Prompt: Movie!MJ. Effie is coaxed into doing a propo; Beetee thinks that Capital citizens might be more sympathetic to her face than theirs. When she gets going, sickening words pouring from her mouth, Haymitch realizes that her life hasn't been a ray of sunshine either.
While this follow the movie idea of Effie being in 13, I went with a more book-like approach of 13 so she's not allowed her fashion rebellion because let's face it movie!13 sucked and was completely ooc.
The Capitol Rebels' Mouthpiece
"Are you absolutely certain it is necessary?" Effie sighed as Messala clipped the mic on the lapel of her shirt uniform.
"Yes, it is." Plutarch answered for the third time, in that I'm a big show runner I know what I'm talking about stop questioning me voice she hated so much.
"But you have Finnick and Katniss and…" she argued – also for the third time. Helping with propos was one thing, starring in one was quite another.
"We need someone Capitols can relate to." Cressida cut her off. "One of us. Someone they know and admire and trust. Victors have an influence but I agree with Plutarch, we need a Capitol voice to speak for us, Capitol rebels, we need someone to represent us."
"She's no rebel." Haymitch sighed, rubbing his forehead. He had been leaning against the wall ever since they had started prepping her, his arms crossed and a disapproving look on his face.
"Looks the part to me." Cressida argued.
Effie self-consciously patted her blond hair. "Please, do not remind me. I look atrocious, no one is ever going to take me seriously…"
Even with the make-up they had allotted her for the propo, she still looked ghastly pale and too plain. They had refused to give her back her wig.
"They will take you seriously." Plutarch promised, placing both of his hands on her shoulders. "They will hear you. And your contribution will greatly help the cause. Now, Effie, we do not have time to spend hours coaxing you into this like we do with Katniss. You know what to do and how to do it. You are a professional, aren't you?"
"Leave her alone." Haymitch snapped. "You're Capitol too. If you think it's so easy, go sit in front of that camera."
"Nobody cares about my opinion, Haymitch." he said, shaking his head. "Effie is an escort. She has weight."
Haymitch wasn't any more convinced by that argument than he had been when Plutarch had started talking about this project. "Yeah, and you're making her a fucking target."
"She is safe and sound in Thirteen." the Gamemaker argued. "She is no more a target than any of us."
"Her family isn't." he spat.
She suppressed the urge to bite on her nail. It was a nasty habit that had been steadily coming back since they had torn her fake ones away. Thirteen wasn't exactly welcoming to Capitols. They had taken her clothes, her jewelry and her make-up and left her with grey hand-me-downs that she wouldn't have given to an Avox to do the dusting. She had tried to customize the uniform but she had been told in no uncertain terms that any waste of fabric would be punished and that she would do better to follow the rules. Her rebellion over fashion had lasted the time it had taken her to realize what they did with people they didn't agree with. She didn't fancy a stay in Thirteen's cells.
She avoided thinking about her family as much as she could. She knew they were in danger, probably had been since the moment the Capitol had realized she had been whisked to the rebels along with Haymitch… But from where she was, there was nothing she could do aside for worrying. Worrying was her main activity nowadays: worrying about Katniss, about Peeta, about Haymitch, about Johanna, about everyone…
"Her family was at risk the moment you demanded to take her with us." Plutarch replied. "They won't be…"
"I will do it." Effie cut in before they could start fighting. Haymitch had a tendency to be overprotective of her in that place and, while it wasn't unappreciated, it wasn't completely welcomed either. "My conditions still apply. I do not want the children watching this. Do as you please but when you air it, they will not see it."
Her blue eyes darted from the Gamemaker to the victor. She was dead set on this. They had agreed the propo should take the form of an interview, with Cressida asking questions and Effie answering them. After Finnick's propo during the rescue mission, she was certain some of the questions would be ugly.
"I'll get Katniss out of the way." Haymitch promised, walking closer, as Plutarch called everyone in order so they could begin. "And Peeta barely knows his own name so… That's not a problem."
"Johanna, Annie and Finnick too." she insisted. "All the children."
His face grew harder and he reached out for her hand. "You don't have to do this."
