First off, let me just say with an explosion of enthusiasm, thank you ever so much XmadlyinloveX, Guest, PhoenixRisingOnTheMoon, earthbound68, Welsh Gem, Minerva-Amantine, A Silver Cloud's Lullaby, LivMellark, effies-scrapbook, webkenzie, Firing Rockets on Dragons, June Bell, Doc95, Guest, sportygirl23, Guest, Guest, CriminalMindsChick6, confusednikki24-7, Punzie the Platypus, Savysnape7, KTstoriesandstuff, Guest, iwastheexample, TShirtBoppin'Strawberry, nekkuu, XPsychoBabyDollX, DrawingAddict, American Fantasy, baahbisaggio, loveu5missu6, HB Rules, candygirl98, JustDoItMarshall, thepotionsmaster7, chilindra, Moonlight Resonance, Joshissmexy92, Guest, HogwartsDreamer113, hayffie feverrrr, Guest, YvelissaBlossom, Guest, and cateyes8588 for your lovely reviews of last chapter (or of previous ones). And of course, I could never forget those who favorited, alerted, tumblr'd, and created beautiful art (please check out the links on my profile page to see the truly wondrously amazing pictures done by the fabulous Innocentlilly-her's is now the cover for this story-and SpoiltOrange) about this story. I truly appreciated the feedback. Now, without any further ado, here is the next chapter.

Disclaimer- I do not own the Hunger Games series nor the characters who are in it. I wish I did, then Hayffie would be in the book series and take up many chapters.

Chapter twenty four: A Greater Prospective

The hours of today slip by quickly, almost as if the speed of the train controls them. Though I know there are things I should be preparing for, such as the grand arrival into the Capitol, I find it nearly impossible to tear myself away from Haymitch's embrace. It's not until the hazy orange glow of the sunset illuminates the room that I realize it's prevalent of me, as escort, to pull myself together and go ready the tributes for dinner. Exhausted. Low spirited. Heavy hearted. I break away from Haymitch's arms and saunter over to the mirror in his room, deciding on assessing the damage that my tears have caused in here, in case the results bring more.

I stand in front of the ovular shaped glass, my eyes lingering on the reflection before me. Wispy smudges of metallic gold mascara that loom underneath my lower lids. Lipstick, once the same shade of deep peach, now appears faded in certain spots. In all, I look positively horrendous. How unfortunate it is to see that the makeup I have purchased that claimed previously to be water resistant isn't at all tear-proof. Perhaps if I weren't so tired, I'd be sobbing again by now. Instead, the corners of my lips twitch, threatening to frown.

"Don't know why you even bother looking at yourself if it's just gonna make you upset again," For the first time since I broke down, Haymitch speaks. "Seems kind of pointless, don't it?"

I inhale deeply at his words. My ability to be able to contradict his statement low. "Because," I say wearily, "I can't possibly be seen like this at dinner. Not at all an acceptable appearance while in the presence of company."

Haymitch gives a snort and I know if I were to be looking at him at this moment, he'd be rolling his eyes. "You honestly think anyone on this train is really going to give a damn how you look? Three citizens from one of the poorer districts in Panem and a load of train attendants I'm sure barely step foot off of this contraption. Nobody here wants or has need to be impressed by the styles of the Capitol."

"Perhaps that may be," I reply, suddenly regretting coming here in the first place. "But I care about how I look. I may be uncomfortably heavy with child, but I still have my facial looks to uphold. And, after all, I am the escort and it is expected of me that I keep up a good appearance. Whether any of you see it fit or not."

"Suit yourself," Haymitch grumbles. "It's not me who'll be looking ridiculous. Personally, Princess, I find the smeared makeup more attractive than you going around looking like Peeta frosted your face with multi-colored icing."

I suck in a sharp breath. Sometimes Haymitch has a real way of pinching a nerve or two of mine. But what really gets to me is the uncertainty of if he is being rude as usual, or if he, in his own strange way, is trying to compliment me by some means. Did his words to me mean that I looked far more beautiful without my usual cosmetics? Knowing Haymitch, it would be far less surprising if it meant the complete opposite of that. Exhaling, I turn to face him, hoping I can end things before they escalate.

"Well, I guess we are all open to our own opinions," I say stiffly, "but I think I'd prefer to go on mine than your's. And by doing so, I believe I best be going to my own room now. Hopefully, one of the attendants has taken the liberty of bringing my luggage in. It'd be a pity and quite the tragedy not to have my bags containing my makeup."

