

“Would you like to see a scan and hear the heartbeat?” he asked.

Effie was stunned. “There’s a heartbeat?”

“We should be able to hear it with a vaginal ultrasound. Without one, it will be difficult to assess the gestational age since you’ve been on continuous hormones to prevent ovulation and menstruation for...” The doctor glanced at Effie’s chart. “...Many years.”

“Prevent ovulation... Hah! That’s a laugh.”

“Hormonal birth control is 99% effective when used correctly.”

“Well, OF COURSE I used it correctly!”

“I’m not implying otherwise, Mrs... “The doctor glanced at her chart again. “...Trinket. Even with flawless use there’s still a 1% chance of pregnancy. And, well, here you are.”

Apparently the odds were not in Effie’s favor. She considered the irony and clung to the possibility of a false positive.

“It’s MS. Trinket! And YES I need to see a scan.”

The ultrasound was quick, and moments later Effie was listening to a heartbeat and looking at an image of what appeared to be a microscopic teddy bear, only without ears yet.

“That’s human?”

The doctor stifled a chuckle. “Indeed, Ms. Trinket, your baby is human.”

“My... baby?”

“And in perfect development for 9 weeks gestation.”

“9 weeks?”

Oh, my God... Haymitch.

“And perfect,” the doctor said that word again.

“This is NOT perfect. This situation is not even remotely perfect! I did not intend for this to happen.”

“I understand,” the doctor sympathized, “Would you like for me to explain your options?”

“Yes. Please... Can’t someone else VOLUNTEER for this?” Effie focused on not hyperventilating as the doctor described medications and procedures used for abortion. He also described the course of pregnancy if she chose to not terminate.

In the end, Effie carried the pills home in that plastic container. She also took a digital copy of the ultrasound. Though she wasn’t sure why, because the thrumming of that tiny heartbeat would probably be stuck in her mind forever.

The vanity mirror and the birth control had been tricksters. Effie felt like a fool. An imperfect fool... with a perfect “baby” inside her. Of course any baby she conceived WOULD be perfect. “Nothing but the best for my girl,” she recalled her mother’s oft-spoken words.

Would this baby be a girl too if she let it happen? Or would it be a boy?

Effie stared at the pills, then stared again at herself in the mirror. She couldn’t see a baby. She couldn’t feel anything inside her. She felt alone.

She sent Haymitch a message. “I need to see you. Can I come tomorrow? — E”

He sent a teasing response later that evening. “It would be my pleasure to make you come tomorrow. — H”

Effie couldn’t help but smile, before she started to cry.

***

Six years had passed since the Revolution, and Haymitch considered himself at this point to be a fairly functional alcoholic. One of the ways he stayed functional was to work. His expertise in strategy made him a sought after consultant by both government and businesses in the Republic. But he rejected offers at that life. He decided instead to raise geese.

“A goose farmer?” Effie had laughed years ago at his plans, thinking he was joking about a brand of liquor that was popular in the Capitol. “Yeah, right, I’m sure you’ll be *farming* that *Goose* day and night.”

“Nice try, Sweetheart. But I’m not joking. My mother raised geese. She turned a decent profit on their eggs and meat. Not enough to keep from having to put my name in extra times each year at the reaping, but enough to survive awhile.”

“I didn’t know.” Effie had developed a habit of laying her hand on his chest and stroking the hollow between his collarbones as an offering of tenderness whenever she pitied him. Haymitch hated to be pitied, but he let her do it because the way she did it felt so good.

“Now you know.” He pulled away slowly. Feeling good with her, with anyone, for too long was dangerous. “Some eggs hatched last week. The goslings are still in the incubator. Do you want to see?”

“They’re inside your HOUSE?!”

“For now,” he chuckled, taking her hand and leading her to another room. On a table was a heat lamp glowing red above a slotted crate filled with the chatter of baby geese.”

“I declare! Haymitch Abernathy is a goose farmer. I never imagined myself saying those words.”

“Don’t worry. It’s not a total career change; I’m still a drunk too.” He winked at her, then lifted the lid off the crate.

The goslings still had their downy plumage. They were balls of fluff, and Effie’s eyes lit up like a little girl. The light came from inside her, much deeper than her gold mascara.

“Do you want to hold one?”

“Hold one!? Goodness, no. I have no idea how to do that. I’d probably squeeze the poor thing to death.” She watched Haymitch pick up a gosling and cradle it in his palm. Those hands were lethal in The Games because they had to be. Those hands clutched a knife in sleep. And those hands had such capacity for gentleness. She knew.

“Hold out your hands; you’ll be alright.”

She hesitated.

“Honey, I know how soft your hands are. Trust me; you’ll be alright.”

Effie cupped her hands like a chalice. She squealed a bit as he placed the gosling into her palms.

“Shhh,” he said to soothe them.

“Ohhhh, it’s feet are walking on me!” Effie fussed.

“It’s just a baby, Sweetheart. It’s not going anywhere. You’re alright. You’ll be alright.”

“It tickles,” Effie giggled, natural like a girl again, discovering pleasure in something new. “It’s soft.” She looked at Haymitch. Then back to the gosling she said, “Hello, you.”

Haymitch watched her with amused enchantment. In the months since the Revolution, her appearance had become less clown-like and more authentically her. He was still figuring out who that was, and he guessed she was still figuring herself out too.

“Take it!” she hollered suddenly, “It just defecated in my hand. Take this thing!”

Haymitch laughed as he put the gosling back with the others, and Effie ran to the bathroom. He closed the crate and followed her.

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear. I feel defiled. This sink is not enough. I need a bath.”

He held her hips from behind, looking at her in the mirror. “You don’t look defiled, not yet. I love this shirt and skirt thing you’te wearing.” He slipped his thumbs under the hem of her blouse, caressing her skin in circles. “I need a bath too. Do you want company?”

She turned around to face him. She might be squeamish about baby things, but Haymitch she could handle. She slid her arms around his waist and untucked the back of his shirt . “Well, I didn’t ride all this way for nothing.”

***

The other way Haymitch stayed functional as an alcoholic was to walk. He walked a lot. The fences that surrounded District 12 for the first 42 years of his life had been cleared away with the rubble during the years of reconstruction. The forest was wide open, and he spent a lot of time in it, just moving. Katniss had warned him years ago to step loudly.

“After everything we’ve been through, I’d hate to mistake you for a deer and shoot you. You probably wouldn’t taste very good.”

