Hi all! After many, many years of loving stories about Effie and reading all the different theories and head canons about her character, I am finally adding a story of my own! So it's definitely not canon, and I don't even know if it's good, but I really enjoyed writing this! It's sort of based in the movie 'verse, but my personal head canon weaved through it.
Enjoy.
It's daytime, maybe.
Everything is washed in pale light, too bright for night but too dark for day and the shadows don't make sense at all.
Everything's strange; even the air feels wrong.
There used to be dust particles in the air. They're still there, probably, but seemingly invisible.
You used to hate them.
They looked like smokey mites from burning coal, and you'd feel them tickle your throat as they clogged your lungs and covered up your insides like inky dust.
You always thought they were suffocating.
They're gone now; you still can't breathe.
You hate District 13.
There's nowhere else to go.
You hate that fact even more.
Eyes are always on you here. People are silent as they walk past but their pinpointed gazes say more than their tongues ever could.
You're a prized bird.
A caged bird, really. A trained pet who's told when to sing and speak and fly.
You try to resist. Try not to be the Mockingjay puppet regurgitating the lines they keep feeding you.
You do it anyway.
The beeping on your wrist startles you from thought.
Time to eat; time to get started.
Whatever they gave you, it's not oatmeal. They call it that, but it's not. It's a gray mass of lumps and brown bits and tasteless, burned globs that cement your tongue to the roof of your mouth.
You mourn the taste of puffy white bread, of mashed potatoes swimming in dark gravy, of lamb stew.
Then you hate yourself, because all those things making you salivate are Capitol, and you hate that place most of all.
Your wrist is beeping again.
A meeting with Coin and Plutarch, then video prepping, then forcing a heroic wince as a camera makes you look better than you are.
You know without a doubt Cressida is a miracle worker, because you look terrible.
Or maybe that's how you feel.
Or maybe that's what you are.
You hate Distract 13.
There's too much light and too little to do, and you're sick of all this quiet.
It gives you time to think, and that's the last thing you want to do.
You stand in front of the camera, teeth grinding your tongue to keep your vicious words in.
Coin is watching.
You wonder why. She leans over Plutarch's shoulder and whispers some secret command. You stop wondering.
Effie is fussing over you.
She always does that.
Everyone always does that.
She's clucking her tongue, her two hands multiplying to thousands as she tugs on your uniform, your hair, your hands.
You'd probably fall over from the various yanks if she wasn't so small.
But she is, and it's almost ironic how much you tower over her, considering the way her Capitol always towered over you.
She yanks at you again; you lift even taller as she straightens your posture.
You look at the camera, your reflection glaring back from the dark lens.
Effie is also a miracle worker.
Your makeup is light, you look battered and yet faultless. Your clothes the best kind of rumpled, your hair regal and mussed.
She's made you look intimidating, and strong, and perfect.
You almost want to hate her for it.
"That will be all," Coin says, dismissing Effie without even a glance in her direction. "Go back to your station."
Watery eyes meet yours. They blink, and any liquid there evaporates, leaving only a wide, blinding smile.
You don't like that kind of smile, the one that's simply a bearing of one's teeth, the one that's nearly splitting her face in two.
That's the smile people do when they're nervous.
That's the smile people do when they're afraid.
You don't know why she is, Effie's never had to fear for anything.
Never.
Not a single day of her Capitol life.
"Well, you've got a big, big, big day of filming ahead of you, so I'll leave you to it," she says. A kiss is blown to you, you make no effort to catch it.
"You look beautiful, darling."
She lingers a second longer, looking lost.
You don't know why. She's got a schedule on her wrist too, just like everyone else. And you know just how much Effie loves staying on schedule.
"Back to your station. Now."
Coin is all tightness and formality, even as she stretches a smile for you and Effie.
You decide it's for Effie's benefit, because to you it only feels cold.
It must for Effie too; she scurries away without a glance back.
Then it's just you, Coin, Plutarch, and your script.
"All right, let's get started."
"Say it one more time," Cressida says, finger twirling to Pollux, a signal to start again.
"I could say it a thousand times, but I can't make it sound different."
You're tired, the lights are making your head pound, and those words taste like ash in your mouth.
"We don't need it to sound different, just a little better."
She's looking tired too, and you feel guilty. You're really trying, you are, but tension is high and nothing feels right.
"Remember why you're saying it, Katniss. Remember who you're saying it for."
Plutarch's disembodied voice floats through the speakers; you grit your teeth as you pretend to listen to his useless advice.
"It's not real. Take me to where it is, and maybe something will happen," you say, desperate for above ground, desperate to be doing something, desperate to fight.
His tinny sigh is answer enough.
"We can't do that. You're too important."