"Yes, I do." she whispered. "Of course, I do. If it will help…"
If it helped convince the Capitols not to fight the rebels when they would finally attack the city… If it helped reducing the number of casualties…
"Alright, we're ready". Cressida declared. "Sit down, Effie, so we can check the lighting. Haymitch, you need to step back."
He squeezed her hand once and then went back to leaning against the wall, out of the camera's sight. The setting was minimal, a chair in front of Thirteen's sigil painted on the wall at her back. It would be mostly close-ups, she supposed, how wonderful with her face so bare… She patted her hair again, trying to at least give it some volume. It was flat and dull since they had arrived, she badly needed conditioner and beauty products…
"You're gorgeous, sweetheart." Haymitch said before she could ask. "Stop worrying about that."
Cressida looked up from the camera Pollux was carrying and flashed the escort a smile. "You are. Okay, you know the drill… Answer as best as you can, take your time, we can edit later. Be convincing. Raw, if you can manage it. Finnick's propo will be a tough act to follow."
"Which is why we should have directly followed with him or Katniss and not this." Haymitch growled.
"You disapprove, we all heard." Plutarch replied. "But I still think it is imperative to convince Capitols that we are not just lying like Snow is telling them."
"Okay." Cressida cut in again. "Three, two, one… Rolling."
A bright bubbly smile appeared on Effie's lips. It was a reflex, really. Suddenly she was standing taller, her back straight, her bearing almost regal as she waited for the first question. She had lived in front of cameras for too long for everything not to be automatic. Wigs or not, natural make-up or not, awful grey uniforms or not… She was the lady her mother had raised her to be.
"Effie, are you happy in Thirteen?" Cressida asked.
"Absolutely." she beamed, lying through her teeth. "The rebellion has been nothing but welcoming with me. President Coin is particularly attached to making sure everyone is treated fairly. There are no Capitol refugees or District refugees here, we are all Thirteen's citizens. We are all standing behind Katniss. As one."
She saw Haymitch shaking his head but her smile never faltered. Plutarch, on the other hand, nodded his approval.
"We all understand that the rebellion must be confusing for Capitol citizens." she went on, her voice cheerful as if she was discussing the latest fashion show instead of a war. "And I want every Capitol citizen out there to rest assure they are not the rebellion's enemies, our enemies. No one in Thirteen is at war against them."
"You're doing great." Plutarch commented.
"Yeah, you've got a real talent to sell bullshit." Haymitch scoffed. "Then again, we already knew that, sweetheart."
She licked her lips but kept smiling, politely waiting for Cressida's next question.
"Are you proud of being the Mockingjay's escort?" the young director asked.
"Of course!" she exclaimed, a little more genuine. "Katniss is a hero. She is everything this country deserves and more. She is a kind soul, brave beyond measure despite everything she went through… Why, when I think about her losing the baby…" She looked down, faking sorrow. "But she never let that stop her. She fights for all of us. For our freedom."
"Should have been an actress." Haymitch snorted.
"Are you proud of being an escort?" Cressida went on before she could tell him to be quiet.
"I just answered that." she frowned, confused.
"No." The young director shook her head. "You have been an escort for thirteen years, are you proud of that?"
Her blue eyes darted to Plutarch, uncertain of what they wanted to hear.
"Just be honest." the Gamemaker suggested. "If it doesn't work, we'll either cut it out or write something for you to record. Unlike Katniss, you can actually deliver lines."
She would have liked it better if they actually wrote her lines in the first place. Cressida had a list of questions but she hadn't been granted access to it. They wanted it to look genuine – as if she wasn't good enough to make anything look genuine.
"You have been an escort for thirteen years." Cressida repeated. "Are you proud of that?"
Her lips twitched under the strain it took to keep her smile in place.
"I…" she hesitated. "I am proud of my victors."
"But are you proud of yourself?" the director insisted.
She licked her lips, glancing at Haymitch. His features were schooled into detachment – no help was forthcoming from that corner.
"No." she answered at last.
"Why?" Cressida replied. "You are popular, well-loved… Your fans love you. You are considered one of the most beautiful women alive. Being an escort is supposed to be an honor, isn't it?"
