A/N: I apologise for the wait between chapters, but I've been rather busy. I appreciate all of you who have been reading, favouriting, alerting and reviewing. Reviews make me unutterably happy ;).

She did not know for how long she was unconscious. All she was aware of was waking up in this room. After the incident with Salvio, they had been sending interrogators in quite regularly, perhaps in an attempt to scare information out of her that she did not have. That was the only reason they were keeping her alive; because they thought she had something they wanted. Information. But she knew nothing about the rebellion. She hadn't even known it had properly started, for God's sake! She did know, however, that the only way to stay alive was to make them think that she did. Effie Trinket was not unintelligent, but intelligence was deemed unnecessary, unpleasant even, in the Capitol. Who needed intelligence when you could be beautiful?

After a few days – Effie was unsure of exactly how many – they stopped coming to her cell. She hoped they had forgotten about her, but she now knew that hope was just an illusion. One victor would emerge as a symbol of hope. The story she had been told about the Games as a child now seemed like an elaborate lie, more false than the fairy tales and stories of monsters hiding in the cupboards.

The advertisements were everywhere. All over the television, on posters that had detached themselves from the wall on favour of being crumpled by the heels of some high-class Capitol lady, on the lips of every respectable citizen in the Capitol. They were looking for a new escort to work with the tributes from District Twelve.

Granted, Twelve was not the most reputable of the Districts of Panem, but Effie was still determined to get that job. Imagine the exposure! Being broadcast to the whole of Panem for everyone to see. Her designs would be everywhere, people would be begging for them. Effie smiled at the thought and gripped her leather-bound sketchbook a little closer. She had been making and wearing her own clothes since she started working with Susanna's Sweet Styles as a designer's assistant. The designs they created would be sent to Eight for manufacture and then shipped right back into the Capitol to be sold to fashion's elite. Of course, for a while, she had not been allowed to as much as breathe upon any of the designs, but when Marco, the designer she mainly just made tea for, had begun to trust her, he would talk over his latest inspirations with her and Effie was even permitted to interject her own opinions if she felt the need.

A warm sense of giddiness ran through her when she thought of the bitter winter day in which she had been sent to prepare orange tea for a meeting of designers that was happening in the studio. She walked back in, tray of tea and snacks balancing precariously on her arms, to find Marco reclining back in his chair with her sketchbook in hand. If Effie had been a few steps further back from the table, she probably would have dropped the tray to the floor with the shock of it.

There was a long moment of silence that cut right through Effie's chest. Was it possible to die of fright or anxiety? She was sure she'd heard the term before. Maybe that was what was happening to her.

"Is this the one you were wearing last Thursday?" Marco asked finally, indicating a dark green dress with gold accents.

"Yes," Effie answered sheepishly as the bright pink flush spread across her cheeks. She had the horrible feeling that it would burn its way through the light foundation on her face.

"You make your own clothes?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to sit in on this meeting?"

"Yes."

"Do you ever stop saying 'yes'?"

"Yes," then, realising what she had said, Effie panicked and added, "I mean… damn it."

Yes, she thought, the Games would be the perfect opportunity for her.

This view did not last long.

The sun was shining brightly that day for twenty-year-old Effie Trinket, just the way it always did. But today was particularly sunny, which heightened her usually positive mood even further. Her first job away from home started today. Her first job away from home. It sounded good in her mind, adventurous, dangerous even. Of course, coming from the Capitol, danger was not a concept Effie was very familiar with. Why should it be? There was no place in Panem safer than the Capitol. But the prospect of something new and unknown to her was far too inviting.

Her eyes flitted over the image reflected in the mirror and she rewarded herself with a tiny satisfied smile. She had truly outdone herself. Her light hair was tucked neatly away under a fiery red wig, the most popular colour in the Capitol at the time, which fell to just below her collarbone. Her pale skin was made even paler by the white body paint she had been encouraged to use since she had begun her work at Susanna's, but the real impact came in her make-up. Her lips and eyelids were painted a deep red colour to match her wig, and were flecked with golden sparkles.

Effie Trinket was out to make an impression.

District Twelve may not be the cleanest or best-looking district, but she would certainly be the best escort they had ever had. Thankfully, her stay in the dust-coated District Twelve would be brief and, besides, there was another week before that happened. She had been lucky, she reasoned, even to get Twelve; the Capitol rarely chose somebody as young as her, even just to act as escort to the tributes.

The tributes. There was something new. Effie had watched the Games every year for as long as she could remember, had re-enacted the most dramatic scenes with her friends when she was younger, had wished that she could have had the chance to volunteer, but she had never actually met a tribute, let alone a victor. That would end today.

The train pulled into the station and Effie was immediately struck by how different from her home this district really was. The platform was devoid of the marble columns and gilded statues of the Capitol. A shabby form staggered towards her. She could smell the alcohol on him before he came to a halt, teetering precariously before her. When it seemed that he would not start a conversation of his own accord, Effie started one for him.

