Archive of Our Own ^beta

Effie Trinket adjusted the neckline of her powder-blue blouse for the third time that morning, standing before the gilded mirror that dominated her tiny apartment. The light from her vanity glinted off her sequined cuffs as she turned her face from side to side, assessing the blend of blush on her cheeks. Capitol fashion was an art form, and while Effie lacked the resources of the city’s elite, she prided herself on looking the part. It was all about presentation—a polished image could hide an empty bank account.

She stepped back from the mirror and surveyed the modest space behind her. The apartment, situated on the Capitol’s lower tier, was tidy but lacked the grandeur of the city’s upper rings. The walls were painted a shade of pastel pink, chosen to mimic the Capitol’s trending color palette that year. Effie had spent weeks saving for a single piece of artwork that hung near the window: an abstract swirl of glitter and neon that practically screamed sophistication.

Effie tugged her skirt into place and slipped her feet into her peacock-feathered pumps, remnants from last season’s clearance sale. “Elegance is timeless,” she muttered to herself as she grabbed her satchel and made her way out the door.

The Capitol streets buzzed with their usual energy, an orchestra of chatter, laughter, and clinking glasses that echoed from terraces above. Effie moved through the crowd with purpose, her heels clicking against the pavement as she passed brightly dressed citizens and towering holographic advertisements.

The towering screens displayed highlights from the most recent Hunger Games: tributes lunging at one another, fires consuming the forested arena, and an emotional moment as the victor fell to their knees in relief. Effie glanced at the images, her stomach fluttering. She didn’t care much for the gruesome parts, but she admired the Games for their grandeur—the coordination, the artistry, the sheer scale of the event. It was the Capitol’s crowning achievement, a living performance.

Her destination loomed ahead: Gossamer Threads, the Capitol’s most prestigious fashion consulting agency for middle-tier clients. Effie worked as a junior coordinator, assisting wealthy patrons who weren’t quite famous enough to land a personal stylist. The job was steady but unremarkable, far from the glamorous world she envisioned for herself.

Effie stepped into the building’s glass atrium, her head held high as she made her way past sleek displays of mannequins adorned in shimmering gowns and elaborate suits. The receptionist, a broad-shouldered man with hair dyed in streaks of green and purple, waved her through to the elevators.

The workday began with the same monotony Effie had grown used to. She spent the morning reviewing schedules and fabric orders, directing seamstresses to the appropriate clients, and managing the increasingly complex requests of her boss, Aeliana. The older woman rarely left her office, preferring to bark orders through the intercom.

“Effie,” Aeliana’s voice crackled over the speaker. “Where is the order for Madam Berenice’s metallic weave? She’s expecting it this afternoon!”

Effie straightened, her fingers flying over the holoscreen at her desk. “It’s been confirmed, arriving by noon,” she replied, her voice light and steady.

“Good,” Aeliana said sharply before the speaker clicked off.

Effie exhaled, smoothing her hair. Every interaction felt like a test, and she couldn’t afford to falter. Someday, she thought, she’d run her own studio, crafting showstopping designs for the Capitol’s finest. Until then, she’d prove herself indispensable in this role.

The afternoon brought a spark of excitement. One of Effie’s clients, a minor actress named Valera Shore, was scheduled for a fitting. Valera wasn’t a household name, but her regular appearances in Capitol dramas meant her face was familiar to millions. Effie had spent weeks planning the look—a sleek, emerald-green gown accented with gold embroidery, meant to evoke images of Capitol decadence.

Effie guided Valera into the fitting room and presented the dress with a flourish. “The light in the embroidery is designed to catch the cameras beautifully,” she explained, stepping aside as the actress ran her fingers over the fabric.

Valera smiled, slipping into the gown. “You’ve outdone yourself, Effie,” she said, studying her reflection. “It’s just the right balance of regal and alluring.”

Effie’s chest swelled with pride. Moments like these reminded her why she worked so hard—validation from someone who mattered.

After the fitting, Effie returned to her desk, humming quietly as she updated her schedule for the week. The Capitol sun was setting by the time she finished her tasks, casting long shadows across the studio. As she gathered her things, her holopad buzzed with a new message.

It was a formal invitation: Capitol Gala Honoring Excellence in Games Coordination.