“I’m definitely not dear, Sweetheart,” he’d retorted, “Don’t mistake me for that.”

She paused. “Yes, you are. And I’m not the only one who knows it.”

So Haymitch stepped loudly today as usual. As he walked, he wondered about Effie’s message, short and urgent. If she needed a quick fuck, surely she could have gotten that from somebody else without having to ride across the country. Most of the time that’s not how it was with them anyway. Not anymore. Sex between them was loaded with feeling. Way too much feeling for his comfort, but it was too good with her to just stop. He hadn’t been with anyone besides Effie in at least a year. Work, walking, and drinking filled his days and nights. When he wanted more, he took the train to see her, and he never turned her down when she asked to visit.

A couple of months had passed since his last trip to the Capitol. He wouldn’t acknowledge how he missed her and how it felt to receive her message. Last night he dulled the feelings with Scotch. Today he walked and watched the sun move across the sky. The train was scheduled to arrive this evening. Alone in the woods he pretended to not be counting the hours.

***

The monotony of a train ride which she’d taken countless times gave Effie too much space in which to consider and reconsider whether she should have even gotten on the train. Running to the bathroom to throw up during the first few hours of the trip certainly didn’t make anything easier.

She had messaged Haymitch yesterday on inmpulse, in shock really. In the stillness now, reality was sinking in. What would it serve to tell him that she was... pregnant. She could barely think the word. How would she say it out loud? Besides, she was reasonably content with the way things were, and this could screw up everything, not just with Haymitch, who’d grown on her in ways she didn’t understand. But EVERYTHING.

Her glory days as a true fashion icon and escort had died with The Games. But she was still Effie Trinket! She picked herself up and adapted. She fashioned a career within the Republic’s efforts to promote democracy and to honor the fallen. I organize marketing and tours for the entire Memorial Complex for goodness sake! The place would fall apart without me. Effie hadn’t NEEDED anyone for a long time, maybe ever. She couldn’t understand why she suddenly felt alone and vulnerable.

I’ll get over it. Maybe I’ll just get over it. But what if I don’t get over it? Get over WHAT even? Oh, why didn’t the universe just stick to the cards! I had written them out exactly how I wanted my life to be.

She didn’t know.

Somewhere in the stillness, ethics got the best of her or came from the best of her. Haymitch should know about the pregnancy, not just because she felt alone and vulnerable, but because telling him was the right thing to do, regardless of any other decisions she would make and regardless of the consequences.

***

Haymitch sat on his porch beside a purple umbrella. A smile crept over his face as he touched the lace fringe. One gust of wind would destroy the thing, but Effie always prioritized style over function. She probably even had a back-up in her suitcase. She may be impractical but definitely not stupid.

He kicked off his boots and pulled off his socks. Picking out the stickers could wait; he wanted to see her. The door was unlocked; she’d found the spare key. He changed its hiding place periodically. Unfortunately if he moved it when he was drunk, then finding it when he sobered up was sometimes a challenge. Fortunately he didn’t have many hiding spots, nor did he have much inside his house worth stealing. He just felt safer with the doors and windows locked. Not that much safer, but enough to get some sleep occasionally.

Inside he took his coat off and dropped it on the floor.

“I’m in the dining room, Haymitch,” she called out, knowing that surprising him in his house could be dangerous. The one surprise she had for him already felt dangerous enough. “The train arrived early, so I let myself in. I hope you don’t mind.”

Haymitch peered around the corner of the nook she called “the dining room.” Effie sat at the table with a glass of Scotch in front of her. A silk scarf which matched her umbrella draped loosely over her head, wrapped once around her neck, and the fringe hung in front just above her breasts. Her blonde hair peeked out from beneath. Her makeup was light, almost nonexistent. Her dress hugged her curves without flamboyance

She was hiding. This understated appearance was Effie’s way of hiding.

He didn’t know why she was hiding, but he wasn’t complaining. He loved her like this.

“This is ‘the drinking room,’ Sweetheart, and I see you’re off to an early start.”

As he crossed the room, she stood up and stepped into his embrace. He smelled of pine trees, crushed mint, and sweat. He was damp and dusty and probably ruining her clothes, but she didn’t care. Not today. Today she leaned into it all, because what if this was the last time she’d have the chance?

He pulled back just enough to unwrap her scarf and drape it across the back of her chair. “It’s good to see you.”

“Good” is such a short word, she murmured, closing the distance he’d created.

“I have longer options for you,” he whispered into the corner of her mouth.

“Then kiss me. For as long as you want. Just once, without holding back.”

Her breath was cinnamon. It had been weeks since he’d tasted her.. Something was up, but he’d figure it out later.

“Just one kiss?”

“For now.”

“Okay. I won’t hold back if you won’t eith....” He didn’t get to finish that last word before she started the game.

Time moved with the speed of their mouths, slowly at first and then quickening. She slipped her hands under his shirt and her fingers played over the muscles along his sides. Through the past few years he’d become stronger with work. She delighted in his body, but wouldn’t admit it.

“Cheater,” he muttered without breaking their kiss. Her dress was too form-fitting to lift, so he held her waist and caressed her through the fabric. His thumbs traced her ribcage and settled on her stomach, jolting her back to reality.

“Haymitch, wait,” she ended the kiss, trying to find her breath.

“What’s going on, Sweetheart?” He said the endearment without any sarcasm. “How about we sit down, and you tell me, okay? Can you do that?”

Effie nodded, slumping into her chair. He pulled up a chair too and sat close enough to touch her. He just wasn’t sure if she wanted him to touch her. So he waited.

She pushed the glass of Scotch toward him. “I poured this for YOU. Let’s start with this.”

He swallowed the liquor in one gulp, wary.

“You’ll need another.” She poured him a second glass, which he drank as quickly as the first.

“If you want to get me drunk you should just hand me the bottle.”

“I don’t want you drunk, just prepared.”

“Prepared for what?”

She reached into the bag beside her chair, pulled out a disc and slid it along the same path as the Scotch.

“What’s this?”

“Just watch it.”

“Now?”

She nodded.

Haymitch reached behind him and plugged it into the nearest viewer.

The microscopic teddy bear without ears filled the screen. The tiny heartbeat filled the room.

“Jesus, Effie. What is this?” he asked again, already knowing and not yet believing.”

“It’s an ultrasound... It’s... my ultrasound.” She whispered ‘my.’