That's when you drop your bow and rip off your mic, that's when you stomp out of the room.
It's quiet in the halls, no one's looking at you because they're all busy doing work. All busy doing something better for the rebellion than your job.
Your job is to look pretty and pretend you're as important as you're told you are.
A hallway camera hums as it turns to focus on you; a scowl fills its vision. You understand why they're necessary, or at least you've been told why, but they make you feel like you're being watched.
But you're always being watched.
It should be nothing new.
You tap your scheduled wrist, anything to stop looking at those cameras.
Lunch is still half an hour away. Still a half hour before blissful distraction with Gale and Prim.
A closing door startles you; a man is fixing the buckle on his uniform, he doesn't notice you as he walks the other way.
A woman walks out of the recently closed door, tucking her shirt back into her pants; the uniform looks different than everyone else's, though they're the exact same. There's something unique about the figure though, a trademark no one else has, a head scarf you've seen before, an hour earlier.
"Effie." It's not a question or a gasp or even an address.
It's just recognition.
She gasps as she whirls in your direction.
Your confused eyes meet hers; she looks the way deer used to when they heard your arrow flying.
"Katniss." She mouths, or maybe she spoke it. You can't hear either way.
You look down, too much of her shirt is still unbuttoned.
"Katniss-"
You turn around, walking away. Bolting, really.
The rain of frustration in your mind before had been just a drizzle, this is a full-on storm.
If it had been in the past, you wouldn't have cared. Let Effie do what she wants. But now...
Now people are fighting above ground, dying up there, people are agonizing down here as they try to win the war. Everyone's panicking and working themselves to the bone and giving their lives to the cause, and she's wasting time, sneaking around doing that-
You hurry to lunch, even though it's not your turn yet.
It doesn't matter, you don't feel like eating anyway.
People are chatting around you, laughing between bites of food, oblivious to your internal rage.
You block them out, till everything's a muted fuzz. You're deep in thought, screams inside you building louder than any lunchroom chat could compete with until- a food tray clatters next to you, breaking your concentration.
"Can't say one measly line, can you, kid?"
Haymitch's sallow cheeks pull into a mocking grin.
"It's a stupid line. It didn't mean anything."
"That stupid line has been carefully crafted, like a weapon, to attack Snow. You should remember that; people worked hard to give you that line." He sees the guilt cloud your eyes; he continues.
"And everyone's working hard to win this war-"
"Not everyone." You interrupt, thoughts shifting from guilt to seething.
Vision shifting from boiled potatoes to hinted pink lace on pale skin, a gray uniform hanging too haphazardly around a too thin frame.
Haymitch doesn't follow your train of thought.
"What is going on in that Mockingjay head of yours?"
"What is going on with that escort of yours?"
You want to know, if he knows what Effie does during the day, or what she's probably doing in the night.
"I have no idea what you're going on about, but I'm getting tired of this, so-"
"Did you know she's seeing someone, down here, while everyone else is working as hard as they can?"
A raised brow, shaking hands remain the same, nothing but confusion in those wrung-out eyes.
"Do you know how she spends her precious time?"
"Still not making sense, kid."
His continued lack of understanding is annoying.
"Sex, Haymitch! While we're struggling and working and dying to win this war, she's shirking her duties and having sex!"
You probably said that too loud, people are staring at you. You probably shouldn't have stood up either.
You don't care.
Your chest is heaving and you're out of breath from the outburst, but you don't care. You're angry.
Suddenly, he is too.
Not at you, you think. But his hands clench and his lips press together and his previously confused gaze is sharpening into something you've never seen before.
You want to take a step back, but you don't, because he's already leaving.
Where?
You have a pretty solid guess.
You're not sure why you're following him. You know wherever he's headed is going to be personal.
Maybe it's because you weren't even supposed to be at the lunch hall, maybe it's because you're curious, maybe it's because you're still angry.
Whatever the reason, you stay quiet.
He's not paying attention to you. He's not paying attention to anything, completely blindsided to everything besides his destination.
As he stops in front of a door identical to the hundreds of others, you know what's going to happen.
You stay a step back.
He pounds on the door.
No answer.
He pushes it open; you didn't know sliding doors could bang.
"Trinket, front and center," he barks, loud and biting and mad.
That familiar splash of gray and white pokes out from the bathroom.
"Really, Haymitch, how many times do I have to remind you it's incredibly rude to simply barge into others..."
She trails off when she sees you. If it's possible, she pales even further.
"Oh."
A quiet oath; you deem it her confession.
"Care to elaborate?" He asks, she shrugs.
"What is there to say?"
"There's a damn lot to say, I think."
She shrugs again, helplessly.
"I don't know what to say."
Her delicate, cursory hand lifts to swipe at filling eyes; Haymitch visibly deflates.