I make my way to the door in the hopes to get out before he has a moment to put a word in. As I reach for the handle and grasp it, I find myself hesitating for a moment, a thought coming to mind. Haymitch had been unpleasant these past few minutes but previously, he offered me much comfort in my time of need. For that, did I owe him thanks? It is, after all, the proper and least I could do despite how distasteful is choosing to act now.

"About before," I pause, my grip on the knob tightening, "I...appreciate your...patience with me. I realize that it isn't easy to deal with someone who is in hysterics."

He grunts in reply. "When you've been through all that I have, Princess, you learn to deal with things. People have all sorts of ways of letting things out. And if crying is your's, guess I'll have to settle for a few mascara stains on my shirt. Just hope the colors don't contrast too much."

Unsure of whether to be offended or flattered, to frown or to smile, I push open the door, secretly wishing that I wasn't as clueless as I feel. Haymitch might as well talk in riddles rather than sarcasm. Perhaps then it might actually be easier to understand him. Grabbing the handle on the opposite side of the door, I inhale deeply once more.

"I'll be seeing you at dinner, I assume? Preferably not late?" I wait for a moment, debating if truly I want to hear his response.

"We'll see," is all he says before I close the door, wishing to have no further argument with him.

The hallway is deserted as I make my way towards my room, my mind focused on the thoughts of Haymitch. How is it possible that one minute we seem to aggravate the very souls of one another and the next we are almost on good terms? One might-and dare I even compare it-say we act as if we're an old married couple. As if we are even close to something of that sort.

Shaking my head, I stop in front of my door, fingers outstretched towards the handle. There is a great need for me to stop hyper focusing on Haymitch. The only good that ever seems to come of it, is that it tends to block out any other thoughts that trouble me. Silently, I turn the knob, the door swings instantly open revealing the same room set up I've grown to know for years now. Unlike everything else, some things never change.

The first thing that my eyes land on are the two large suitcases sitting upon my bed. My bags. Pushing all other thoughts to the side for a moment, I set to work immediately. Retrieving my cosmetics. Scrubbing away the old makeup. Applying the new. It's a routine that I'm quite used to when it comes to often outfit changes, only this time, it's because of crying that I'm doing this.

As I set the bags containing my cosmetics back into their proper placings, I catch my reflection in the mirror out of the corner of my eye. Hesitantly, I shut my suitcase and turn fully to face the speculum. No smears. No fading. My makeup is perfection. I raise a finger to my left cheek, barely touching the creamy white foundation that covers it. But did I look like, as Haymitch put it, one of Peeta's cakes?

Before I have time to contemplate further, there's a knock at the door. Curious, I turn away from the mirror and go to answer it. Expecting it to be Haymitch or, at least, Katniss or Peeta, I snap it open without even questioning whose behind it. Instead of either of the expected three, I'm met by the uniformed figure belonging to that of a train attendant.

"Ms. Trinket," his eyes fall to my stomach for a few seconds before flashing back up to my stare. "I was told to inform you that dinner is ready. We have a malfunction with our intercom at the moment and I was unable to reach you otherwise. I hope I didn't interrupt anything."

"No, no," I assure him. "Of course not. There was nothing to interrupt. I appreciate you informing me of this."

He gives a small bow of his head, "Would you like me to inform Mr. Mellark, Mr. Abernathy, and Miss Everdeen?" Once again, his eyes travel down to my stomach.

Feeling rather uncomfortable by the attendant's gaze, I shake my head. "No, I think it best that I do it."

He nods, eyes still fixed on my stomach, "Very well, Ms, Trinket, as you wish. If there's anything else you need-"

"I'll inform you, yes," I interrupt, growing very annoyed with his fascination of my stomach. "Didn't your mother ever tell you that it is uncouth to stare?"

The attendant's face grows red with mortification as he looks to his feet, afraid, I'm sure, to meet my gaze now. Without an apology, or another word for that matter, he turns on his heels and walks away rather quickly, disappearing behind a large set of double doors. Perhaps I was blunt with him, but how I am right now, my tolerance span is short lived. Even more so after all that has happened today.

Regretting nothing, I follow the long corridor down until Peeta's doorway is in sight. As I approach it, I realize there is no need to knock. The door is wide open and without really needing to peek inside, it's clear it's vacant. Assuming Peeta has already ventured down to dinner, I head towards Katniss's room. Seeing once I'm there that, unlike Peeta's, her's is shut.

"Katniss?" I try to sound cheerful as I knock on her door, "Katniss, it's time for dinner."