"It is an honor." she retorted automatically. "And I… Obviously, I am very grateful to my fans and I loved the life I used to live…"
What was there not to like? The dresses? The glamour? The men and women throwing themselves at her feet and treating her like a goddess? The people begging for her attention?
"Then why aren't you proud of yourself?" the young woman hummed. "What bothered you in being an escort?"
She opened her mouth and closed it again, shifting slightly on the chair. She looked at the Gamemaker. "I am not comfortable with…"
"We all have to do things we are not comfortable with." Plutarch interrupted her with a small apologetic smile. "I am sorry, Effie, but that is how we win a war. Finnick opened the door, we have to step through. Tell them everything about what happens behind the scenes."
"Yeah, and that 'we' is never you, right? Head Gamemaker?" Haymitch cut in. "Why don't you tell us how it feels to design traps to kill kids, Plutarch?"
Plutarch pursed his lips and looked down at the floor.
"Manners, Haymitch." Effie rebuked. "Don't accuse people of murder, it is ill-bred." She blinked and looked back at the young woman peering at the screen from behind Pollux's shoulder. "Are you certain this is necessary?"
"It will make them understand." Cressida offered, more sympathetic than Plutarch had been. "We need to make people understand, Effie."
She sighed and cleared her throat. "Being an escort was a dream. It was everything I thought it would be and more. I experienced a feeling of achievement like never before. I was loved and worshiped. I had everything I wanted." She had to fight to keep the smile on her lips and it wasn't as bright as it had been. "Something felt wrong as early as my first Reaping but I blamed it on nerves and Haymitch's atrocious behavior right before that."
She looked at him, her smile curling into a honest grin. He winked at her and she relaxed a little.
"The children… There was a sea of children in front of me… Malnourished, scrawny, wearing clothes that were thin and full of patched holes… Their best clothes…" Her voice faltered. "It is impossible to describe what I felt standing there on that stage faced with those children. The Hunger Games are supposed to be about glory. That is what they teach us, that those children fight for a chance at glory… There was nothing glorious in that sea of children. They looked at me and all I saw in their eyes was terror and hatred. For me." She gave a tiny shrug. "I thought I had done something wrong, at first. I thought I had offended them. It was only later that I understood. Every year I returned and they would hate me more. Because, to them, I was the woman who took two of their own and sent back coffins. Odds are not fair, they are never fair. And there is no glory in death." She took a shaky breath. "May I have a glass of water, please?"
"In a moment." Cressida dismissed. "Do you feel guilty?"
"Guilty…" she repeated, her voice trailing off.
"Yes." the director answered. "You drew out their names and they were sent to die. Thirteen years saved for Katniss and Peeta, that makes… twenty-four children. Do you feel guilty?"
She shifted on her chair again. She wanted to stop. Was this an interview or a trial?
"Do you want me to list their names?" she retorted. "I can do that for you. Their names, how old they were, their favorite dishes and who they wanted to be once they survived the Hunger Games… Do I feel guilty? I did the best I could for those children. I tried to help them, to coach them… I tried to make sure they had all the weapons they needed to survive. I tried to find them sponsors. And I gave them hope. Up to the very last second, I promised them they would come back and live. I did everything in my power."
"But do you feel guilty?" Cressida insisted.
Her eyes were burning and she blinked back the tears hastily, averting her eyes away from the camera.
"I do not have to feel guilty." she whispered. "I did everything I could."
"But do you?" the director pressed.
"Okay, you got what you wanted." Haymitch growled. "Enough."
"Yes, I do." she answered before Plutarch could tell him to stay out of it.
"Why?" Cressida asked, her tone professional.
Her shoulders sagged a little and she had to remind herself to sit straight. "Because I think to most people the Hunger Games are a TV show. It was for me until I started working in the Games. Then it became real."
"How so?" Cressida asked.
