A Switch of Destinies

In an alternate universe, things could be different. You could be here and I there; our roles reversed, our emotions exchanged. In an alternate universe, I feel your pain and you feel mine. Somehow, my dear, we are on the same boat.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games Trilogy or any of its characters

A/N: Thank you to my anonymous reviewer (Guest). It's really nice to receive a feedback from you. It made my day. I thought I should thank you here because I cannot send you a message. Anyway, I would also like to thank those who are following the fic. I updated early because I may not be able to do so next week. I'm actually planning on updating every two weeks, now (instead of doing it weekly) because I'm having a bad block. I know what's going to happen next, but I cannot write it down. I tried reading - it usually takes away the block - but it didn't work. So yeah, I think I need to clear my head. Anyway, do enjoy chapter two, and feel free to drop a review, mates!

Chapter 2

In the wee hours of morning, while the stars continued to punch holes in the velvety darkness of the sky, and the moon, in its glorious ever-changing form, shone brightest, Effie Trinket would sit on her desk with a large, thick volume laid out before her. The browning edges of the paper were indicative of its age, but while some pages were dogeared and folded, its purpose was yet served, and it would remain so for many years to come.

It was a present from her father on her sixth birthday – the book – and she marveled at the size and the weight of it. She remembered having traced the contours of its hardbound cover with her small and delicate fingers, and her mouth gaped in an 'o' when she first touched the embossed design that curled and spiraled on its forest green facade. She hurriedly opened it and flipped through the pages, eager to read the contents of her newly acquired possession, but was heartily disappointed when she found that the pages were blank. Still, she feigned a smile to hide her dismay, for she knew that her father had gotten it for her. But her eyes ceased to shine with delight; it did not take long for Richard to sense his daughter's disappointment. He knew that he had to explain the object's purpose, for he was sure that she would appreciate it greatly if she understood what it was for.

"Effie," he said, "do you know why these pages have not a drop of ink in them?"

Effie looked up at her father, her vibrant azure eyes meeting his subdued cornflower ones. She had always admired her father's gentle eyes, although his thick-framed glasses made them seem forgettable and plain. His beaky nose and thin lips did nothing to maim his gentle countenance, and his eyebrows were perpetually raised in inquiry. His hair was the color of sand and his round face was white and pale. He would speak to her tenderly, yet firmly, and she would be compelled to listen.

"Because what I've given you is not a book, but an opportunity." He scanned her pretty little face and saw that her eyebrows were raised in question – the only physical trait she had gotten from him. "An opportunity to fill these lifeless pages with your thoughts and feelings. It is your imagination that would enliven this otherwise desolate book."

Effie was enraptured with the notion of writing her own book, and with a big smile that showed a missing front tooth, she hugged her father and chanted a series of 'thank yous' against his ear. For months, she stared vacantly at the book, which she placed on top of her desk, and wondered and fantasized about the many wonderful things she would write down. However, she eventually felt disappointed with herself and her lack of ideas. And this disappointment was reflected on her countenance when she sat on the dinner table with her head resting against her tiny hand.

"What seems to be the problem, princess?" Richard was accustomed to his daughter being so enthusiastic and jovial – always insisting to set the table just to show him that she was no longer a 'baby' – but she appeared to be in the deepest of troubles, and he felt compelled to sympathize with his daughter's woes, however petty they may be.

Effie bit her lower lip, wanting to keep her troubles to herself, but her mouth had a mind of its own, and while the words that pass out of her lips were never senseless – at least not for a girl of six years – it annoyed her to no end that she cannot seem to keep it shut – a quality she undoubtedly inherited from her mother, his father had once said.

"The present you gave me is so beautiful, daddy," she sighed, "and I'm afraid that my inep – ineptu – inept – "

"ineptitude," her father finished for her.

" – ineptitude at writing anything good would only sully its beauty."

