Disclaimer: It has not changed. It probably never will.

A/N: Hello again. Let us begin with an apology. Here it goes: I am sorry for not updating for so long. I got really tied up and couldn't post. Sorry. Anyway, a serving of lemon tart has been designated for all reviewers/alerters, allonsysilvertongue, and The Curse of Normality. Thanks!

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Year Seven

Magenta

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It's raining again.

Effie thinks back to her first year with Éclair and remembers the drops of water falling from the chimes that hung outside of the workshop, remembers the creak of the rusty door. The chimes are long gone now, replaced by new ones that are made out of some sort of pearly shell and the door has been oiled and no longer creaks. But water still falls from the chimes like tears, bursting on the now-cobblestone-paved walkway below. She sighs, then opens the door.

Éclair is already waiting for her, sitting in a chair that stands by a table on which all sorts of colour samples have been laid out. She motions Effie over to her.

"So, are you ready?" she asks, rising from her chair and leading her friend and client over to the selection of fabrics. "Choose wisely. What approach are you working?" Effie smiles, remembering how she had responded seven years ago. This time, she has a prepared answer.

"I want to draw attention to myself. Or, more accurately, away from the children," she tells the stylist, who raises her eyebrows.

"Why?"

"I'm sick of them showing the children's faces so much at the Reaping. It creates targets for the other tributes. If I wear something extremely bright, or glittery, or eccentric, we have a chance of getting the cameras on me, not them." They stand there for a few seconds, Effie looking at colours and Éclair thinking. Then, she smiles.

"That may be the wisest thing I've ever heard an escort say," she announces, looking at Effie with a sort of pride. "It'll be a challenge to make you odd enough, but I think we'll manage. Won't we?" Effie gives Éclair a reassuring nod. "Alright, we'll go for an especially vivid colour. Effie picks up a pretty, almost painfully bright card labeled 'magenta.'

"How's this?" she asks, bringing it up to the light. Éclair nods.

"Good. It's not that bright, but I think it'll do."

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Walking is actually a fairly difficult task, mechanically speaking. You have to lift the entire weight of your leg using just a few muscles, move it forward in the air while balancing on one foot, and then set it down on the ground gently and smoothly.

High heels do nothing to improve the situation.

Effie's never walked in heels this high. Or this stiff. Or this bright. But it doesn't matter, because she's onstage now, because she can't mess up anyway. Instead, she just grins and tries to look cheerful, remembering Éclair's final words to her: "Act the magenta." Right. Be bright and cheery. Do everything that you've worked out. Just keep going.

Today, there is no threat of Haymitch stumbling onto the stage, mostly because he's already in his chair. He's silent, too, leading Effie to suspect that he's fallen asleep. Not that it matters; the quieter he is, the better.

She somehow manages to walk all the way to the podium without falling. Good, Effie. Now, act the magenta. She takes a deep breath before forcing her mouth into a wide smile. She's convinced that she looks like a jack-o-lantern, showing all of her teeth.

"Welcome, welcome!" she calls, the microphone magnifying her voice and dispersing it through the streets. "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" She looks around. This year, even the eighteens look genuinely startled. Well, no wonder. She's hardly being calm or soothing.

"Ladies first!" she strides over the sphere holding the female names, completing the motion with a pirouette that, for three-inch heels, is actually fairly graceful. The crowd looks bewildered. Good. The cameras will stay on me. "Orial Hackett!" Please don't be twelve, Orial.

A girl, thirteen, emerges from the crowd and walks to the stage. She's fighting to keep a straight face and failing to do so. One can make out the pure terror in those pale eyes. She's mounting the stage before Effie even has a chance to think of a distraction from the cameras. Improvisation is the only way out now. Here we go. "Well, we can't forget our male tribute, can we?" She knows that she nearly screaming now, but it doesn't matter. She twirls again, sending streams of ribbons into the air. Her hand digs deep into the sphere, trying to grab the name of someone who can win. Maybe.

"Brant Ferris!" She calls out, scanning the crowd with her eyes. A twelve-year-old is slowly moving towards the stage. Holding back tears of fear and sorrow. Oh, my god. But Effie can't stop now. There's no going back. "Wow! What an interesting Reaping!" she shouts, stressing the word "interesting" and not even bothering to keep the edge of madness from creeping into her voice. Recorded, it will sound like happiness.

"Happy Hunger Games," she concludes, "and may the odds be ever in your favor!" With a final spin and a wave, she takes the tributes' hands and leads them away from the cameras. They walk off into the Justice building, and she heads backstage, taking a slight detour to drag Haymitch, chair and all, away with her.

In the darkness behind the curtain, where she knows no one will see her, she lets a tear fall down her cheek. She knows that she can still be heard, so she makes no noise as she wakes Haymitch. He, on the other hand, does.

"What the – oh, it's you! You were ridiculous up there! What the hell was up the twirling and the – hey, Effie! Effie, why are you –" She cuts him off, pressing her hand to his mouth in an attempt to silence him. Nobody needs to know that she's crying. Nobody.

"Shut up," she hisses. "We're backstage!" There's a pause. He nods, which she takes as a sign to continue. "Did you see tributes?" He shakes his head.

"I saw you. Then I fell asleep."

"We got a thirteen and a twelve." She stares at him, watching the change in his expression.

"A thirteen… and a twelve?" It's obvious that he's hoping that he just misheard something. She sighs and nods; that's when he understands that two more people will haunt his dreams.

"What are we going to do?" she asks him, biting her lip. He shrugs sadly.

"Doesn't look there's much we can do, really. You stock up on tissues, I stock up on alcohol. There's no other way out." With that, he hands her a handkerchief and stumbles away in search of a bottle.

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