"You watch the Games and in the end, all you really take out of them is the victor." she explained. "But the Games really are a victor and twenty-three dead children and two of them were your tributes. You chose them. Children. And… It is easy to think they are just District children, that they just weren't worthy and that there are more where they come from but… When you live with them for more than two weeks, it is difficult not to get attached to someone. You start seeing them as children, not District children and not tributes, just… children. Dead children." She shook her head. "They haunt you." She looked away again. "People do not realize it is real. They are not real to them. They are just a show on a TV screen. And then there is the aftermath of victory…"
Plutarch scribbled something on his notepad and showed it to Cressida who nodded. "Can you develop on that? The aftermath? You are talking about victors?"
"Victors are…" She stopped, hesitating on what she should say or not. They were wedging this war on victors fighting for their side… She wasn't sure imparting some truths about victors would be the greatest idea.
"Go on." Plutarch urged. "We can always edit."
Plutarch was starting to strongly grate on her nerves and she pursed her lips. "Victors are always damaged in some way or another."
"Do you mean physical wounds?" Cressida asked. "Or are you referring to what Finnick Odair disclosed? Victors being sold like prostitutes."
"I mean no one steps out of the arena the same way they entered it." she retorted. "And no victor is safe once they are out." She glanced at Haymitch but he was staring at his boots. "There are… pressure points used to keep them in line or to make them do what President Snow or the Head Gamemaker needs them to do. Their loved ones are threatened and, if the offense is deemed serious enough, they are killed."
"You are referring to Haymitch Abernathy, aren't you?" the director inquired, her voice as tactful as could be.
Effie saw Haymitch bristled, she saw the way his shoulders tensed and his hands clenched into fists. She yearned to smooth the lines on his brows with her fingertips. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to melt in his arms and pretend the rest of the world didn't exist. She wanted to escape this room and this propo. She should never have agreed. Never trust Plutarch to keep it clean.
"Haymitch was one of them, yes." she answered. "He was used as the example to younger victors but he wasn't the only one."
The Gamemaker scribbled something on the notepad and, after checking, Cressida winced. "Can you tell us what happened to Johanna Mason's family?"
"No." she snapped, glaring at Plutarch. "No. You will leave the children out of this or you can sit on that chair yourself."
Plutarch lifted both hands in a defensive gesture. "Very well! I just thought…"
"You want the gory details?" Haymitch sneered. "You want me to sit there when she's done and tell you all about my family burning alive and my girl getting a bullet in the head? That would be enough for you?"
The Gamemaker denied but Effie saw the spark of interest in his eyes – the certainty that it would make for a good piece of TV – and no doubt Haymitch saw it too because he scoffed in disgust.
"Were you aware that victors were being prostituted?" Cressida asked, after clearing her throat.
"Yes." she offered simply. "It is obviously not in the rules book they give you when you start as an escort but you find out eventually, either through another older escort or because someone else tells you."
"How did you find out?" the director asked.
"Haymitch told me." she said, keeping the rest silent. Haymitch had told her because she had tried to stop Finnick from getting involved with older women, because she had thought he was making wrong choices… Haymitch had told her because she was putting herself in danger by interfering.
Cressida stared at her. "Can you explain how it works?"
"An escort will receive a grey envelope with a time and place, sometimes there is a name or specific request as to what the victor is supposed to wear or how he is supposed to act. Sometimes the envelope is sent directly to the victor in question. It depends of the circumstances." She drilled out in a bored detached voice, her smile completely vanished now. She didn't attempt to force it back. "It is the escort's job to make sure the victor is… ready to perform. There are pills we can obtain from the clinic if they express reluctance or doubt they will be able to go through with it by themselves. Different sort for men and women, obviously."
Cressida looked at Haymitch and back at her, chewing on her bottom lip. "Did you ever have to make sure a victor was 'ready to perform' as you said?"
"That is not my story to tell." Effie snapped.
Haymitch folded his arms in front of his chest and looked at no one in the room
Plutarch scribbled on his notepad again and she had to suppress the urge to snatch the thing away and to burn it.
Cressida stared at the Gamemaker for the longest time but he simply signaled her to proceed. "To the best of your knowledge… Were victors the only ones to be sold?"
She felt such disgust, bile rose in her throat. "Truly? You want to go there?"
The Gamemaker sighed. "Effie… If you don't want to answer, that is your choice. But after what Finnick did… I know you are brave enough to follow through."
"What are you talking about?" Haymitch frowned, pushing himself off the wall.