“When?”

“Yesterday. Well, 9 weeks ago. I mean, the ultrasound was yesterday. But 9 weeks ago...”

Haymitch did the math.

“How did this happen?”

“Isn’t it a little late for the HOW talk? One of my eggs and one of your sperm had a party and made... that.”

“Mine? Are you sure?”

Effie started to simmer. “OF COURSE I’m sure!”

“How can you be sure?”

“I haven’t had sex with anyone besides you in over a year, Haymitch!”

His jaw dropped, and she immediately softened. She hadn’t meant for that reality to slip out. It said too much about her feelings. It revealed depths of her that she didn’t intend.

He reached for the bottle of Scotch, and poured himself a third glass. “Do you want one?”

“A baby?”

“I was going to say a glass of liquor, but let’s go with your question first.”

He looked right at her eyes, right into and through her. He hadn’t walked away from her, not yet.

“A baby?” she wondered, “In THIS world? Who in their right mind would want to have a baby after so much horror?”

“I’m not asking about *anybody in their right mind.* I’m asking about YOU, Sweetheart.” The endearment was soft again.

“That’s NOT funny!”

“I’m not trying to be funny. ...I just notice you’re not drinking.”

Effie reached into her bag again and pulled out the plastic container. “One pill for my cervix to open. Then one the next day for my uterus to contract.”

“You haven’t taken them.”

She shook her head ‘no’.

“Why not?”

The tiny heartbeat kept echoing through the room. Neither of them reached to turn off the viewer.

Effie closed her eyes. “Because of THAT. Because that could become a baby... my baby... our baby. It’s a lot to think about. It could change everything. Even not having it could change everything.”

When she opened her eyes, his were still on her. “It’s been at least a year since I’ve had sex with anyone but you, Honey. Something’s changed already.”

She didn’t expect that response. Everything felt wide open, like her organs might fall out, or maybe it was that thing some people call a soul. He was close enough to touch, but she didn’t touch him.

“When I didn’t care about anyone, it was hard enough. But now...”

“Now what?”

“Now I never stop being scared.” He said it. He’d never said it before.

She caressed his shirt sleeve. “I’m scared too.”

“You’re alright. You’re going to be alright.” He covered her hand with his.

She wanted to ask him the same question that he had asked her, Do YOU want a baby?

She was afraid that his answer would be ‘yes.’ And she was afraid that his answer would be ‘no.’

Mostly she was afraid of her own answer, the one she hadn’t yet spoken.

[ellanainthetardis]

I'm throwing this at you know, bc I know you'll give me the feels ;P Imagine a pre-THG situation with an anti-capitol attack after a Games party and Haymitch throwing himself in the line for Effie. I leave the rest to you ;)

Here you go! Some angst for you :p [X]

Stupid Reflex

“What’s the delay?” Haymitch grumbled, shiftingin his seat.

Sitting on those stone benches that formed theCity Circle was never comfortable, even in the VIP area. As it was they hadbeen waiting for the Parade to start for a good fifteen minutes now.

Effie checked her watch for the third timebetween two cheerful waves at another escort or Gamemaker. That was the thingabout the Parade… Everyone had toattend. Mentors, escorts, Gamemakers, stylists… The red carpet before theactual parade was always long and the place was crowded.

“I do notknow. We will be completely offschedule!” she admitted without departing from her smiles.

The stylists had yet to join them and theyweren’t the only team missing them. One and Two had theirs, Six and Ten toofrom what he could see… Everyone else was fidgeting on their seats, regularlycalling out to their escort or one of the Gamemakers to ask what was going on.

It had only been fifteen minutes but thosethings were usually down to the minute and he didn’t really like the obviouspatrols of Peacekeepers. In the city, Peacekeepers tended to remain in theshadow. They were there to protect not enforceunlike in the Districts. Right then though…

“I don’t like this, sweetheart…” he said, dreadcoiling in his stomach.

He wasn’t the only victor who seemed to benervous.

He caught Chaff’s eyes over the crowd and hisfriend’s face was somber.

He was about to tell Effie to stay where shewas while he sneaked down to see if someone had some information when the firstshot resonated in the Circle.

There was a second of utter stillness and thenHead Gamemaker Torello fell down and someone screamed.

Another shot and Five’s escort collapsed.

This time, everyone started screaming andrunning at the same time and it was chaos. Peacekeepers shouted instructionsthat weren’t listened to, gunshots kept booming…

Before he paused to think, Haymitch grabbedEffie’s arm and urged her toward the closest safe place he could think of: theCenter. It was chaos though, the crowd closed on them, a few people fell andwere stomped over…

Effie almost lost her footing once but he kepther up on her feet.

“Don’t go down!” he shouted. “Whatever you do,don’t…”

Someone was shot dead right next to him and thecrowd scattered. Haymitch cursed and pushed Effie toward a statue of Snow –that he would go there for cover was irony at its finest. Peacekeepers wereshooting back but there must have been more than one attacker because peoplewere dropping left and right. Not justpeople, he realized quickly, but Gamemakersand escorts…

He caught the reflection of the sun againstsomething shiny on his left and barely had time to put himself in front ofEffie. The bullet caught him in the upper chest and he would have fallen if shehadn’t caught him and half-carried him. They collapsed on the ground behind thelarge base of the statue.

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” she kept muttering, fattears rolling down her cheeks, ruining her make-up. He felt her hands roamingon his chest – not in the way he liked – tearing his shirt open… “Haymitch… Haymitch, I don’t know what to do! Stay awake! Stay…I don’t know what to do!”

She didn’t know what to do with the bloodquickly leaving his body. She had propped him against the stone of the statueand he spared a look down, a bit dazed. Notgood. Not good at all.

“Pressure.” he hissed.

“Oh! Oh, yes!”she hiccupped. She tore a generous amount of fabric from her dress and pressedit against the wound.

“Harder.” he breathed out.

It wouldn’t stop it though. He was pretty sureit was bad. Possibly dying bad.  

“That is what you say every time.” she laughedand it sounded hysterical. “I do not think you will be able to take it hard anytime soon. Why, you might have to deal with vanilla for a while…”

“Vanilla’s good.” he mumbled. “You can go ontop too.”

“You are too generous.” she deadpanned, lookingleft and right with obvious despair. “Help will come. I… I am certain Peacekeepers will come any minute.”

He could still hear gunshots in the distancethough. Whoever those people were, they had come prepared.