Effie’s eyes widened as she scanned the details. The gala wasn’t meant for people like her—junior coordinators rarely received invites to such events. Her hands trembled as she reread the sender’s name: Portia Rivendell, one of the Capitol’s most sought-after stylists.

Effie’s lips parted in disbelief. She clutched the holopad against her chest, her mind already racing with questions. Why had Portia invited her? And more importantly, what should she wear?

She glanced around the now-empty studio, the gleam of her desk lamp catching the edges of Valera’s leftover fabric swatches. Effie Trinket wasn’t about to let this opportunity slip by.

Effie Trinket barely slept that night, the excitement from the invitation too bright to dim. She lay in bed with her holopad glowing softly beside her, scrolling through images of the Capitol’s most iconic galas. The colors, the gowns, the way each guest commanded the room—it was intoxicating. And now, by some stroke of luck, she was invited to step into that world.

She set the holopad aside and stared at the ceiling, her thoughts spinning. What did Portia Rivendell see in her? Portia, a name synonymous with Capitol glamour and the Hunger Games, was a towering figure in Effie’s world. Known for transforming tributes into spectacles, she was both admired and feared. Effie had never dreamed someone like Portia would even know her name, let alone extend a personal invitation.

Effie eventually fell into a restless sleep, dreaming of glittering chandeliers and towering floral arrangements.

The next day at Gossamer Threads, Effie was a flurry of energy. She completed her tasks quickly, knowing that tonight’s gala would be her chance to make an impression.

By mid-afternoon, the studio began to empty. Seamstresses packed away bolts of fabric, and the receptionist flipped the sign on the glass doors to read CLOSED. Effie lingered at her desk, her reflection faintly visible in the black screen of her holopad.

What could she wear? Her wardrobe, while carefully curated, was a pale imitation of true Capitol fashion. Most of her pieces were last season’s trends, subtly modified to appear fresh. But tonight called for more than clever stitching and repurposed sequins—it called for something unforgettable.

Effie’s gaze wandered to a mannequin standing in the corner, draped in the emerald-green fabric leftover from Valera Shore’s fitting. A small voice whispered in the back of her mind: Why not?

Effie worked with precision, the hum of the sewing machine echoing through the empty studio. She cut and stitched late into the evening, molding the leftover fabric into a one-shouldered gown that hugged her frame. She added gold-threaded accents to mimic the embroidery on Valera’s dress, giving it just enough sparkle to catch the light.

By the time she slipped the gown over her head, the studio’s clock chimed, marking two hours until the gala. Effie stared at her reflection in the tall mirror near the back of the room. Her heart fluttered at the sight—a far cry from her usual office attire. The emerald fabric highlighted her blonde hair, which she styled into loose waves pinned with a golden comb.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered, her lips curving into a proud smile.

Effie arrived at the gala’s grand venue an hour later. The Capitol’s largest banquet hall, Aurora Court, glowed with cascading lights that spilled across its domed glass roof. The air was alive with the chatter of Capitol elites, their laughter and clinking glasses creating a symphony of excess.

Effie stepped through the arched doors, her heels clicking against the marble floor. For a moment, she felt as if the entire room turned to look at her, though she quickly realized it was her own nerves magnifying every gaze. She straightened her posture, walking toward the heart of the room where the city’s most influential figures mingled.

Her confidence faltered as she neared a gilded staircase. The crowd around her was dazzling. A woman wearing a gown made entirely of reflective panels twirled nearby, scattering prisms of light. Another man, his skin painted with silver swirls, lounged against the bar, speaking in a booming voice that carried across the hall. Effie felt a pang of inadequacy—her dress, while elegant, suddenly seemed understated.

“Effie Trinket?”

The voice startled her. She turned to find a tall woman standing beside her, dressed in an avant-garde jumpsuit of layered silk. Her hair was coiled into intricate braids threaded with gold, and her expression carried a mix of amusement and interest. Effie instantly recognized her: Portia Rivendell.

Effie blinked, her carefully rehearsed greeting slipping from her mind. “Y-Yes, that’s me.”

Portia’s lips curved into a small smile. “I’m glad you came. I’ve been hearing good things about you.”

Effie’s breath hitched. “You have?”