She glared at Cressida and the camera right in front of her. "Victors are the only ones to receive grey envelopes and they are the only ones to be sold."
She saw Haymitch relaxing a little. Plutarch on the other hand did not.
"Effie…" he begged.
Her sight flashed red. "You were Head Gamemaker, you are just as responsible for this as Seneca before you and Torello before him. So spare me your patronizing speeches, will you? You had a hand in this. Why don't you come in front of the camera to tell us how guilty you feel about it?"
"You know I couldn't do anything…" Plutarch argued. "You don't change a system that has been in place for decades… Not without a revolution. And we are here to…"
"And yet I am more guilty than you are for becoming an escort when I was trapped in the same system." she retorted. "Nobody is looking at you with resentment and hatred. How is that, Head Gamemaker?"
"I don't know what's going on, here…" Haymitch growled. "But I think we're done. You've got enough to go on. She gave you enough."
"But she can give us more…" Plutarch protested softly. "She can give the Capitol more."
"She owns shit to the Capitol." Haymitch snarled. "She's done."
"Oh, no I am not." she hissed. "Cressida, record this." She made an attempt at collecting herself, at keeping her anger in check but her hands were still shaking when she talked. "The Head Gamemaker is tasked with supervising the selling of victors process. It is to him an escort must report if there is a problem or if a… customer was too rough. There are limits because, at the end of the day, to the Capitol, victors are nothing but goods. If someone damages a victor too badly, they will be banned from the system. It is bad for business."
She didn't know if Haymitch had been aware of that or not. Probably. He had been in the Games longer than she was.
Her voice dripping venom she continued. "The Head Gamemaker sometimes also makes it clear to one or several escorts that they ought to be particularly nice to a government official or a big sponsor. In those cases, there are no grey envelopes or pills from the clinic. Boundaries are also a little more unclear since escorts are more easily replaceable than victors." She kept looking at the camera. She didn't want to look at Haymitch, didn't want to see the look of disgust on his face, didn't want to think about if he knew or not. "I suppose we are allowed to say no but nobody wants to say no to the wrong person in the city. Haymitch may be the victors' example but we have our own set. Some sponsors also expect a compensation in exchange for money. Some Districts make a habit of collecting sponsoring offers this way. That is how the Games are played outside of the public's eyes. Capitol citizens are not safe from their government's greed just because they have a citizenship card."
A deafening silence followed that little speech and she licked her lips.
"Is that what you wanted to hear, Plutarch?" she challenged, jutting her chin high but looking at no one in the eyes. "Should I tell it again with tears in my eyes and a faltering voice? Should I sob? Should I make it a little more pathetic? Please, do instruct me further on what I am or not supposed to do."
Again, nobody said anything. Pollux was tinkering with the camera, Messala was staring at the sigil on the wall, Cressida was scratching her ivy tattoo, and she didn't look in Haymitch's direction.
"I think we have enough." Plutarch finally answered with enough guilt that it only infuriated her further. "Thank you, Effie."
"My pleasure." she deadpanned, almost tearing her mic away from the lapel of her uniform in her urge to flee this room faster. She would go to the hospital and she would check on Peeta, she decided. It didn't matter if the boy didn't want her there or didn't believe a word that came out of her mouth. She would sit with him and she would make herself useful by his side.
She was out of that room before anyone really had time to move. Her pace was brisk and fast, her cheeks were flushed crimson in humiliation. It wasn't that she was ashamed. What she had done, she had often done for the tributes and that was enough reasons to make her peace with it. But her parents would probably see this, her family… And…
She wasn't exactly surprised when a hand closed on her arm and she was abruptly dragged away. She didn't struggle, there was no point. Haymitch opened and closed a few doors but every room was occupied with people working. It took almost five minutes for him to find a supply closet full of Peacekeeper uniforms and faked guns destined to filming propos. He only let go once the door was closed behind his back and he had switched on the light. She almost wished he had let it off.
"You and me and a supply closet…" she joked, keeping her voice light and husky. "How familiar." She brushed her hand against his chest, stepping closer, hoping to distract him. "What shall you do with me?" He covered the hand on his chest with his own and cupped her cheek with his free one. He was tender, too tender, and she hated it because it was never about tenderness between them. She tore herself away from him. "Don't." she warned.