They were sitting ducks there.  

“Took a bullet for you.” he muttered.

“Yes. And it was very foolish.” she snapped, wiping her eyes on her forearm. Shelost a fake eyelash in the process. The hand that was pressing fabric on hischest was shaking. “I am grateful but it was very foolish.”

“Need to get away.” he forced himself to say.It hurt to talk and his sight was blacking out. It hurt to breathe. “Get out.”The Circle was a deadly trap. Perfect place for an ambush. “Not the Center.Streets… Away…”

They would shoot anyone trying for the Centerright then. If she could reach the narrow streets though…

“You are too heavy for me to carry, Haymitch.”she retorted. “We will never make it.”

He shook his head, blindly feeling around forthe hand on his chest. “Alone.”

She looked puzzled until understanding dawnedon her face. “Like hell!”

She was terrified. It was so obvious that shewas terrified… And she should have been.She had no business standing in the middle of a gun fight.

“Dying.” he said.

“Certainly not!” she huffed. “I forbade it.” A steady string of gunshotsechoed nearby and she startled badly, letting out a small whimper as her eyes dartedaround, looking for… Relief washed over her face and he wanted to know what hadmade her so happy but he couldn’t look away. His grip slackened on her wristand his hand fell flat in the dust. He focused on her face because it was theonly thing that seemed to matter at that moment. She looked like a washed-outpainting. Colors running down her cheeks. “He has been shot.” she explained.“Please, I…”

She was pushed aside rather brutally and astronger hand pressed on his chest, tearing a pained moan from his throat.

“Taking a bullet for her? Really, buddy? Really?”Eleven’s victor spat, clearly nothappy with him. “I swear, Haymitch, Iswear, if you die because of that woman, I’m gonna bring you back to killyou myself.” Chaff made a face. “And if you get me killed for her, I will be very pissed. Very, very pissed.”

He tried to answer but the only thing thatpassed his lips was an incoherent sound. He could hear Effie sobbing quietly nextto him.

“Stop crying.” Chaff ordered harshly. “This isa fucking mess. We need to get him tothe Center.” Haymitch tried to protest but his friend just waved his stump inthe air. “Yeah. I know. But someone’sbeen stupid enough to get himself shot so we need help.” He heard fabric tearing, more stuff was pressed against hischest… “Listen to me, Trinket. We’re gonna run and you’re not gonna look back,alright? Whatever you see or hear, you run straight for that door and you praythey open it for us.”

“Haymitch…” Effie protested.

“I’ve got him. You just go and try not getyourself killed.” Eleven’s victor grumbled. “Clearly, he wants you alive.”

The moment Chaff hauled him up over hisshoulder, Haymitch’s sight went black.

He woke up feeling sluggish, blinking up atharsh lights on a white ceiling.

“Haymitch?” Effie’s voice called softly. Shecradled his hand in hers, he felt her lips on his skin… “The doctor said youmight be a little disoriented… Do notpanic. You had surgery. I am right here and… I won’t leave you alone. You are safe and…” Her voice broke. He wouldhave loved to ask what the fuck wasgoing on – surgery for what? – but he felt himself going under again. “I amstaying right here. I promise.”

It wasn’t that bad, then.

He trusted her to keep him safe.

The next time he woke up, the pain wasimpossible to ignore. It wasn’t as crushing as he felt it should probably be,thanks in part to the drugs that made his mind a little slow.

“Did I get shot?” he muttered before he evenopened his eyes, half hoping the whole thing was a drunk delirium.

“You will recover just fine.” Effie answered,sounding weak and tired. He wondered how long she had been sitting there. “Itwas… It was serious. They told me…You flatlined twice during surgery, they had to… You died. You…” He opened his eyes to find her crying silently, herface bare of make-up, her eyes red and puffy… The pink wig was still on herhead and she was still wearing the torn dress. “Haymitch…”

He reached for her face and missed his mark bya few inches but she brought his hand to her cheek and leaned into it, clearlygiving up on trying to look collected. She sobbed and sobbed and he couldn’t doa thing because the smallest move made his body hurt.

This wasn’t clever, he realized, not clever at all. They had both showed their handsthere.

The door opened and Chaff walked in with asteaming cup of… something. Hescowled a little when he saw the state Effie was in but simply closed the doorbehind him without commenting, turning his attention to Haymitch. “Good to seeyou awake. And, you know, not dead.”

“Thanks.” he snorted and immediately regrettedit because that hurt. He waited for Effie to stand up and pretend everythingwas fine with her but she just sat there, slumped and defeated like he hadnever seen her, clinging to his hand like it was a lifeline. He let go of herface and their fingers fell on the mattress next to his hip. “The fuck were those people?”

“Rebels.” Chaff explained, handing the cup toEffie. It took a few seconds before she reached for it and his friend didn’tlook impressed with her. “Look, he’s awake, he’s obviously fine… Go back to thepenthouse, take a shower, sleep for a few hours… It’s getting ridiculous,love.”

“I am fine.” she denied. “Thank you for thecoffee.”

“It’s been three days.” Eleven’s victorinsisted.

Effie ignored him, taking a sip of the steamingcup of coffee and staring at their entwined fingers.

“Rebels?” Haymitch prompted because the wholething was awkward and he was too tired to care about it.

“Yeah.” Chaff nodded, lips pursed and stillglaring at Twelve’s escort. “Anti-Games. Anti-Capitols.”

“The tributes?” he asked.

“They’ve been moved to the Center. The Gameshave been postponed until…” Eleven’s victor shrugged. “Those guys got a fewGamemakers, a couple of escorts and three victors including you. It’s gonnatake a couple of weeks to reorganize everything and replace everyone.” Chaff’sgaze hardened. “Now, buddy… Do we talk about the elephant in the room or what?What the fuck did you think you weredoing?”

He scowled, automatically squeezing Effie’sfingers. “Fuck off, Chaff.”

“Classy.” his friend scoffed. “Not like Irisked my neck for yours.”

“Didn’t ask you to.” he retorted.

“Sure, you didn’t.” Chaff snapped. “You just went and got shot for a…”

“Careful.” he advised in a growl.

“Enough!”Effie cut in, clearly losing her temper. He waited for the rant but it didn’tcame. She just brought the cup of coffee to her forehead and closed her eyes.“Enough.” she repeated in a softer tone. “It doesn’t mean anything. It was areflex. Wasn’t it, Haymitch? I was right next to you and you saw the gun… Itwas instinctive. It does not meanmore than that.”

