Caesar remembers the year he had pink.
Every year the colors change - from bright yellow to neon green to shimmery blue. And that year it was pink.
Every year they change it. Sometimes he likes the colors - like the soft blue which makes him think of his childhood blankets. But not powder blue. It's too bright. It's long since Caesar has gotten tired of the flamboyant colors.
But pink - pink - that was different. It was the year his niece came to see his interviews, and she loved pink. And Caesar loves little Carla, the girl with the soft blond hair and the soft gray eyes. He loves her for her trusting, openminded nature, for her compassion for everything; it's long since anybody has really, truly, loved him.
Caesar doesn't really like this pink. The shade is shocking pink, neon pink, and it hurts his aging eyes. It distracts him. It's just too shocking.
As he watches Carla play with his pink hair, he wonders. Was it worth it? Was it worth it to become the interviewer so long ago? He was a master of words; he could do anything with them. It was what had led to him becoming the interviewer for the Hunger Games.
"Pink." Carla says. "Me have a pink lolly. Pink! Pink!"
And the little girl's giggles are sweet to her uncle's ears, the fact that someone would actually laugh - not because they have to - in front of him.
As he gently sets Carla down to go the interviews, she cries. She doesn't want him to go.
"Pi-ink." Carla pouts.
But Caesar has to leave his beloved niece to talk to other children.
That year is the year he remembers best. So many innocent children.
The Careers are as bloodthirsty as ever - especially the girl from District One and the boy from District Two. The girl's brilliant amber eyes are sickly sweet and glinting, and the boy is all muscle and cruelty.
But the ones from Three, Six, and Eleven especially - all of them between twelve and fourteen, some not even in their teens, too frightened to say a word to Caesar.
They eye his shocking pink makeup, their liquid eyes wide and mistrusting. And Caesar's old heart aches. How can little Carla like this pink?
And the little boy from Six shakes him up bad. He's barely over his twelfth birthday, and he's honest, too honest.
"I hate the Capital." He says bravely. "They make me fight with Shora. It's not right, that us kids have to fight when those - " he gestures at some eager teens in the audience " - monsters just laugh."
Caesar's heart sinks again. Is Carla a monster? No, she's not, she's the sweetest girl in the world. But maybe Caesar is getting too sensitive...
When Caesar is resting after the interviews, Carla comes to him again.
"I think." She announces. "Don't like that pink. Softer. Prettier is better."
"What kind of pink, Carla?" Asks the loving uncle.
"I dunno."
And Caesar brings a catalog of colors, and Carla spots it immediately.
"Pah. Paste." Carla giggles, pointing at a light shade of pink.
"Pastel pink." Caesar whispers. He likes it too, better than fuschia or salmon or Schiaparelli. Ashes of roses is too somber, cadillac too breathy.
And Carla's not a monster. She's not the brightest child is the world, but she is the sweetest. She's clear to say what she thinks. And she loves the pastel - oh, she loves the light colors, like me -
Pastel pink. It would be a nice hair color, he thinks, poking his fluff of neon.
The daring twelve-year-old from District Six somehow made it to the Final Eight and lasted way up until the Final Five, where the sickly girl from District One tortured him to death.
She'd killed his District partner, the one called Shora. And she'd killed both from Eleven and one from Three. She'd killed most of the little kids.
And as Caesar sits before her, his shocking pink hair pushed back, he feels unbelievable loathing for this girl, this monster who killed that brave boy.
Her full-body-polished hands are clean, her fingernails perfect ovals, but Caesar knows how they were, how they were coated in a layer of blood.
That interview is the hardest Caesar has ever done. The girl - Esmeralda, as Caesar finds out - feels no remorse at all, actually joking about the way she decapitated the young girl from Eleven.
"Oh, it was pathetic, really." Esmeralda, the beast, laughs. "The poor sweetie was..."
Caesar doesn't listen to that horrendous girl.
After the final interview, Caesar is more tired than he's ever been. He leans back in the chair where his prep team starts removing all traces of these last Games and draws out a long, shaky sigh.
Caesar is old. He's no longer the chipper young man with multicolored hair, painted lips and eyelids, and a silver tongue. His hair is faded, his face sagging with wrinkles that stubbornly stay despite all the alterations.
And as he watches the hot pink dye being forced from his nearly-bald head, he wonders if this is worth it.
I've always been interesting in Caesar Flickerman, which is how I came up with this short, terrible one-shot. By the end I was hurrying, cranky, and sleepy, and I was getting really off-topic and all...
Anyway, this is for the Caesar's Palace Prompts, number 7, pink. Wait! Caesar's Palace, Caesar and Carla and pink...oh, I think my brain was doing something I didn't know...
If you would review, I would be ever so happy...seriously.