Richard sat down across from Effie and he, too, rested his head against his hand, but his countenance, unlike his daughter's, was that of amusement. He was so fond of his little girl, and his heart swelled with pride at her purity and innocence.

"My dear," he said, "my present to you is but an empty object. It will never glow with beauty unless you fill it." He paused for a while and met her gaze. "Now, perhaps you do not know what to write down. If so, why don't you keep log of your daily adventures? One day, you'll look back at those wonderful days of youth and innocence, and see how joyful and kind life had been, despite your hardships."

Effie's eyes were alit with a warmth that could only come from someone who had a great idea. After her father had served dinner, she went straight to her room and grabbed the pen on her desk. She hastily opened the book and on its first page, with the messy handwriting of a child, she wrote her first account.

February 17, 2xxx

I am Effie Trinket and I am a happy little girl. I live above my daddy's bookshop and everyday I have adventures there. Once, I trained a dragon, and then I made a potion that could make me shrink, like that girl named Alice! But drinking it made me cruel, so I became an evil witch and I tried to take over the little people's kingdom. I also plundered (I learn many difficult words from daddy, and this one means 'steal') from them, like a bandit would. And then I formed a pirate crew, and I was captain. I was so conssum'd by evil, but then daddy found me, and he kissed me on the nose to drive away the evil, and I became the princess of the Bookshop Kingdom!

The Bookshop Kingdom is found in this land called Districk 12. Districk 12 is the most beautiful land in the whole wide world. It's so full of coal, and dust, and soil. And on winters, it's really cold. But on spring wild flowers grow on the meadows, and sometimes, daddy takes me there to see the beautiful fields and play with the other children. The people here are so beautiful! There are people who have olive skin and black or brown hair. Their eyes are nice and gray, sometimes silver. And then there are people who are like me and dad. Blond and blue-eyed. Mayor Kinney is also blond, and he has blue eyes.

I'll be writing all about Districk 12 and the Bookshop Kingdom because this is my home. The Hunger Games season is especially interesting because everyone has to gather in front of the justice building and watch it. Don't tell anyone, but it's groosome, and I don't wanna watch it. But that old man who looks like a white lion, President Snow, forces us to watch. Anyway, it's really strange, because I see older kids get picked out to join the games, but they never come back. Only Mr. Messiah comes back, and he's never happy when he does. Also, they never like it when Ms. Nessarose comes around to pick out the kids' names. They view her like a monster, but I think she's really pretty – with her really strange costtoom and the colors on her face. It looks good on her tan skin.

It's late, and I have to go. Daddy will come up and check on me any minute, and he won't be very happy to find me in my dayclothes, unclean and not yet in bed.

It was this entry that greeted the girl everyday, and for a while, several of her entries revolved around the same theme and voice. But as Effie grew up, she started to write more factual and accurate accounts of the happenings in her hometown. She had been eight years old when the imperfections of her home had been made clear to her, and it was at this time when she started cutting and pasting newspaper articles in her journal, along with her personal reports of the important events that took place in 12.

It was not uncommon for the poverty-stricken citizens of District 12 to lose their fathers at a tender age. With such a loss came the end of carefree days, and the beginning of perpetual hardships that the children would carry to their graves. With a dead father, an uneducated mother, and four younger sisters, Quincy Parker's fate was sealed. He was a beautiful boy with dark hair and silver eyes, but his young muscles were overwrought and his bony flesh was heavily exploited. The day he turned twelve was the day he made a deal with the devil – the possibility of dying in a hellish arena in exchange for his and his family's present survival. His monthly provisions left more to be desired, for a little flour and grain could not keep them all alive. Because of this, he worked odd jobs for but a few coins that would somewhat sustain their impoverished lifestyle. In the afternoons, he worked for the Mellarks, carrying sacks of flour. It was a simple task, and truth be told, there was no need for Quincy's services, but there, he was given more than what he could possibly ask for because Caleb, the patriarch, was kind and generous to all. In the evenings, the boy loaded sacks of coal into the train and wondered if it would be possible for him to hide behind the cargo and start anew in the Capitol, but he had a mother to assist and four sisters to feed so he never tried, and with a sigh, he watched the train as it gradually gained speed and disappeared into the distance. However, it was on his early morning paper route when he met his closest friend.