Her blue eyes looked straight into his, almostbegging him to play along with her.

They both knew better, he figured, but…

“Yeah.” he agreed. “Just a stupid reflex. Notlike I would die for you or something.”

A small smile briefly stretched her lips andshe turned her tired gaze to Chaff. “See? It was just a stupid reflex. It is what he will tell Caesar when he asks.”

Haymitch frowned. “Why would Caesar asks?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Chaff sneered. “’Cause you got shot for your escort and a lotof people saw it? ‘Cause Trinket hasbeen haunting the Games Clinic for three days in that state?” He waved his stump at the escort. “How you’re gonnaexplain that, love?”

“I am grateful he saved my life and, while wehave our arguments, Haymitch and I have been colleagues for a long time and thus are friends.” she replied. “This isPR, Chaff. I excel at it. There is not a story I cannot spin.”

“It ain’t the audience you’re gonna have toconvince.” Eleven’s victor spat. “You’ve been stupid. Both of you.” He pointed his stump at Haymitch. “I look atyou and you know what I see? I see a guy who’s so in love with that woman hejumps ahead of bullets without thinking twice for his own safety. You sawanother victor grabbing their escort like you did? Don’t think so.” He pointedhis stump at Effie. “I look at youand I see a lovesick desperate woman who almost lost the love of her life.”Haymitch opened his mouth but Chaff didn’t let him say anything. “That’s what you fucking look like. Andif you think Snow’s stupid enough to buy your friendship story or even the fuckbuddies thing you’ve got going on… Don’t bother trying to deny it, Trinket,we’re past that point now.” Effie glared at him but remained silent. Haymitch’sbest friend shook his head. “Smartest thing to do for everyone involved is foryou to quit and for you to… Forget about her. Unless you think she’s worthbecoming their bitch. In that case,be my guest. But you better be verysure, Haymitch, ‘cause once you go there, the only way you’re getting out iswith one of you in a coffin.”

Chaff stormed out on that ominous statement.

They both remained silent after the door hadslammed on his back.

“To be honest, he might be right but I cannotreally bring myself to care right now.” Effie declared eventually. “I can get the speculations under controlthough. And Brutus did get Valeria tothe Center so his claim that you are the only victor who tried to help theirescort is ridiculous. There must have been others.”

“He’s fuckingher.” he pointed out.

“Irrelevant.” she dismissed. “I am not quittingand you are not… You are not forgetting aboutme. We will deal with this. I do believePresident Snow has more important worries at the moment than finding out if youand I are more involved than we claim. Not that we are.” She hurried in adding the last part when she saw his wince.“We have lost our Head Gamemaker, people are in no mood to watch the Games afterthis, the security breach alone is flabbergasting… Trust me, he has more urgentproblems than us.”

He knew Chaff had a point.

He knew.

But he also had taken a bullet in the chest nottoo long ago and he was tired and in pain and her solution seemed like theeasiest one.

“Fine.” he agreed, his thumb stroking the backof her hand once. “But I’m okay now. Go back to the penthouse, get some restand then go out there and get on top of the story.”

She pouted but eventually nodded, finishing hercoffee in a few long gulps.

“Thank you.” she said quietly. “For saving mylife.”

“Stupid reflex.” he smirked.

She snorted and leaned forward to press a kisson his lips, danger of being discovered be damned.

[dumbledearme]

chapter eight

~~ read Metamorphosis here ~~

The rest of the party was a blur until the moment when the girls were called for the draw. Effie stood at the end of the line, next to Enobaria who flashed her teeth in a threatening way. Plutarch went to the middle of the hall with the others sponsors where a small urn had been placed. Effie glanced around but didn’t see Snow anywhere.

The mentors were called one by one, starting with Messalla Paylor. Under the eyes of everyone in the hall, she went to the urn, reached in and took out a small paper she read aloud: "Red Passion." There was a round of applause, and then the whole process was repeated.

Thirza got Fuchsia. Beetee Latier got Amber to Properzia. Gia's mentor got Slate Gray. For Antonietta was Jade. Judith got the Orange and Hypatia got the Green Asparagus. Aphra lucked out with Violet and Artemisia with Indigo. Cressida got Turquoise. Enobaria the Effervescent Yellow. And then Plutarch walked over there, slithering like a fairy-tale prince, and he was so handsome that some girls actually sighed.

"Pure White," he read on the paper he had taken. Plutarch looked up and stared at Effie. His gaze was so intense that she felt herself blushing. What was he seeing?

All the girls were cheered for and then sent to bed. They needed to rest and prepare for the next day.

"We couldn’t have gotten a better color," Plutarch said on the way up the stairs. "It's going to be perfect. You're going to be perfect."

"White isn’t the best color," Fulvia argued. "She's already so pale, she's going to look like a corpse."

"No," he said. "She’s going to look like an angel." Adding to the effect, he took Effie's hand and gave it a kiss. Then he said goodbye and went back to the party.

"Is that a good idea?" Effie asked Fulvia who shook her head.

"Nothing that fool ever does is a good idea. And somehow... it always works out. If there's anyone who can drink all night and feel perfect the next morning, that’s him. Now go take a shower and go to bed, Miss Trinket. We need you in perfect condition tomorrow. The boys are waiting to help you.”

When Effie returned to the room, Pollux and Castor were indeed waiting for her. They had gotten her a nightgown. She went to change in the bathroom from where she informed them she would only shower in the morning. Pollux helped Effie remove her makeup while Castor brushed her hair. She was tucked in like a child, Pollux massaging her pillow, Castor covering her with a blanket. Effie was immediately transported to the days when she used to do this for her little sister.

The longing was too hard to bare. It was as if Effie was able to survive during the day because she had things to do, but at night, lying in that comfortable bed, she was reminded that Ingrid wasn’t being treated with the same luxuries. What would she be doing right now? Would she be safe? Please, let her be safe!

"Good night, Miss Trinket," said Castor, and he and his brother left. Effie sank into the mattress, her eyes closed, her breathing heavy, trying to control herself as much as possible, trying not to cry.

Suddenly, someone knocked on the door. Effie ignored it, thinking she had imagined it, but they knocked again. Effie got up and opened the door.

"What up, girl?" said Gia holding a thermos. Antonietta was beside her holding three mugs. The were in their pajamas. "Hot chocolate," Gia explained. "Trust me, you've never tasted anything like it."