Portia nodded, gesturing toward a quieter corner of the room. “Valera Shore has been singing your praises. I had to see for myself who managed to make her look... tolerable.”

Effie followed her, unsure whether to take the comment as a compliment. She felt Portia’s sharp gaze assessing her, taking in every detail of her outfit and posture. Effie resisted the urge to fidget, her hands gripping the edges of her clutch tightly.

Portia stopped near a cluster of high-backed chairs and crossed her arms. “You have an eye for detail,” she said after a moment. “And from what I hear, you handle stress well. That’s not common in the Capitol.”

Effie’s heart swelled. “Thank you, Ms. Rivendell. I’ve always believed that—”

Portia raised a hand, silencing her. “Let me save us both some time. I’ve been looking for someone to assist me with the Hunger Games. Logistics, scheduling, coordinating events. It’s not glamorous, but it’s critical. And frankly, most of the people I interview are idiots. But you...” She paused, tilting her head. “I think you might be different.”

Effie’s thoughts spun. Was Portia offering her a job? “I—I’d love to,” she stammered, her voice high and breathless.

Portia raised an eyebrow. “Think about it carefully, Trinket. It’s not all glitter and gowns. It’s long hours, impossible deadlines, and working with tributes who’ll... well.” She trailed off, her meaning clear.

Effie hesitated, the image of the holographic tributes flashing in her mind. But the hesitation was fleeting. This was Portia Rivendell—a chance like this didn’t come twice.

“I’m ready,” Effie said, her voice steadier this time.

Portia smiled faintly. “Good. I’ll be in touch.”

Effie left the gala feeling like she was floating. She barely noticed the chill of the Capitol night air as she walked home, replaying Portia’s words over and over in her mind. She didn’t care about the warnings or the stress; all she could think about was the opportunity ahead.

The Capitol lights glittered around her, brighter than ever. Effie Trinket was one step closer to the life she had always dreamed of.

The following morning, sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains in Effie’s apartment, casting soft patterns across her bedspread. She sat up slowly, blinking away the remnants of a restless but thrilling night. Memories of the gala and her encounter with Portia Rivendell swirled in her mind, bright and electric.

Effie leaned back against her pillows, clutching the corner of her blanket. She replayed every word Portia had said, savoring the pride that bubbled in her chest. I’ve been hearing good things about you. She smiled to herself. Someone of Portia’s status wouldn’t offer a position lightly. Effie knew this was her chance—one she couldn’t afford to let slip through her perfectly manicured fingers.

Sliding out of bed, she grabbed her holopad from the nightstand. Her fingers hovered over the screen as she debated sending a thank-you message to Portia. Was it too eager? Too formal? Effie pursed her lips and set the holopad down. Play it cool, she thought. Portia had said she’d be in touch, and Effie would wait—no matter how much it tested her patience.

When Effie arrived at Gossamer Threads that morning, the studio was already bustling. Seamstresses bustled between racks of fabric, assistants darted around with clipboards, and Aeliana was barking orders from her office. Effie slipped behind her desk and settled in, but her mind was far from her usual duties.

Valera Shore’s name blinked on her schedule—a follow-up fitting for the actress’s emerald gown. Effie sighed. The gown was flawless; Valera’s demands were not. The actress had already called the fabric “too stiff” and the neckline “too symmetrical.”

Effie barely heard the sharp click of Aeliana’s heels approaching. Her boss appeared beside her desk, arms crossed. “Effie,” she said curtly. “Madam Berenice will need an alternate fabric for her cape. That shipment arrived damaged.”

Effie nodded, quickly typing notes into her holopad. “Of course, I’ll—”

“Are you paying attention?” Aeliana snapped, her piercing gaze narrowing.

“Yes, ma’am,” Effie said, sitting straighter. But her focus drifted. She could still hear Portia’s voice, still see the gleam in the stylist’s sharp eyes.

The day dragged on with fittings, scheduling mishaps, and endless demands. By the time the studio emptied for the evening, Effie was physically drained but mentally racing. She gathered her belongings, her thoughts already drifting to the future.

Effie imagined herself in a Capitol studio, standing beside Portia as they selected fabrics for the next Hunger Games tribute costumes. She could practically see herself brushing shoulders with designers who worked directly with the Capitol’s elite. Her current role suddenly felt so small, so mundane.