It was the beginning of autumn – two months after his fourteenth birthday – and he needed extra money for his allowance, so he worked as a paperboy. On one of his rounds, he saw a seven-year-old Effie Trinket. She was a curious little thing, with her pretty oval-shaped face and her large cerulean eyes. Her teeth were much too big for her – although it was a well-known fact that children usually grow into them. She wore a loose-fitting white shirt with her pale pink pajama bottoms, and her honey-blonde locks were in a tangled mess. She stood under the awning of her father's bookshop, seemingly lost in her own world, when the paperboy – riding the bicycle he used for his rounds – took notice of her.

"Hey, kid!" She looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. From the gentle glow of the setting moon, Quincy could make out her features. "A bit too early for daydreams, don't you think?" It was a harmless remark; a friendly acknowledgement towards an unusual intruder to his tedious routine. But the little girl found his probing invasive, so she crinkled her freckled nose in annoyance and pursed her lips, as if trying her hardest not to speak ill of him.

"And what about you," she responded, not at all pleased with his remark, "isn't it a little too early to be riding your bike around town?"

Quincy shrugged and unmounted his bike. "Not if you're the paperboy," was his reply. He then walked towards the bookshop and gave the girl one of the rolled newspapers from his bag.

"What's this?" she asked, eyeing the newspaper with curiosity. She unfurled the roll and found that it was filled with words far too advanced for her understanding (not because they were big words, but because she did not understand much about current affairs), and pictures of people she never knew existed.

"How could you not know what that is?" Quincy asked, "I deliver it to your doorstep everyday!"

"Well, I've never seen it before," Effie sounded defensive.

"That, little girl, is utter crap," the boy said, but the little girl raised an eyebrow, and he relented. "It's called a newspaper, but you can hardly call the stuff in there news."

The sky had turned into a fusion of red and indigo, and the sunrays can no longer hide from the eastern horizon, but its light was not bright enough for reading, so Effie squinted and tried to make out letters under the meager glow the sun afforded her.

"Why does it not pass for news?" she asked, and looked up at the older boy. "Who are you, anyway?"

"The name's Quincy. Quincy Parker. " he said. "And if you look closely at the paper you are holding, you'll see that its contents are just for shit and giggles."

"I'm Effie Trinket," she replied, and again focused on deciphering the contents of the paper in her hands. "and I do not appreciate your atrocious abuse of the English language."

In big bold letters, she read:

Theodore Abernathy Assigned as New Head Gamemaker after Marcus Reasoner's Retirement

Below the headline was a picture of a dark-haired man with deep gray eyes, his fingers entwined, as if deep in thought.

"What does that mean for us?" she asked, looking up.

"Beats me," replied Quincy, scratching his nose. "Why does it matter who the new head gamemaker is? It's still going to be as cruel as last year's games."

"What does a head gamemaker do?" Effie asked, intrigued. She'd seen Marcus Reasoner before, but all he'd done was talk about the greatness of the Hunger Games.

Quincy laughed. "Why does it even interest you, kid? Our newspaper is just some stupid propaganda to make the Hunger Games look good, or something like that. If you turn a few pages, you'll see their special about this year's victor – Berthold Willis from 2 – and his new hobby of training bulldogs. And at the back, you'll see the ruins of District 13; a precious reminder, they say. Nothing of substance can be found there. And besides, a few years from now you'll understand what a gamemaker does, and you'll curse him for it."

"It's better than knowing nothing, at all," Effie said. "Say, Quincy, may I keep this?"

"It's all yours. It's not everyday someone takes interest in the newspaper I throw on people's doorsteps. You'll be my first subscriber. But if you want fresh news everyday, you better wait for me outside. I think your dad may be throwing them papers away."

