To many people of the Capitol, The Hunger Games were simply just a game. And like most, this was the case for bewigged, bedazzled Capitolian Euphemia Calpurina Trinket. Like watching a movie or reading a book, the Games had a strange, dreamlike essence to them. They were, to most, just any other reality show. You root for your favourites and cry when they get killed, but life goes on. To most Capitolians, if something didn't directly affect you then you didn't get worked up about it.
Effie (our aforementioned lady, Euphemia) pondered this now as she perched on a seat at the side of the platform in facade of District Twelve's Hall of Justice, awaiting her debut as the mining district's new escort. This was going to be her first reaping, of course, but nerves were nothing on her at present moment in time, though she had a nagging suspicion that all of that was going to change in a blink. For now, on the contrary, she had been looking forward to this moment for months by this point, and she knew what she was about to do to a tee, and it was completely idiot-proof. Introduce the video. Pull a few names out of a glass ball. Get the new tributes on stage. Smile. Look nice of the cameras. Smile some more. Repeat the 'Happy Hunger Games' spiel a few times. Get the pair to the Capitol in once piece. How hard could it be?
Famous last words. Holding a hand mirror in front of her face and making sure that her pale, sunset-hued explosion of curls was completely in place – a wig, as could be expected - and not flashing any of her own black grease-slick that allegedly passed for hair, Effie beamed at her reflection, showing off a row of perfect gold teeth behind gold-leafed lips, breathed out and stepped out on to the stage, her posture unfazed by her enormous shocking yellow platform high heels.
"Welcome!" Her voice rang out through the speakers brightly. She noted the thousands of eyes following her, and that was when she shattered. What if she messed this up? She would never be able to show her face in public again. Swallowing the tennis ball-sized lump in her throat, she continued speaking, her lips still pinned into that rehearsed smile. "Welcome! Welcome! Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favour!" She was too conscious of the fact that she was sweating in several rather undignified places, and that her life was officially over, metaphorically speaking, if it showed through her cream-hued two-piece dress suit. The district children's eyes still trained on her, she tugged at the fake evening primroses blooming madly from her black choker and turned to the district's handler and one living victor, Haymitch Abernathy. He was sitting behind her in a tatty suit with the shirt open to his grubby chest, his overlong dishwater blonde hair half-obscuring his face and a bottle of white liquor in between his spread legs.
"Help me!" She mouthed desperately, virtually inches away from crying with nerves. In response, Haymitch gave her a cocky wave before slugging deeply from the bottle, clearly revelling in her despair. Fat lot of help he was.
Not wishing to demean herself any further, she grimaced bravely and continued. "Now, before we begin, we have a very special film, brought to you all the way from the Capitol!" Her voice was faltering, but a slight giggle somehow escaped her lips all the same as she half-turned, her arm angled towards the screen behind her as the Anthem blared through the somewhat echoey speakers.
"War. Terrible war. Widows, orphans, a motherless child. This was the uprising that wrought our land. Thirteen districts rebelled against the country that fed them, loved them and protected them. Brother turned against brother until none remained.
Then came the peace; hard-won, sorely fought. A people rose up from the ashes and a new era was born. But freedom has a cost. When the traitors had been defeated, we swore as a nation that we would never know such treason again. Thus was the Treaty of Treason written and signed, providing us with new laws to live by; laws that would guarantee peace.
It was decreed that on the same day each year, the various districts would offer up, in tribute, one brave young man and one brave young woman to fight to the death in a pageant of honour, courage and sacrifice. The lone Victor, bathed in riches, would serve as a reminder of our generosity and our forgiveness. This is how we remember our past. This is how we safeguard our future."
A sigh left Effie as the words sent a shiver down her spine. She looked up, from mouthing those final seven words and said; "I just love that! Now, the time has come for us to select one brave young man and woman. As usual – ladies first." Effie's hand hovered over the glass ball before delving in and pulling out a name.
"Briar Hargreaves."
The hardy-looking, slim teenager from the Seam part of the district, judging by the fine layer of coal dust over her face stepped onto the stage, passion in her eyes. Effie smiled; she could tell already that she had a real fighter. "And now our boy tribute...Clarke Hargreaves." Effie gasped as a boy who resembled the girl Briar in every possible way stepped up. Same surname. Same face, hair, eyes, feisty expression. Surely not...no. Were they...were they twins? As they shook hands firmly in a way that suggested they knew each other and well at that, Effie could barely force out the next words. How could the Capitol – her proud homeland – do this? Force brother and sister to kill each other for the sake of entertainment? "Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favour..."