Lonely Hearts
A/N: AU story, but plausible, I guess. Just a theory of mine based on the question a friend of mine asked today, Would they punish Capitol citizens for misbehavior as well? Written real quick during Journalism. One edit instead of the normal three. And trying out a new writing style: choppy, told like a broken story, as if by a storyteller. Ahhh, review :3
Trigger Warning: Implied prostitution, and cursing.
In the fine print of the terms and conditions on the Loyalty Contract, there is a retribution clause.
Tributes must be kept behaved, out of trouble, and mannered at all times. Feral unruliness is not permitted at all, no way, no how. Tributes are to be appreciative of the Capitol, and the escort must make sure of that. Any sign of rebellion is a risk, and any kind of risk is no good for a perfect country like this, right?
There will be consequences if these standards are not met.
This year's tributes misbehave.
A rebellious sixteen-year old merchant boy who lacks tact and knowledge of the word respect and an over-emotional twelve year old Seam girl displease the Capitol.
Effie Trinket is worried. She tries her best to make them feel better, act better, be better because for God's sake, the wrath of an angry government is too much for her to handle. She's seen it before, heard it all from other escorts in the other lower districts. It has happened once to her already, years ago, but that would be a game of innocence compared to what is promised the second time around.
Nothing works.
Promise of chocolate covered strawberries and a tour of the city only further push the tributes over the edge.
The boy cusses excessively in his interview. The girl makes it one minute before she bursts into tears.
There are butterflies in Effie's stomach.
More like fireworks.
More like warfare.
Haymitch stares at her across the dinner table. He squints, sloshing his drink towards her way, "Sweetheart, have you forgotten how to blink?"
Effie snaps back to reality. "I'm sorry, how rude of me." She glances at the boy and the girl, who, suprisingly enough, eat in silence. Then again, tomorrow's the first day of the Games, and there is no point in crying or cursing anymore. Not really, no.
Haymitch watches her for a little while more. He goes back to his drink moment later.
Tomorrow night is her first night of Retribution.
A Capitol Escort has more than one duty to her country, after all. Her responsibilities extend farther than bringing walking corpses to the Capitol. That's what the Ethics Council tell her. That mistakes have consequences, and her consequence is only another responsibility. A sick, cruel, twisted responsibility.
Effie can do it. She knows she can. It's just a couple nights, after all.
But she is one woman, and she can only do so much. She was never raised for this kind of life, anyhow.
Blush is applied steadily. Makeup perfected, dress tight in all the right places, showing all the right things.
She is a puppet. That is all she is now. Nothing more than marionette controlled by the cruelest puppeteers.
Who am I again?
She looks into the mirror and applies more lipstick.
She shows up to the door of a run down hostel in the middle of downtown Capitol.
Who is it now? Politician gone astray? A man who has saved up his money to buy the best of the lot? A lonely woman wanting some spice in her life?
She is sold to the highest bidder, the richest man of the night.
She is nothing but a toy.
Effie knocks tentatively.
"You were expensive," Haymitch drawls, waking back to the couch. She follows him like a puppy. She's confused. Very. Effie twists her face into a look of mixed betrayal and bewilderment; he didn't... did he?
He turns around slowly. She stops in her tracks.
"Why?" she asks. He doesn't answer, not really. She demands one, though. It's only natural to ask for an answer that is surely known. Effie reiterates, grabbing him by the arm to force him to look at her. "Do you want me, is that it? Is that your ulterior motive? Huh? Look at me when I talk to you, you fucking brute."
She is crying, but she's angry, not sad. Disappointed, but not sad. She can't afford to be melancholy anymore.
Effie grabs him by the neck and forces him closer, lips barely brushing his, her tears streaming faster as she shuts her eyes closed. "You want a tragedy to fuck, a sad little thing, don't you?" she whispers. "That's all they want, all of them, right?"
Haymitch tears his eyes away from hers and pushes her away. Her sobs come out forcibly, dryly, her hands still latched on his arm for support.
"I don't want you," Haymitch says quietly, watching her with care, as if she'll break under a weighted glance. "Go to sleep."
Effie brings her hands to her eyes and sobs. Hard, without pausing for breath, without relent. She shouldn't be crying. She doesn't allow herself to cry anymore. She can't help it, though, and it's sickening.
Haymitch leads her to the couch, sits her down, and rubs her back in the most awkward way possible as if that will make her feel better.
It doesn't.
It's amusing, she realizes, the compassionate side of a man she thought had none. She laughs humorlessly at this. "Thank you," she whispers. She laughs again, sniffling and wiping away tears. "Thank you so much."
Haymitch grunts in reply, his hand running down her back and around her middle. The silence between them grows heavier, more palpable by the second. After a few minutes, he asks, "How long?"
"Two more nights," she says after a few moments. "One if Seneca got me."
He stares at the wall ahead. "Why?"
"I have to." Effie sighs, slouching into the sofa. "Punishment. Is there any other reason?"
Haymitch exhales. He doesn't answer to that. But when his fingers loop around hers, she realize she owes him everything.