A routine had been established between them after that fateful day. Every morning, at 5:30, Effie would sit at the doorstep with a glass of warm milk at hand, and the sound of Quincy's bike as it crushed the fallen leaves alerted her of his presence. He would give her the paper in exchange for warm milk, and if he came early, they had the luxury of making light conversation for a few minutes while watching the orange leaves pirouette on their way to the ground . He was approximately six years her senior, and he had a lot to share. The days grew colder and the snow began to fall, and while Effie covered herself with a warm woolen blanket, Quincy walked in his ragged scarf and sweatshirt. One morning, he came with a heavy bundle in his hands and handed it to her.

"For all the years of stupidity you've missed, kid," he said, "Happy birthday."

"How did you manage to collect all these?" Effie asked, amazed. Her eyes widened when she looked at the year written above one of the papers. "Hey, this is in my birthyear!" she gushed.

"I told you, it's everything you missed out on!"

Effie swore to give her friend something nice on his fifteenth birthday, but it was not to be, because when winter came to pass and the land was once again made fertile by the refreshing spring showers, Nessarose Hagedorn arrived. And when she called out the name of this year's unfortunate young man, Effie felt a stabbing pain pierce through her guts. Quincy Parker's name echoed throughout the square, and he came up the stage with nothing but a look of resignation on his face, typical of any District 12 resident.

She visited the paperboy inside the justice building before he left for the Capitol, and handed him a farewell gift.

"Peter Pan," he read the front page.

"He's the boy who never grew up." she said. "Dad doesn't like it much. He said that living in daydreams and unawareness forever is not a good thing, but I think it's a good story."

"Seems fitting," he replied. "Because I will never grow up to be a man." He looked at his young friend and smiled. Their friendship was short-lived, but their bond was strong. The few months he shared with Effie was a beacon of light amidst difficult times. "I guess this is goodbye, eh, kid?"

"Promise you'll come back, Quincy," she cried.

"I don't make promises I can't keep," he said as he patted her head. "I won't start now."

Effie threw herself at the older boy and sobbed like a child who was about to lose her older brother forever, and in her case, it was probably true. She held onto him like her life depended on it and Romulus Cray had a difficult time trying to separate her from Quincy.

The next time she saw him was on the television. Quincy Parker's eyes were forever closed in an endless sleep; some of his blood seeped through his clothes, and some was absorbed by the sandy earth. In that accursed moment, Effie Trinket finally understood why Nessarose Hagedorn was feared, and why Jerome Messiah always returned home with a heavy heart. The journal entry she wrote on the night of her friend's death was smudged with tears.

June xx, 2xxx

Theodore Abernathy had proved to be a ruthless head gamemaker (I now understand what he does, and Quincy was right, I do curse him for it); probably worse than the guy named Marcus Reasoner. This year's arena has no life whatsoever – just an endless sea of sand and dried grass. I guess Quincy's early death was a blessing, and at least he managed to live until the end of spring, before he got called out to contend in the Hunger Games. I hope he got to read the book I gave him during the two weeks he spent training. I wonder if he thought that he shouldn't grow up, too. Maybe that way, he wouldn't have to be part of the Games.

She did not sleep that night, and instead, watched as the clock ticked and tocked until its hands were pointed at her favorite time of day. As always, she sat on the bookshop's doorsteps – under the awning – and waited for the steady sound of a moving bicycle. Soon, the new paperboy arrived. He was much younger, around ten years of age, and while he pedaled, his pleasant singing voice echoed throughout the neighborhood.

"Virgil Everdeen," he introduced himself, and noticing that the girl's eyes were rimmed red, he handed her the newspaper. "Sorry for your loss, bookshop girl."

Virgil left as quickly as he arrived, and Effie unfolded the paper he left for her. There, in print, was the face of her departed friend, along with six others who died at the Cornucopia. She ran back into her bedroom and grabbed a pair of scissors. She cut out the article with precision and pasted it on her journal, below last night's entry. She then grabbed the pile of newspaper she received on her birthday and began cutting and pasting. It was only fair to give Quincy a space in her journal, because he had been an important part of her childhood.