"You never said." he spat. "All these years and…"
"Oh, please." she scoffed. "You knew it was happening."
"I didn't know you were involved." he retorted.
"What difference does it make?" she snapped, folding her arms in front of her chest, defiant to the last. "I do not care, Haymitch. I didn't even mind. I do love sex, you know."
He didn't buy it. He didn't buy the bright smile or the twinkling eyes… But then again he always had a gift to see beneath the escort mask.
"Did they hurt you?" he growled.
There was a dangerous tinge to his voice, the calm threatening undercurrent of a man who had already killed and would do so again in a heartbeat if someone he loved was in danger. She wasn't someone he loved, she was just someone he slept with… A friend if anything. But sometimes she loved to pretend.
"Does it matter?" she sighed, placing a hand on his cheek, rubbing her palm against the raspy hair and thinking she should try to convince him let her shave him again. He didn't trust his hands with a razor near his throat and he had barely trusted hers last time but the stubble was turning into a beard again. "It is in the past and it had not happened in a long time. I am hardly the most popular escort. There are younger prettier things out there."
She had been well on her way to the exit door when Katniss had won. She wouldn't have lasted more than a year or two before they replaced her with a younger model.
"I can beat Plutarch to a pulp." he offered, pressing a kiss on the inside of her wrist.
"You won't." she ordered. "First because they would arrest you and throw you in a cell and I refuse to deal with the children alone again – Katniss is infuriating and she only listens to you. And then, because I was out of line and Plutarch is not to blame. He was a Head Gamemaker for less than a year. And he was right of course. He couldn't have done anything, no more than Seneca could."
And Seneca had tried and when it had failed he had at least made efforts to ensure they would all be safer.
"Okay, then you can give me a list and I can beat those ones to a pulp." he snarled.
"You are very bent on resorting to violence." she commented.
"'Cause the idea of anyone putting their dirty paws on you without your consent makes me want to kill someone." he admitted with no once of shame.
She sighed, taking her hand off his face. "Haymitch, what I did with sponsors I did on my own accord and despite your wishes for me to keep away from that. Nobody forced me to sleep with them. They offered, I agreed. Sometimes I offered and they agreed. And I didn't do it so often. Don't turn this into something it is not. I played the Games. Yes, I was sometimes asked to… service some men but it was never… It was never worse than what Finnick went through. I am not a victim here. I am an escort, it is all in the name really. Do you think the modeling industry is any different? Sex is a payment method like another in this line of business. Everyone does it. It is only embarrassing once it is made public."
He drew out a sigh too, wrapped his arm around her shoulders and drew her against his chest. She accepted the hug willingly because he always gave the best hugs and she found she needed the comfort.
"You shouldn't have done this propo." he grumbled. "Nobody said we needed to put our dirty laundry out there. Private's private and Plutarch should just shut it. It was supposed to be different here but we're just as much pawns as we were before. Commodities."
"You are much more than a commodity to me." she whispered.
"Sure hope so, sweetheart." he snorted, pressing a kiss against her hair.
"You will make sure the children do not see it, won't you?" she insisted, burying her face in his shoulder. "They would not understand… Katniss would not understand and I can't bear the idea of her judging me more than she already does. And if one of them finds out, they will tell the others."
"I'll keep the kids away from it." he mumbled. "I promise."
"Then it will be alright." she murmured. "It will be, won't it?"
He hesitated, probably reading what she needed to hear and what she didn't want to hear. It would get worse before it got better. She knew. That wasn't what she wanted from him. "You want me to lie?"
"Yes." she breathed out. "Yes, please."
He tilted her chin up and brushed his lips against hers. "Everything will be fine, Princess. It'll be over soon. We're all going to make it." He kissed her more firmly, properly, and she lost herself in his embrace just like she knew she would.
"You are a terrible liar." she declared much later, when she was adjusting her uniform.
He slipped his shirt back on, his hair completely tousled, and smirked. "Only to you, sweetheart."
She found she liked it better this way.