As she walked home, the city’s lights reflected in her wide eyes. Every corner of the Capitol seemed alive with possibility, buzzing with the promise of more. Effie turned onto her street, her peacock-feathered heels clicking against the cobblestone, when her holopad buzzed in her bag.

She fumbled to pull it out, her heart leaping at the sight of Portia Rivendell’s name. It was a short message, simple but direct:

“Meet me tomorrow at 10 a.m. Aurora Tower, 12th floor. Don’t be late.”

Effie stared at the words, her pulse quickening. Aurora Tower was where Capitol designers worked on their most prestigious projects. Just being summoned there felt like stepping into an exclusive club.

Her thumb hovered over the holopad. Should she reply immediately? Was “Thank you! I’ll be there” too formal? She debated for a moment before deciding on:

“Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow!”

Effie paced in her apartment that evening, her excitement bubbling over. Tomorrow wasn’t just another day—it was the beginning of something bigger. She imagined how she would present herself to Portia, the impression she would make.

She pulled out her most elegant outfit: a lavender blouse with intricate ruffles and a cream-colored pencil skirt. It wasn’t new, but with careful accessorizing, Effie knew she could make it shine.

The next morning, Effie arrived at Aurora Tower ten minutes early. The building’s towering glass exterior shimmered in the sunlight, a beacon of Capitol creativity and influence. Effie paused at the entrance to smooth her skirt and check her reflection in the glass doors. Her hair was styled into a neat updo, pinned with a golden brooch shaped like a rose.

She stepped into the sleek lobby, the marble floors polished to a mirror-like shine. Designers and assistants milled about, dressed in avant-garde outfits that seemed to defy logic. Effie’s heels clicked softly as she approached the elevator, her pulse quickening with each passing second.

The 12th floor was bright and open, filled with rows of mannequins draped in experimental fabrics. The hum of sewing machines filled the air, mingling with the chatter of stylists and the soft swish of fabric being handled. Effie spotted Portia near a large drafting table, her tall frame bent over a series of sketches.

“Effie,” Portia said without looking up. Her voice was calm but commanding. “Come here.”

Effie hurried to her side, clasping her hands tightly in front of her. Portia tapped one of the sketches, a preliminary design for a tribute’s parade costume.

“You’re not here to watch,” Portia said, straightening. “You’re here to work.”

Effie blinked, nodding quickly. “Of course.”

“Good.” Portia handed her a clipboard. “Take notes. This is the first step of the Games logistics, and if you can’t keep up, you won’t last. Understood?”

“Yes, Ms. Rivendell,” Effie said, her voice steady despite the nervous flutter in her stomach.

As Portia turned back to her work, Effie allowed herself the smallest of smiles. She had a chance to prove herself now. And she wouldn’t waste it.

Effie Trinket couldn’t stop smiling as she stepped off the elevator and onto the bustling Capitol streets. The crisp air buzzed with the hum of hovercrafts overhead and the rhythmic chatter of shoppers darting in and out of the luxury boutiques lining the avenue. Normally, Effie would have been lost in her own thoughts on a walk like this, distracted by the dazzling window displays and her endless mental checklist of tasks for the day. But today was different.

Clutching her holopad to her chest, she practically glided toward home. The meeting with Portia had been intense but exhilarating, every detail of the day replaying in her mind. Portia’s sharp gaze, the bustling energy of Aurora Tower, the rows of tribute costume sketches—it was like stepping into a dream. For the first time in her life, Effie felt like she was truly on the cusp of something extraordinary.

Effie’s apartment was modest, but she’d done everything she could to give it a touch of Capitol refinement. She had hung floor-length lavender curtains in the living room and adorned the corners of her shelves with miniature vases that held brightly colored artificial flowers.

Her mother, Rhea Trinket, sat on the velvet settee near the window, her posture as impeccable as her neatly styled silver bob. She wore a pale mauve dress with sharp pleats, accessorized with a brooch shaped like a dove. Rhea was always polished—her appearance as carefully curated as her biting opinions.

“Effie,” Rhea said without looking up from her embroidery hoop. “You’re home early.”