"The train was running a few minutes late, I apologise. I'm Effie Trinket." He did not appear to have understood, she added, "the new escort for District Twelve. From the Capitol."

He eyed her with a mixture of expressions, the most prominent of which being disgust.

"You don't say," he replied sarcastically.

"Mind your manners." Effie repeated the words her father had told her before she boarded the train to District Twelve. The man looked affronted. "I take it you are Haymitch Abernathy?"

"You take it right."

Ignoring the fact that he was obviously inebriated, Effie pressed on. "So where are we going now then?"

"Follow me." Effie hesitated, resenting the notion of the unknown destination, feeling like a hostage in a strange new place. The earlier excitement she had felt about being somewhere new had evaporated. Haymitch, however, seemed not to notice and was already several steps in front of her so that, despite his drunken state, she had to run – which was quite a feat in her studded red heels – just to catch up. The staccato rhythm of her heels hitting the drab concrete floors provided the first piece of comfort Effie had been afforded since she had arrived.

As they walked in silence, but for the steady rhythm of Effie's heels, through the grubby streets of District Twelve, Effie began to grow uncomfortable in the knowledge that she was being stared at. There was nobody on the streets, no children running about or playing in the streets like they did in the Capitol. A shutter on a window to her right slammed shut as she walked past, and she understood. In a few days, she would be drawing out the names of two children from the district and very possibly consigning them to death. To the people of District Twelve, Effie Trinket was the Grim Reaper.

Perhaps the people here did not want the glory of being chosen to represent their home in front of the whole country. But that was positively ridiculous! Who wouldn't want all of the life that came with being a part of The Hunger Games? Effie feared she would never understand the ways of these people.

They drew to a stop just outside a large house in a neighbourhood full of similar ones, starkly different to the shack-like structures that she had seen on the way from the station. Its stony front was quite intimidating in comparison to the clean, tall buildings of the Capitol.

Haymitch stumbled down the path and pulled out a key from his the pocket of his rumpled trousers. Having not been invited in, Effie assumed she was to follow and set off down the gravelly path. Unfortunately, she failed to notice the step in front of the door and caught her toe on it, sending her face first into Haymitch's back. He staggered forward a few paces from the impact and turned with obvious annoyance apparent in his rugged features.

"Watch your step, Princess," he spat. Though she did not know it at the time, that nickname was to become the bane of Effie's existence. "Wait in there." He pointed towards a room adjacent to the hallway. Indignant at being ordered around in such a way, Effie did as instructed and went through into what seemed to be a living room. At least, she thought it was a living room.

Bottles littered the floor along with the remains of broken plates and unwashed clothing, and the air was tainted with the rancid stench of alcohol mixed with sweat. Reluctantly, Effie perched on the edge of a sofa so that as little of her body as possible was in contact with the slightly sticky fabric. A fly danced dizzily through the air as the sound of telephone keys being pressed reached Effie's ears.

"Aren't you supposed to be here by now?" Haymitch seemed angry, though Effie had no idea who he was talking to. "She's here… No!... No, I will not!... Just get here, will you?" A slam as the receiver was shoved back onto its hook. Haymitch appeared in the door frame. "The Mayor should be here shortly," he said, in what Effie was sure he thought was a civilised tone.

"Oh, I can get there myself if you point me in the right direction," she smiled, rising, looking for any opportunity to get out of the filthy house.

The phone rang again.

Haymitch moved swiftly, a lion bounding towards its prey, and ripped the phone away from the wall with a single motion. The house fell silent. Effie, for the first time in her life, was truly scared of a man. Not the artificial fear that she felt at being rejected by one, by real fear that seeped into the very core of her being.

He did not say a word. The phone hit the floor with a crack that sounded far too much like the breaking of a bone and Haymitch stalked from the room. Shocked, Effie was frozen in place. What was she doing here? Why couldn't she just have been happy in her job? Why did she have to be so damn ambitious?

She swiped angrily at the tear that had worked its way down her cheek. It would take ages to sufficiently cover up the mark it left, but, for a reason that she could not yet fully comprehend, Effie did not want to hide it. Perhaps he would see how much pain his actions could cause people. Then a lesson would be learned.

Haymitch appeared a minute later with a tray in one hand and a bottle of liquor in the other. A bowl of pastries balanced sloppily atop the tray. The dainty little things looked unequivocally out of place in the wreck of a house. Again, he failed to invite her to join him, but Effie assumed that she would only be suffering such impropriety for a short while longer and followed his path into the living room once more.

Several bottles crashed to the floor as Haymitch swept them from the table to make room for the tray. He immediately took a small brown pastry and sunk into the chair. He sat for a while, alternatively taking savage bites of the food and swigging from the bottle, before he finally addressed Effie. "Not eating anything, Princess?"

There was something about the way he said the word that made Effie cringe. 'Princess'. There was none of the softness that her mother had used when she called her that as a child, none of the love. Just resentment. What had she done to offend him so soon after they met?

"You've just had your dirty hands in that bowl. I will not eat that."

"It's called finger food for a reason, Princess."