Effie let them in. "Is it okay you two being here?" she asked.

"Of course!" Gia exclaimed. "No one will ever know. Relax." She and Antonietta threw themselves on the bed and Gia proceeded to pour the chocolate in the mugs.

Antonietta seemed a bit uncomfortable. "I'm sorry for the way I treated you at lunch," she said. "I was nervous because everybody loved you. You know, it's a lot of pressure."

Effie was glad to see that she seemed genuine in her apology. "It was nothing," she said, sitting on the bed with them.

"Wow," said Gia. "Did you see the way she forgave you? Like it was no biggie? That's why she's going to win."

"What? No!" said Effie, who found impossible to know who would win a contest that hadn’t even started yet.

"You believe in your chances, don’t you?" Antonietta asked. "You must find it possible, since you came here. And certainly you’ve received a lot of positive attention."

"So did Lavinia." Effie didn’t want to be the center of that conversation. If they had to talk about someone, couldn’t it be someone who wasn’t there? "And everyone’s still likes her."

Gia raised an eyebrow. "You haven’t spent much time with other girls, have you?"

"I have a little sister."

Gia shook her head. "Doesn’t count. Look, Twelve, what all girls want most in life is for the girl next to them to fall on her face. It's true," she insisted when Antonietta laughed. "And girls always know how to reach their goals. The secret is to know what their opponents' weaknesses are. You, Twelve, feel bad for getting the evil look from your enemies, so that's obviously what they're all going to do from now on. And you, Etta, who doesn’t talk much, they will use words against you. And Lavinia, who is perfect from every angle... Well, everyone wants to be friends with her for now, because if you are on her side she will not destroy you, and as a plus, you’ll appear in all the photos. Is that simple.”

Effie gaped. She didn’t know girls could be so... Machiavellian.

"What will you do?" Etta asked Gia. "To get rid of them?" Her tone was playful, but Effie detected a real interest underneath it.

Gia took a sip of hot chocolate. "Treat them like insects until they realize that's what they are." All three laughed at that. "No, but seriously, just ignore them. I know a girl who gets so angry when she's ignored that she starts to throw things around. It’s hilarious.”

Effie thought that was great advice, the kind of thing Ingrid would have said with her mere ten years of age. Again, trying not to give in to her own misery, Effie focused on the hot drink that immediately lifted her spirits.

"Did you see the President?" Etta asked. "He didn’t dance with anyone. Actually I think he was barely there at all. I saw him once and then he disappeared."

"Yeah," agreed Gia. "He's a bit unfriendly. I was disappointed. I wouldn’t have voted for him if I knew I wouldn’t even get a hello, dog. By the way,” she exclaimed, rising, “you heard the color I got? Gray! What the hell am I going to do with gray? It's the worst color there is!"

"I like gray," Etta said.

"So, trade with me, jade. Goddamn it, blue is more me, you know... Or red! Can you imagine what I could do with red?"

Etta turned to Effie. "Did you like your color, Effie?"

Effie shrugged. Gia grimaced. "You really don’t talk much, do you?" She sighed. "You are definitely going to win."

When Effie began to protest, the two girls laughed at her. A few minutes after the chocolate was gone, Gia and Antonietta got up to leave.

"Good luck for tomorrow," Effie wished them, from the bottom of her heart. If that contest was as important to them as it was to Effie, they deserved, at least, some good luck. The girls said it back to her then headed up the empty corridor. Effie went back to bed feeling much better.

Maybe girls weren’t so bad after all.

She woke when Pollux gently opened the curtains allowing the morning light to come into the room through the large window. Effie wasn’t ready to get up yet — it had taken her a long time to fall asleep and she was still tired, but she decided she shouldn’t argue. She had already denied a bath last night.

The bathtub was prepared with hot water and the brothers stayed in the room waiting. Half an hour later, Effie came out clean, smelling and wearing a super soft robe. Castor dried her hair and tidied them up in an elaborate hairstyle. Pollux continued his work as a makeup artist.

Plutarch arrived a little late, but he seemed energetic and showed no sign of having slept little. Effie wondered what his secret was, for her eyes were still swollen from crying. They brought two boxes: one with the white dress that Effie would wear during the first stage of the contest and another with a simpler dress for the interview that would happen after breakfast.

Downstairs, Effie sat in an armchair to wait for the other girls who were gradually arriving. All of them wore simple dresses but with flaming colors, had their hair well-ornamented and their faces were well-made. The last to arrive was Thirza, who made the other girls wait a good forty minutes for her.

After eating, the twelve participants were taken to a room with a stage where, one at a time, they would be interviewed by Caesar Flickerman. Plutarch and Fulvia were already there, and quickly pulled Effie aside to give her some more last minute advice.

"The interview is worth 30% of your final score," Fulvia said seriously. "You have to do well. This is where the public will decide whether or not they like you."

"Keep your hands on your lap and your knees always together," Plutarch advised. "Head up, Effie. And remember to smile."

Each of the questions Caesar asked was more ridiculous than the last.

What is the importance of the Metamorphosis to our society?

"Metamorphosis helps give opportunities to women, revealing their striking personalities, talents and potentials, and gives them the right to serve the people," Lavinia replied showing her perfect teeth.

"Metamorphosis is a celebration of what is beautiful," Thirza said. "It unites the districts in honor of the beauty God has granted us."

"The Metamorphosis generates awareness of the different ethical and social problems that need our attention, making the candidates into pawns to the alienated public," was Cressida's answer.

Who is the most influential person in your life?

"My mother," said Antonietta. "She is exactly what I want to be in the future: gentle, compassionate, a true epitome of a mother. She is an inspiration and a blessing not only to me, but to everyone who lives in her company."

If you won the Metamorphosis, what would you do with the prize?

"I would use it to open my own business, thus helping my district to have more jobs," Artemisia replied.

If you could live again, from scratch, what part of your life would you change?

"None," laughed Gia. "What makes me who I am are the things that I went through and change any part of it would automatically make me a completely different person."

What would be your best contribution to Panem?

"I would join humanitarian parties, participate in charity missions, give support seminars to others and open doors to contests such as the Metamorphosis, thereby bringing confidence and self-esteem to women who wish to have a professional future," said Properzia.

How would you describe your personality?

"I'm a very simple person," Judith smiled. "I’m happy with what God has given me. I’m an optimist and I come from a large family of loving people."