There's no reply, only the faint sound of someone moving from inside the bedroom. I pause, unsure of if I should knock again. Just as I'm about to raise my fist to the door, it opens. Katniss stands before me, her face void of any expression what so ever. I give her a weak smile, trying to conceal the fact that, like her, I'm not in a joyful mood either.

"I believe Peeta is already in the dining car," I tell her as we head towards supper, "As for Haymitch, I can only hope he has the decency to appear also."

We arrive at the dining car in a matter of a few minutes. Upon entering, we are greeted by what can only be described as a feast. Thick slices of ham laden in dark gravy. Tiny bowls of pale green and orange soups. Tarts filled with the plumpest berries I've ever seen. My stomach growls in response to it all. My hunger that I did not feel at all before, lets itself be known to me full force.

"Breathtaking, am I right?" says a voice.

For the first time, I notice Peeta in the room. His seat stationed square behind what looks like the largest roast turkey I have ever seen. To his right, slightly slouching in his chair, is Haymitch. The scowl of unpleasantness visible on his face. Forcing a smile on my face, I take my seat across from him, Katniss taking her's beside me.

Everyone fills their plate without a word to one another. The meal itself off to an uncomfortably silent start. I can't help but watch Haymitch during this time. The way he picks at his food. His lack of actually consuming any of it. He truly must be miserable right now and I feel as if I have failed since even I cannot conjure up a positive atmosphere at the moment.

"That wig looks nice on you, Effie." Peeta is the first to break the awkward silence the air holds. "The gold really brings out your eyes."

I can't help but smile at this. "Thank you," I say. "Portia has a fine taste in fashion, as I'm sure you know. Very ingenious of her to have Katniss and I match, what with her pin and all." I think for a moment, placing my fork down as an idea comes to mind. "Perhaps, we could get you a golden ankle band, Peeta, and maybe you, Haymitch, a gold bracelet? We'd all look like a true team that way."

"I think that's a great idea," says Peeta, "How about it, Haymitch?"

I look over to see Haymitch slouching even further in his seat, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His eyes flicker over to Peeta, a glare flashing across his face for a moment. No beverage containing alcohol is around him even if he'd like there to be. And because of this, his tolerance for being in the presence of others is low to none.

"Yeah, whatever," he mumbles dryly.

"Maybe we could get you a wig, too," Katniss finally speaks up.

I find myself biting my lower lip hard after Katniss's statement, the image of Haymitch in my wig at Posy's request in mind. The urge to burst out in laughter is hard to resist, but I manage when I see the look Haymitch throws in Katniss's direction. After that small, light-hearted conversation, we finish the meal in quiet.

The attendants come once all four of us have placed down our utensils for the last time and begin to clear the area. Feeling contently full, I lay my napkin down on my plate and look to the others.

"Shall we watch the recap of the reapings?" I ask, hoping that no one will turn the idea down.

Peeta nods as he rises from his chair. "I'll meet you all in the lounging car in a minute," he says, walking towards the door, "I want to grab my notepad."

I look to Haymitch and Katniss, anticipating what their answers will be. When neither of them put up a complaint, I take it as a sign of agreement, and all three of us, Peeta not included, make our way to the compartment with the television. We all sit down just as the anthem begins to play and the recaps of today's events are shown.

"What a lovely day for the reaping," one of the announcers whom I recognize as Tybalt Silverson booms. "Not a rain cloud in the sky in any of the district, how wonderful was that, Rufilla?"

Rufilla Gladstone, a woman whom I once met when I first began to escort Twelve, beams brightly in response. "Very much so, Tybalt, but might I add what was even more noticeable today than the weather were our fellow tributes!"

The screen changes from the view of the two announcers to District One's Justice Building. I find myself leaning in closer, wanting to catch every syllable of the names Nona Vevette, escort of One, calls out.

"And it appears for One," Tybalt says as the two tributes that are called shake hands. "The siblings, Gloss and Cashmere have been drawn to participate in this years Games. How exciting and yet, tragic, this is."

The rest of the recaps are played in a flurry, seemingly the districts that citizens are more interested in hearing about shown in more depth. From where I sit, the sound of Peeta's pen scribbling away furiously in his notebook is nearly loud enough to mask what the announcers are saying. I about turn to ask him to try to be more quiet when I'm hushed by the next tribute that's called.

"Cecelia Hornsby," Melissa Pixelton, escort of eight, reads clearly.

