Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.

Effie's favorite part of the reaping is the crowd. She thinks they're strange, and sad, and bare, and she loves to look at them. It's like seeing a naked person; it's a very intimate moment for her when she faces a crowd full them. Part of the excitement is watching them, their eyes especially; all so small and blank, with no color. She makes it a game to seek out the colors in the crowd. Most people in 12 own grey clothes, or some hopeless shade of blue, but every once and a while Effie spots the bright purple of a little boy's tie. Or the pinkness of a little girl's cheeks- pink is her favorite, and oh how the children blush during the reaping!

They don't have beauty the way The Capitol does, it's obvious they don't know what beauty really is. However, Effie soon finds herself fascinated with District 12's idea of beauty.

She thinks Katniss's visage is dreadful, like all the sunken, bare faces of the district, but her braids offer some hope. She sees how the intricate, twisting design is meant to be a merge offer of beauty. Others in crowd wear gestures like this. Small, but what can one expect from such a place like District 12?

If she had known that the Quarter Quell was going to be the last time she'd see the dreadful faces of District 12, she would have spent much more time looking about the crowd for their small efforts. She might have even told them they were handsome, to make them feel better.

When President Snow announces that the rebellion has threatened the future of the games, she panics. No, she had never wanted to be the one to handle 12's affairs, they were, after all, the smallest and most lusterless of the Districts, but she mourns inside her fancy room, on her soft bed. She's grown so accustomed to them now, and the smell of coal even. She doesn't think she'll see them ever again, they won't ever dress up for her again.

An idea comes to her; she rushes to the bathroom, still holding her shoulders back properly.

In the mirror, her pretty lips sparkle. Her eyes flutter under the long, pink lashes, and she appreciates it for a moment, but it's not what she's looking for.

What kind of small effort could she make to be unpretty, perhaps?

First, she hunches her shoulders and imitates the terrible, lazy posture of the crowds she used to address. Her shoulder pads make it difficult, though, so she strips the pink suit away.

Then she pulls off the hat that sits atop her pink head. She still looks quite normal, as though she's about to get dressed.

So she pushes the buttons on the makeup dispensary and a wad of beige falls into her hands. She smooths the makeup over the permanently pink lips until they're nearly the same color as her light skin. She gets more of the make up and smooths that roughly over her purple eyebrows until they very nearly look brown. One by one she pulls away the fibrous pink lashes until her eyes look just as Katniss's had.

All that is left is her hair. She certainly hasn't looked at herself without the hair since she was small; only her personal stylist has ever seen the head underneath the spectrum of wigs that have sat atop it. She dares to pull the wig away, it hurts because it's attached with fibers that stick without itching. In a swift movement, it's gone.

In the mirror, Effie sees a bald, pale, woman, no luster, no sparkle.

She could be standing in the crowd with District 12.

Her chest heaves and suddenly a sob catches in her throat, and a tear rolls through the beige makeup on her face, and she must look away.

She wipes the tear, turns her back and thrusts her hair on quickly. She heaves a lighthearted sigh, giggles softly, making her way toward the shower to scrub away the beige.

Certainly not a good look for her.