What is your philosophy in life?

"Remain faithful to my morals despite the insistence of the immoral values ​​that prevail in our society. Respect and earn the respect of others, be friends with all and be loved by God," said Hypatia.

What is the essence of winning the Metamorphosis?

"It’s that the people of the Capitol and of the districts reflect on the person who best qualifies to represent our Country," said Aphra.

What is the main environmental problem we have at the moment?

"Definitely the kind of pollution that progress and technology brings us," said Enobaria, aggressively. "The waste. Year after year, is a perennial problem in all districts where large amounts of water are wasted by those who have no common sense."

If you could do anything, what would it be?

Effie had to think hard about that. All the other girls answered their questions promptly, but the way they spoke was so forced and rehearsed that Effie didn’t believe anything they were saying. (With the exception of Judith, of course.) But that was a serious question and none of the other girls had brought real problems to the surface.

If you could do anything, what would it be?

From the stage, she looked up at the mezzanine from where Snow was watching. He had that same expression of mildly interested he had wore last night. Someone had to make him see, to make him understand and fix the country he'd sworn to protect.

If you could do anything, what would it be?

"Let no one else in this world go hungry or be in any other kind of necessity," she decided, keeping her eyes on the president. "While we here are drowning in the luxuries of the Capitol, there are thousands of people in District 12, and in many others, who’ll have nowhere to sleep tonight, who won’t know what to say to their children when they ask for more food. We have not only been separated by districts. We have also forgotten that we’re all together and if we don’t stay like that, the world will become colder and hollower. All I ask for is one word —understanding. That, even with all conflicts between districts, we can remember, for just one night, that we’re all one family and that we need to help each other." Effie, now excited, stood up. "Look at your neighbor and don’t expect him to come and ask for help. Offer him whatever you have to spare. Forget for one moment the word I. This is us. We are the problem, but we’re also the solution."

And then Effie smiled to the crowd, as Plutarch had instructed her to do, and the effect was immediate.

[dumbledearme]

chapter one

~~ read Metamorphosis here ~~

Effie stood near the mines watching the workers come and go. They were all sweaty, dirty, smelly, but to her they looked damn beautiful. The sweat made their skin glow, the hard labor made their eyes shine. It was like there was nothing else in the world: only their efforts and her inclination to go down there and help.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” her mother came rushing, her oily skirts moving from one side to the other as she moved her legs in that aggressive march of hers. “Haven’t I told you you can’t be here? You’re gonna get in their way, Effie. Or worse.”

“What could be worse than that?”

Her mother gave her that condescending look. “They might think you’re… offering yourself.”

“Well, I might be. I do want to help them! And I should be able to. I have good strong arms. I could carry at least—”

“That is not what I meant.”

The realization came slowly. Effie’s eyes widened. Her hand twitched.

The mother sighed. “Oh, Effie. The Seam is no place for a girl.”

“Where is my place? Behind the stove? Wasting away in that house with that bastard that does nothing to help you—”

“Don’t talk about your father—”

“Cleitus isn’t my father!”

“He is! And he’s good to us. He… Well, Cleitus might not be the best of men, but he certainly—”

“—is one of the worst. You are blind, mom. You can’t see it. If you could… you wouldn’t leave me alone with him. The way he looks at me, he’ll soon—”

The slap came fast, hard, sharp. But that wasn’t the first nor would it be the last. Effie looked down; she didn’t care to see the regret that always took over her mother’s face after moments like this. Regret paid for nothing. Effie couldn’t do anything with regret.

“You can’t say these things about your father, Effie. It isn’t right. Now go home. We have work to do.”

“Cleaning after that pig isn’t work.”

“But it’s all you’re gonna get,” her mother snapped. “I’m sorry if your life is such a disappointment. I did the best I could. I can see you’ll never be satisfied with what you have. You’ll keep those big dreams of going to the Capitol, of escaping this poverty, but that’s all they are, Effie. Dreams. Reality is here and now. Accept it and it might hurt less.”

“Are you going to stand there chatting all day?” Cleitus called from a distance. Even from afar, Effie could smell him: alcohol and the putrid smell of cigarettes. Her stomach twisted.

“I want distance from that man,” said Effie ignoring her mother’s promises that Cleitus was her father. That wasn’t the true. Both of them knew it. Her mother had that little wood box, her most precious possessions, the one she kept hidden under the kitchen sink. More times than not Effie caught her crying over that box. She didn’t know what was inside, but she was sure it was about her father. “And I won’t spend the rest of my life working in that bar of his. You know what he does. Sells drugs and cigarettes to people. Keeps the money to himself. And we work our asses for nothing so he can keep up with his drinking.”

“I need you to help me, Effie,” pleaded her mom suddenly looking very small. It was a marvelous thing how small people, instead of making Effie feel big, made her feel tiny. She shrunk into almost nothing, nodded and followed her mother back to Pieter’s.

Serving tables was definitely not a dream job. Effie went from one side to the other in the bar, refilling glasses of beer, serving a dozen sandwiches to the buns who lived in that part of District 12. They talked loudly, they burped and they just couldn’t keep their hands to themselves.

Effie grabbed a butter knife and threatened Marcus Davis with it. It was always him and his hand on her ass. She had reported the fat man a thousand times but no one ever did anything about it. “If you touch me again, I’ll cut you.”

The idiot had the nerve to look offended. “What is wrong with you, kid?” he asked. How could Effie ever answer him? How could she explain to the man with a boner, who just called you kid after grabbing your ass, that pedophilia was a crime?

“You touch me again, I’ll cut off your hand and the thing you have between your legs that barely works anymore since your wife left you, Mr Davis.”

Marcus Davis’s face turned bright red. He immediately called Cleitus to fight his battles for him.

“Aurelia!” Cleitus shouted. “You have to control this girl! The client is always right, ain’t it?”

“You don’t like it?” Effie threw the knife at his feet and he danced around it pathetically trying to avoid it. “Find another poor soul that’ll work for free. I dare you.”

“Effie,” said her mother in that tone of voice she used as a warning. “Enough. Take the trash out for me, will you?”

Effie did as she was told. She always did as she was told.

It was already dark outside. Effie put the trash in the can and decided to take the rest of the night out. Maybe sleep near the clearing. Anywhere that wasn’t home. Anywhere she didn’t have to be afraid.