To my horror, the young woman whom I recognize from a previous game steps forward. As if in sync with her movements, three pairs of small arms shoot out, trying desperately to hold her back. Her children. Her young children. A lump in my throat begins to form as she quickly detaches herself and heads up on stage.

"Oh, not Cecelia," my words sounding hoarse. "Not her."

I sink back into the couch, my stomach suddenly twisting in anguish. Cecelia, a young mother who, as cruel as it is to think, has no chance of winning these Games, and nevertheless is being taken from her small son and daughters. My hand rests on my stomach as I try to block out the cries of despair from the Hornsby children as their mother is taken from their grasps.

Eight finishes. Then Nine. Ten. Eleven with Seeder and Chaff. My eyes flicker over to Haymitch as Chaff in knowing that Chaff is a dear friend of his. And finally, the Justice Building of Twelve appears on the screen. My heart begins to pound, an unknown anxiety filling me as I come up onto the screen.

"And now," Rufilla begins. "The district I'm sure we've all been waiting for, Twelve!"

I watch myself walk over to the females' reaping bowl and retrieve Katniss's slip of paper from inside. The camera turns to Katniss and closes in on her expression as she makes her way to the stage, taking her rightful place on the platform.

"Katniss Everdeen," Tybalt repeats, "Even though we all knew she was going to be chosen, the call of her name still makes the hair on the back of my next stand up."

Again the camera focuses on me as I walk towards the males' reaping bowl, hesitating only for what now seems a mere second before drawing Haymitch's name. Peeta volunteers before Haymitch has time to move, and takes his place on the stage near Katniss. The scene ends and the footage flashes back to the two announcers.

"Oh what a tragic moment," Rufilla says dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "So much it seems, Katniss and Peeta have gone through. Such star-crossed lovers they are."

Tybalt sympathetically pats Rufilla's back, "But that's what makes the Games interesting, isn't it?" He looks to the camera, a wide smile on his face, " Twelve has surprised us greatly these past two years. A volunteer. Two victors in one game. Star crossed-lovers going back into the Games. And correct me if I'm wrong, Rufilla darling, but do my eyes deceive me or is Twelve's escort, Effie Trinket, with child?"

My stomach drops at his words, a wave of dread crashing over me. I whip my head around to face Haymitch. To my surprise, he isn't even looking at the television. Instead, his face rests in the palm of one of his hands as Rufilla's now, suddenly chipper voice fills the entire room.

"Why yes, Tybalt, it would seem so, wouldn't it? But she isn't even married, is she?" she chirps.

"Oh how wonderfully scandalous," Tybalt grins. "And the identity of the father unknown? Only time will tell how this will turn out!"

"These will be the best Games ever!" Rufilla manages to say right before Haymitch turns off the television.

Scandalous... My breath hitches in my throat as the word replays in my mind. Scandalous. Me, Effie Trinket, considered scandalous. The idea of it all makes me want to vomit. How dare they make a mockery of me on national television! My fingers dig into my palms as I clench my fists tightly, it taking all of my willpower not to scream.

I turn to face Haymitch, a sudden rush of anger about him filling me. After all, this never would've happened if he hadn't gotten me drunk and impregnated me. But to my surprise, when my eyes land on the spot where he had been sitting, it's empty. In my moment of horror, I hadn't even realized he had gotten up and left.

"I...I have to go," I say shakily to Katniss and Peeta, "I'm sorry but... Please, excuse me..."

I hurriedly leave the room, my mind in a blur. I'm not too sure where I'm heading as I walk down the hall, but I can't possibly go too far. This train, after all, is not that large. And I learn that quickly. After a good ten minutes or so of walking, I come to the end compartment-a dark, windowless car that contains nor is assigned anything. Here, I allow myself to sink to the ground.

In a poor attempt, I try to pull my legs up to my chest but of course, my stomach sees to it that I don't. Enraged. Heartbroken. Exhausted. I can do nothing but sit against the trembling wall of the train car and curse myself for my often stupidity. Would what happened on television today cost me my job? My livelihood? Too tired to even cry, I let my eyes to close, the tendrils of sleep pulling me downward.

"Not the best hiding place in the world, Princess, but I'll give you an 'A' for effort."

My eyes shoot open. Whether I was fully unconscious or not, the unexpected voice takes me by complete surprise. I snap my head upward, blinking at the figure masked by the darkness in the room. But, there really is no need for a light for me to see who it is. Only one person calls me 'Princess'.

"Why are you here?" I ask weakly, "Come to make a fool of me too? If I'm not the laughing stock of Panem as it is already."