You shut the door; neither of them notice you.
"This isn't the Capitol anymore, sweetheart." He says softly.
Gently.
It's a stark contrast to how he was before, and you don't understand what's going on at all. They're speaking in thoughts you're not privy to, and things aren't connecting by themselves.
"You don't have to do that anymore."
Effie backs away, eyes downcast, arms wrapping around her slight frame as she protects herself from some invisible enemy.
"This is exactly like the Capitol," she states bitterly. "The only difference is the food and clothing."
Her head whips up, like the deer again; her stare is on the camera.
It's smaller than the ones in the halls, but it sees everything just the same.
You're certain you've never seen Effie look so scared.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, never breaking gaze from the camera. "I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it."
"It's ok, Princess. At least you're finally speaking your mind."
"No! I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it!" Her denial is manic and terrified; Haymitch inches closer, slowly, like he's trying to calm a frightened animal.
Then his arms are around her, and she's clutching the back of his shirt like a lifeline, fingers trembling as she grips him tighter.
"You're ok, Effie," he says. "You're safe."
"Safe doesn't exist."
It's said in a muffled whisper, barely audible from the front of Haymitch's shirt, but you hear it.
"No one's safe. Not then, not in the Capitol; not now, not here. It's not safe. It's never safe."
The words fill your veins like a cold poison.
Effie calms as Haymitch murmurs gruff comfort, but you don't hear it. You don't want it. You just want to leave.
So you do.
When he finds you later, much later, you're in the pipe room.
You'd tried the closet, but it had been too filled with clothes that reminded you of Effie and confused your head till you couldn't breathe.
"When they couldn't find you on any camera, I figured you'd be here," Haymitch says conversationally, as if you hadn't witnessed the fear that's probably deep rooted in every semi-aware Capitol citizen.
As if you hadn't seen Effie Trinket, bossy, nagging, oblivious Effie Trinket as she truly was.
As if you hadn't watched a puppet cry over breaking her strings.
"You're probably wondering what the hell just happened," he says, trying again.
"Which hell?"
Your voice catches, scratched from whatever emotion is choking your throat.
"Which hell indeed." He pauses, letting you think about it.
"Let's start with the Capitol one."
He nods, though the wrinkles around his sunken eyes tighten, you watch him work to loosen his jaw.
"What do you want to know?"
"Like you have to ask."
He's quiet, struggling to answer. Going through the responses, trying to find the simplest one. The softest one.
It's a long while till he answers.
"I call her Princess, but it's not based on the pretty fairy tales people like to think of. She's a princess back from a time nobody remembers. The one who learns all the rules and follows them. The one who can't have an opinion besides the one given to her. The one who marries whoever the king commands her to. Except it's not marrying, and the king is not her father."
"So she really is a..." You don't finish the sentence, don't know how.
He finishes for you.
"Capitol whore? The definition seems fitting, doesn't it?"
You don't answer, you just swallow hard.
"Well, not quite. Pawn, puppet, whatever name you like calling pieces of the games. She's that."
"How?" You ask. You have to.
Because one moment of clarity doesn't forgive gushing over details of those games like talking about a favorite dress.
Shaking hands haven't wiped away the manicured ones that once held Prim's life on a slip of paper.
"How could she be that?"
"Because," his sigh is heavy. "She had as much choice as any of the others. Consume, or be consumed. Only she had to do both, smiling the whole time."
You don't say anything.
What is there to say?
"District 13 hell," you say finally, needing all the answers now.
"What's it like here?"
This time, the wait feels eternal.
"Stress is high, and the upper ranks aren't liking the fact there's a Capitol in their midst. Alma Coin," the name escapes his mouth like a curse. "She decided Effie would be the best stress release, given that she was perfectly happy to do it before."
Horror fills you, and you're used to the feeling.
Doesn't make it easier to swallow.
"How... Why would... Why would Effie say yes to that?"
"Because she's scared, and when you're scared you bend to whoever is pushing you, in hope that if you bend far enough, they won't push you to the breaking point."
You know that; you've lived that.
You also know they'll push you anyway.
You sit in silence for a long time, Haymitch sitting next to you.
The heaviness is unbearable, and you can think of nothing to alleviate it.
"Will it stop?" You ask.
"What?"
"Effie's job. As a stress release."
"I'm going to do my best."
He sounds fervent. You're relieved.
"Good. I don't want her to break."
He shakes his head, looking lighter than he has all day.
"She won't, she's too annoying to do that."
You're not convinced. He notices.
"It'll be fine, Katniss. She's tougher than she looks. She's set on nagging at us for all eternity."
He makes a face, one of exasperated fondness. He reaches for you as he stands.
"And that," he says as you stand too. "Will be a different hell in itself."