School was a mixture of excitement and fear. Effie enjoyed learning new things, but most of all, she loved learning about the history of the districts. District 3 definitely had the smartest people and District 5 was perhaps the most essential one there was. But her favorite was District 9.

When Effie was very little she had had a dream. She was outside and there were no fences. The sun was rising, everything looked so orange. As she walked between the fields of crops, she felt like she was walking on the sun. Everything was warm and beautiful.

She knew exactly why it held such a fascination. The teacher was very thorough in her lesson. The one fact that could be said about District 9: they had food.

“Wholesome food produced from nature is the cornerstone of a healthy Panem,” the teacher had said all those years ago. “District 9 cultivates and mills the most nutrient-rich grain possible and takes pride in providing this fertile harvest to our nation. In Panem’s bread bowl, real nutrition and a thriving country live hand in hand.”

That was the most beautiful thing Effie could think of. A land where you don’t go hungry. Someplace where the pain in your stomach didn’t exist, didn’t stop you from sleeping. A land where we have for us, and we have for all.

“Are you listening to me, Miss Trinket?” the teacher asked. Someone nudged Effie on the side bringing her to the present.

“Hmm? Yes.”

The teacher made a face of one who didn’t believe. “What was I saying?”

“She wasn’t listening,” said someone from the back of the classroom. “She was thinking about how we’re all so hungry to pay attention to you, Miss Janine. And I have to say, she has a point.” As if on cue, his stomach growled loudly. Some of the kids laughed.

Haymitch Abernathy. How Effie despised him and at the same time… No, she despised him alright. He was tall, blonde, thin, arrogant — Effie could spend the entire day listing the things he was. He sat there with that stupid grin on his face like he had said something extremely smart that deserved applause of something. As if. Like she needed his help with anything.

Then again, she had been thinking along those lines, hadn’t she? She wanted to feed her people. She wanted their lives to be better. Was it all a coincidence, what he had said and what she had been thinking? Was it because they were, indeed, all hungry? Or did he somehow just knew?

“Don’t start with me, Mr Abernathy,” said the teacher, “or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“Oh, please, do.” More laughter. What a clown.

Miss Janine chose to ignore him. A wise choice, Effie thought.

“I was saying, Miss Trinket, no citizen is too young to support the constructive efforts of the Mining District, and in turn, the gallant efforts of Panem.”

“Yes, they are making a difference, aren’t they? We work, they eat,” said Haymitch with sarcasm.

“The Capitol channels their hope and optimism toward Panem’s peaceful future.”

“It’ll be incredibly peaceful,” he said with indifference, “when there are no more people.”

Effie got out of there with Haymitch Abernathy’s words still in her head. The cheek of that boy. And yet… no truer words were ever spoken. Outside the school, she found herself face to face with a poster of the Capitol’s propaganda about coal mining. Their pride and commitment is truly the warmth and light of our lives!, it said.

“Their pride and commitment will get us all killed,” said Haymitch from behind her.

Effie sighed. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

He seemed to think about it. “No. Now say, Trinket, how about we go to Greasy Sue and-”

“Can’t. I’m busy.”

“Doing what? And don’t say washing your hair. We both know you haven’t washed that in years.”

“Maybe I should. It’s getting kind of itchy.” That made him smiled. “Besides, anything to get you to leave me alone.”

Haymitch pretended to be offended. He placed his right hand above his heart and made a pained face. “You’re killing me.”

Effie rolled her eyes. “Haymitch, seriously, I have work to do.”

“Not today,” he said smiling like someone who holds the key to another world. “Didn’t you hear? Today everyone needs to be at the Square.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Something or other.”

Effie looked around. Everyone was, in fact, moving toward the Square. Thinking she’d better follow, she turned her back at Haymitch. But he couldn’t take a hint. She could feel him walking behind her.

The Square was packed when they arrived. It was a large space but not large enough to hold District 12’s population of about eight thousand. Latecomers like them were directed to the adjacent streets, where they could watch the event on screens at it was televised live by the state.

There was a temporary stage set up before the Justice Building and a group of around twelve strangers from the Capitol. Two of them were by the podium: a short weird looking man with a blond wig and a taller one who looked absolutely rich.

“Welcome,” said the short one in a booming voice. “I’m Claudius Templesmith and this is my very good friend, Plutarch Heavensbee. We come to you with a proposition; one that you must have heard of already. The Project Metamorphosis.”

Effie had heard about that but she couldn’t quite remember what it was. Haymitch made a tsking sound beside her.

“I wanna get closer,” she told him.

Haymitch didn’t look pleased. “Of course you do.” He grabbed her hand and guided her through the crowd while Claudius Templesmith spoke.

“Our program is looking for a girl to be the face of our country. We want someone with potential, someone who can speak, walk and act as an example of all the good things we have in Panem. All of your girls are invited to try out. Every age, every color, every style.”

The Square was surrounded by shops and there were bright banners hanging on the buildings. The camera crews, perched like buzzards on rooftops were filming the crowd as much as the stage. When they got near a short wall, Haymitch took Effie by the waist and lifted her up. She stood high on the wall where she could see everyone, everything. The camera man beside her turned the camera at her.

“What are you doing, girl?”

“Just wanna watch the show,” she explained. The man shook his head and that was when someone shouted, “Stop!” Effie looked up just in time to see her surprised, dirty face showing in the big screens of District 12. Her hair was almost brown and looking like a rat’s nest. Her skin was pale, ugly. But her blue eyes were large as she saw herself and they kind of looked like stars.

The man who had shouted was the young Plutarch Heavensbee. He wasn’t looking at the screens — he was looking directly at her from across the Square. Then he moved, came her way, pushing people aside, until he was right in front of the wall. He reached out his hand as an offering. Hesitantly, Effie took it and he helped her down.

“You’re beautiful,” he said touching her hair. Effie slapped his hand away, her heart racing. Plutarch raised both hands in surrender. “I mean you no harm. This is my job,” he gestured around to the big event. “And you are… gorgeous.”

Effie had only the vague idea that everyone in the Square was watching them. She couldn’t take her eyes from the stranger. He looked like the prince charming from on of those books Ingrid liked to read before bed. Was this a joke? Or did he mean it? Did he really find her… gorgeous? Oh, yeah, right, as if…

“Yes, you are,” he insisted as if reading her mind. “You look clean, fresh, young.” He studied her attentively, then said, “I want you to sign your name on the Metamorphosis program. I want you to be the face of Panem.”