Four years had passed since that unfortunate incident, and Effie sat under the dim light of her battery-operated desk lamp as she wrote about the 49th victory parade.

August 30, 2xxx

Spark McBride came marching down the streets of District 12 with all the pride a victor could muster. He was the very same boy who killed Myrtle Jenkins and Arthur Douglas. I sensed the disquiet amongst the crowd, and even Mr. Messiah, our lone victor and mentor, appeared to despise the 49th Hunger Games' victor. But our people are humble and resigned, and while Spark made an audacious speech about the Capitol's greatness and generosity, the crowd only gritted their teeth and looked up at the platform.

Personally, I have no problem with Spark McBride. He was a Career, and it was only natural for him to take pride in his victory (I'm not saying it's a good thing to take pride in killing others, however, his arrogance was very much anticipated, and thus, it's easier to move on from hating him). And if I compare him to the victors from District 2, Spark becomes the epitome of humility, and that is saying something. However, I do sympathize with the Jenkinses and the Douglases because I know how it feels to stand at the square and listen as the murderer of your loved one speak so fervently about the Games that orchestrated the whole affair. Well, not exactly. I do know how it feels to lose a loved one to the Games, though. My friend, Quincy, was killed, too – although not by the victor. Even still, I was so furious when that boy from District 11 came with his entourage. He wasn't even all that bad. He just stood there, forcing himself to wave his remaining hand (he lost his other arm in the Hunger Games). I could tell that all he wanted was to live through the Games. Not fame, not fortune, just survival. Perhaps I detested him because he's the one who survived, not my friend. And maybe it's not fair to dislike him so much. But I digress, this is about the 49th Hunger Games, not the the one from all those years ago.

Effie looked up from her journal as the cool morning air carried the familiar voice of Virgil Everdeen. She could tell, from the clarity of the words he sang, that the paperboy was still at a considerable distance from her home, but as he pedaled on, the muffled words became more distinct.

Oh, come and see the paradise

That doesn't have a name.

Destroyed by rule of fire and ice,

Oh, what a crying shame.

In greed and pride they meet demise,

It was their nation's bane.

Oh, come and see the paradise,

Your looking glass, it maims.

Without another word, she capped her pen and ran downstairs, eager to get a hold of the newspaper. It had become Effie's new routine after her friend's passing; she would eagerly await the broadsheets – although they do not contain much substance – and read the articles to be found. She threw away the lifestyle section without a second thought, but she made it her business to know the happenings in the Capitol – which was the capital city of Panem – regardless of how little it says about the true situation of her country. 'it's better than nothing,' she thought. If she found something of interest, she would cut and paste it in her journal.

In her hands, the once empty pages of the book became a connection to the world outside her district, and at the same time the almanac of her personal life.

She opened the door and found Virgil standing outside with her newspaper at hand. He gave it to her, and she said the customary 'thank you.'

Through the years, the two did not become particularly close, but they were friendly enough. They saw a lot of each other in school, and not once did they talk. However, they gave each other small nods of acknowledgement, and went on their separate ways. Effie surrounded herself with the company of other twelve-year-old girls, while Virgil mingled with kids his age. Among his friends were Gabriel Hawthorne and Hazelle Gibbs. He was also rather close with the Donner twins and their friend, Cristobel Gray.

Effie was about to close the door when Virgil suddenly spoke.

"Wait," he said. "Uh, do you have a book?"

"My dad's running a bookshop, Virgil," she said, not unkindly. "Of course we have books. Could you be a little more specific? Category? Subject? Author?"

"What about a book about herbal medicine?" Virgil said. "Do you have one of those?"