"Your manners are terrible, Mr. Abernathy," Effie remarked after she could no longer bear watching him chomp away at the pastries.

"So you've said."

The Mayor had arrived about ten agonising minutes later. Effie liked him a great deal better than Haymitch Abernathy; he, at least, was civilised enough to address her as 'Miss Trinket'. Even her name was out of place here, though.

She was in a spare bedroom of the Mayor's considerable house, which was thankfully a great deal cleaner than Haymitch's. A long blue dress was laid out upon the bed, one of the few she owned that was suited to such an occasion. It glittered lightly as the light brushed against its silky surface. Effie smiled down at it, certain that she would impress with her designs tonight. She was meeting people of an entirely different class to those she had seen earlier; the Mayor's friends, the Capitol officials assigned to the overseeing of District 12, even President Snow himself.

When she had slipped on the dress and matching blue heels, adjusted the dark wig and single silver bangle, Effie made her way down to the dining room, but paused outside of the door when she was struck by the sound of a curious voice that she could not place.

"Have you seen the new escort for 12 yet, Haymitch?"

"That clown they sent from the Capitol? Yeah, I've seen her." Effie's heart stopped.

"Come on, Haymitch, she's a sweet girl," the Mayor chided.

"She's just like the rest of them." The rest of who?

"Have you even spoken to her properly?"

"She's said enough."

Effie could not listen to anymore. She fixed a false smile onto her face and strode into the dining room, allowing the door to slam loudly behind her.

"Manners," Haymitch smirked. However, Effie did manage to gain a little satisfaction when his face dropped after she turned to glare at him. He shook his dark head, as if in disbelief, and turned his eyes back to the empty wine glass before him. "Can't a guy get any more drinks around here?"

"I don't think you need any more." The words were out of Effie's mouth before she could stop them. The whole table turned their heads towards her; it seemed that nobody was used to Haymitch's alcoholism being called into question. There was that strange look again, the amalgamation of too many different expressions to draw them all out.

"Take a seat, won't you, Princess?"

"I don't think I will, thank you. I'm in no mood to be ridiculed. Good evening." She swept back out of the room, but not before catching the strange manner in which President Snow was regarding her. Fantastic, she thought, I've embarrassed myself in front of the President of Panem. She would be out of a job quicker than Haymitch could find another drink.

She tore from the house, shoving the doors open in front of her and collapsed in a fit of tears on the stone steps outside. When she looked up, a little girl with two dark brown braids on either side of her head was looking at her suspiciously. Until, that was, a strong-looking man covered in some kind of dust swept her up in his arms.

"Come on now, Kat, we don't stare, do we? It's not polite." He turned to Effie, muttered a quick apology and carried his daughter off up the grimy street.

Effie Trinket was not wanted in District Twelve. And she knew it.

Anneliese Dean and Gregory Bolton. Now there were two names that Effie would never forget; the first two names she ever pulled from the reaping bowl. She had not understood the look of fear in their eyes, like an animal stuck in a trap, as they approached the podium. Where was their fighting spirit? Their willingness to fight for their homes, for glory? It was no wonder the coverage of the District Twelve reaping was always so much shorter than the rest; it was so dull! No smiles, no applause, no rousing gestures. Just silence. It's not like they were unaware of how the Games worked.

They were horribly behaved on the train, scoffing down their food at a rate that would put a starved leopard to shame. But there was one night on that train that changed Effie irrevocably.

She woke in the middle of the night in need of water and shuffled tiredly from her compartment in search of it. As she neared the bar car, Effie was stopped by a muffled sniffling sound coming from the compartment to her right. She cautiously opened the door.

Gregory was rocking on his bed, face obscured by his hands, sobbing much more audibly now.

"Gregory –"

He turned to look at her with a combination of shock and hatred.

"Gregory," she pressed on, "I know that this is difficult for you…"

"Difficult? Difficult? You don't know the half of it!" His tanned face was streaked with tears and saliva was seeping from between his lips. Effie tried her best to hold back from urging.

"I'm sure I don't, but I'm here to help you." She laid an apprehensive hand on his shoulder and was struck by the lack of strength in it despite the seventeen-year-old's apparent ruggedness.

"There's no way you can help me." He twisted away from her touch.

"I can try."

"You can't help me. I know I'm not getting out of that arena. I've never picked up a weapon in my life and I'm going up against who knows how many Careers. I'll be gone on the first day. That's not what I'm worried about. It's my little sister."

"Your sister?"

"She's seven. She's alone now. Our parents… they died not long after she was born. I've been looking after her and now… now she has nobody." He broke down into renewed floods and that was the moment that Effie knew this job was not about her anymore. She would get these children through this, if it took everything she had.

It did. She still failed.

She was distracted by the clicking of the bolt, by now familiar to her as a sign of an impending visit from an interrogator. Without thinking, Effie lowered her eyes to the floor, unwilling to show the loathsome sense of fear building up on her mind. But there was an immediate difference that she could sense. Something was new. The smell of sweat and human misery was permeated by something altogether less appealing.

Blood and roses.