"I find my amusement elsewhere," says Haymitch leaning against the wall. "And if it's any consolation, if anyone is judging you, it's just the Capitol."

"Not helping!" I nearly cry, "Oh, I don't even know why I should even talk to you about this. You wouldn't understand."

"You're right about that," he says, "I don't understand why you let what other's think of you get to you. Not doing yourself any favors in that department, Princess."

"Because my image is all I have!" I moan, "It's what controls my job, my life, and now...now it's gone! You thankfully weren't bashed on national television today! But how long do you really think it'll be until everyone knows who the father of my baby is? For Panem's sake, Haymitch, I'm surprised the President found out before the rest of the media! How do you expect me to face my friends, those cameramen, everyone when we get off of this train tomorrow?"

"Not alone," he says quietly, "I'll be right by your side." His hand suddenly extends out to me and I stare at it vaguely before taking it. "Lets get you to bed before you pass out in the middle of the hallway. Don't need the news thinking an escort died on the train."

We walk down the hallway in silence. As I lean closer to him, fearing that I may fall right back asleep in the middle of a stride, the scent of liquor burns my nostrils. I lift my eyes slightly, looking up at his face through the darkness.

"You were drinking," I mumble.

"Just couldn't help myself," he replies as we stop in front of the door to my room.

He opens the door and we saunter inside. I go over to my bed and sit down, pulling off my wig before tossing it onto the dresser. I'm far too tired to even put it away properly. Haymitch sits beside me, clearly also worn out from today. Rest seems to be something we both are in dire need of right now. As I lay back on my bed, I feel the unsurprising squirms from within me. Though I've prone to falling asleep at any moment now, a new question comes to mind.

"Haymitch?" I murmur.

"Hm?" he grunts.

"I don't know much about little kids," I admit tiredly. "I don't know anything really."

"Well," he mumbles, "it's a good thing your job doesn't involve them then."

"Not what I was getting at," I yawn softly. "I mean, what if I don't know how to be a good mother when the baby comes? I never saw myself as anything more than an escort but now," I inhale deeply. "What if she hates me?"

"You sure switch things to worry about pretty damn quick, Princess," he sighs.

"An image doesn't necessarily mean my escorting job, Haymitch. It means also how I appear to our child." I breath, trying my best to fight of the urge to fall asleep. "What if she doesn't like me? I don't know a thing about parenting."

"Nobody does at first," he replies. "It's a learning experience, Princess. You think I know a lick about kids either? I deal with the same age group every year as you do," he pauses as if collecting his thoughts. "We'll learn together and if all goes well, she'll end up not hating us completely."

"Again, not helping," I mutter.

He lets out what sounds almost like a half-hearted chuckle. "Don't know why you ask for my advice if you don't like it."

I feel him begin to lift himself off of the bed. Suddenly, as if on impulse, I reach forward and grab his arm. Perhaps it's the lack of sleep causing me to not think straight or the fact that I feel as if I've lost so much today as it is, but whatever the case may be, I grip onto his sleeve, not wanting him to leave. I can feel his eyes watching me questionably as I take in a deep breath.

"Stay," I whisper.

"A couple of minutes ago you didn't even want to see me," he says. "And now you want me to stay? You're mind sure has a weird way of processing thoughts. You should think about getting that checked out."

"Please," I murmur, "Don't go."

Slowly, I feel him ease back onto the bed as he mutters to himself that I'll probably make a big deal about this later when I'm in my right mind. Whether I will or not, whether he'll stay or go, for the moment I feel content. I slip away, his voice growing distant, as I'm pulled under into the realm of unconsciousness. The uncertainty of what tomorrow holds a mere few hours away.

Meh, so hard to keep them in character. Hopefully I didn't butcher them too badly. Anywho, I was going to put Haymitch's game in this chapter but I just didn't feel like I could fit it in right. I preferred having Haymitch find Effie rather than trying to figure out what to do with the Game that'd bring on fluff.

This story is slowly approaching it's climax within the next few chapters so get ready for some excitement (and once at the climax, that'll be a good few chapters long of anticipated moments and thrills). As for the next chapter, I plan for some humorous interaction with Effie, Haymitch, and dear Chaff. More bonding between Effie and Haymitch (I have a lot of bonding, I know, it's quite difficult to slowly build up a relationship between the two while keeping them in character). Baby talk. And Effie's slow descend (ascend maybe) into a rebel.

Feedback is highly appreciated and keeps me writing. I apologize for any grammatical or spelling errors. I'll go to correcting those when I have the chance. Thanks so much for reading! -Jen