Effie raised an eyebrow. Virgil Everdeen looked like someone who would save his money to purchase a songbook, and his interest in plants had taken her by surprise. However, there were rumors that the paperboy –along with some of his friends – had a habit of crossing the electric fence to hunt for game, which was illegal, but life was tough and she had no right to judge.

"It's for Cristobel, bookshop girl," he continued, "see, it's her birthday tomorrow, and I wanna get her something nice. Sal Mellark's baking her a cake and I think I have to top that, if y'know what I mean."

One would be a fool to not understand the extent of Virgil's affections for Cristobel Gray. And even Effie, who did not fully understand the concept of love and attraction, understood what the paperboy implied. The apothecaries' daughter was indeed captivating, with her flaxen hair, light blue eyes, and calm demeanor; it was not a surprise that young men her age are fawning over her.

"We do have what you're looking for, but why would you want to get her a book about herbal medicine?" Effie asked. "Mr. and Mrs. Gray are apothecaries, and Cristobel probably knows everything there is to know about plants."

Virgil thought about it for a moment, and figured that the younger girl was probably right. "Do you have anything else in mind, bookshop girl?" he asked.

She sighed and swung the door wide open. It was way too early for business, yet there she was, welcoming their first customer of the day. "Follow me, paperboy," she said as she tried to switch on the light. "Still no electricity, huh," she whispered to herself as she grabbed the flashlight from the counter and disappeared into the shelves. Virgil followed after Effie and was alarmed when he saw her climbing up the ladder despite the insufficient lightsource.

"You might fall, bookshop girl," he said.

Effie answered with a muffled 'no,' for she held the flashlight sideways, between her lips. She did not notice the worried look on Virgil's face; she was too busy reaching for a book on the far side of the shelf. When she finally took hold of it, she stepped down from the ladder carefully and handed the paperboy his purchase. She pointed the light at the object's direction and he flipped the pages of the thick, medium-sized hardbound – empty.

"What the heck is this?" Virgil's brow was raised in inquiry.

"It's a journal," Effie replied. "I think it would be nicer to give her a book she could fill with her knowledge on plants."

"You are brilliant, bookshop girl," he said, "but how much is it?"

She told him the price and his jaw dropped. Virgil was a boy from the Seam, and he could not even afford to buy bread. He'd been saving money for Cristobel's birthday present, but even with the money he saved, the journal was still too expensive for him.

"You could pay in installment," Effie offered, "no interest. My father would not mind. I mean, it's better than nothing. Customers are scarce, and we have a living to make."

"Are you sure?" Virgil asked.

"I am certain, paperboy," she said. "just sign some papers promising that you'll pay and we're done."

Virgil thanked Effie and came out with the journal in his bag. He muttered something about returning the favor, but the bookseller's daughter did not understand how. The next day, he would give Cristobel the journal and tell her how nice the bookshop girl was – accommodating him before sunrise and even giving him a brilliant idea when he had none (of course, he did not say anything about his agreement to pay in installment for it would make the object of his affection feel guilty about accepting his gift). The fair-haired girl would then jest, telling him that perhaps the little girl had a crush on Virgil and his wonderful voice, but he would only shake his head and laugh. He knew the bookshop girl was in love with anything that had words in it, and had little opinion about boys.

And he was right, because the moment he left the shop, she ran upstairs and unfolded the newspaper, scanning through the headlines for something interesting.

She found it immediately.

2nd Quarter Quell: Theodore Abernathy's Vision

A photo of the aforementioned man was right under it, and his piercing gray eyes sent unpleasant shivers down Effie's back. She had a bad feeling about this.

A/N: So there's a little something about our Effie Trinket. Well, you're probably wondering how someone so innocent and harmless could possibly win the Hunger Games. Well, we just have to wait and see. I'll be back two weeks later. Please do review, maybe it'll give me a little boost. I think I may be running out of words... is that even possible?

Anyway, I'm having a bit of a migraine, so I wasn't able to triple check this. I only re-read it once, so if you see any errors, please do point it out so that I could change it. Thank you.