“I needed to talk to you,” Effie said, setting her holopad carefully on the table as she perched on the edge of a nearby chair. “Something... exciting happened today.”

Rhea raised an eyebrow but kept her focus on the intricate design she was stitching. “You didn’t quit your job, I hope.”

Effie shook her head quickly. “No, Mother. It’s better than that. I’ve been offered a position assisting Portia Rivendell with Hunger Games logistics.”

Rhea’s needle paused mid-stitch. Her head tilted slightly, but her expression remained unreadable. “Portia Rivendell?” she repeated, as if testing the name. “The stylist for the Games?”

Effie nodded, her voice bubbling with excitement. “Yes! She invited me to her studio, and she said she needed someone with an eye for detail. It’s not a design position, but it’s still an incredible opportunity—”

“Not design?” Rhea interrupted, her tone carefully measured.

Effie hesitated, her enthusiasm faltering for a moment. “No, but it’s a step in the right direction. Portia is one of the most influential stylists in the Capitol. Working for her will open so many doors.”

Rhea set her embroidery hoop down, folding her hands neatly in her lap. Her piercing blue eyes locked onto Effie’s, and the room fell into a brief but heavy silence.

“You’re right,” Rhea said finally, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “It will open doors. If you can impress Portia, the Capitol will notice you. Our family will finally have a chance to reclaim its place among the city’s elite.”

Effie’s heart swelled with relief. “Thank you, Mother. I knew you’d understand how important this is.”

Rhea stood, her movements graceful as she crossed the room to stand before her daughter. “Effie,” she said softly, placing her hands on Effie’s shoulders, “you’ve worked hard to get here. But don’t let excitement cloud your judgment. The Hunger Games are not like fashion studios or boutique clients. It’s a world of power, control, and manipulation. Portia isn’t just a stylist—she’s a strategist. Everything she does serves a purpose, and if you’re going to work with her, you’ll need to be sharp. Understand?”

Effie nodded, her expression earnest. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Good.” Rhea stepped back, her sharp gaze softening slightly. “This could be the opportunity that sets you apart. But you’ll need to be perfect—flawless. Anything less, and the Capitol will forget you before you even begin.”

That evening, Effie worked late into the night, sitting at her small desk near the window. The pale light of the Capitol skyline illuminated her holopad as she reviewed logistics notes Portia had sent over. She was determined to familiarize herself with every detail of the work, from scheduling tribute fittings to coordinating arena showcase events.

Her mother’s words lingered in her mind: Perfect. Flawless.

Effie had always prided herself on her attention to detail, but this was different. The stakes were higher now. She wasn’t just planning fittings for actresses or minor celebrities—she was stepping into the world of the Hunger Games, where every misstep could cost her more than just her reputation.

The thought sent a shiver down her spine, but she quickly brushed it aside. She was ready for this. She had to be.

The next morning, Effie shared breakfast with Rhea, an unusual occurrence given their typically hectic schedules. The small table in their kitchen nook was set with delicate china and a plate of citrus-glazed pastries. Rhea sipped her tea, her expression thoughtful as Effie recounted more details of her meeting with Portia.

“It sounds as though you’ve already impressed her,” Rhea said, setting her teacup down with a soft clink.

“I hope so,” Effie replied, buttering a piece of toast. “She’s precise, though. Intimidating, even. I can tell she doesn’t tolerate mistakes.”

Rhea’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Good. You need someone who will push you. Comfort doesn’t breed excellence.”

Effie nodded, the truth of her mother’s words settling in her chest.

As she finished her tea, Rhea stood and adjusted the brooch on her dress. “You’ll do well, Effie,” she said, her tone firm but encouraging. “Just remember—everything you do reflects on this family. Make us proud.”

Effie’s chest tightened at the weight of her mother’s words, but she managed a smile. “I will.”

She watched as Rhea left for her afternoon engagement, her footsteps light and deliberate. Effie turned back to her empty plate, her thoughts drifting back to Aurora Tower and the challenges ahead.

For better or worse, her mother was right. This opportunity was about more than just her own success—it was about proving that the Trinket name deserved a place among the Capitol’s elite. Effie vowed then and there to give Portia everything she had.

Effie adjusted the lapel of her pastel jacket as she stepped off the hovertram and onto the sprawling boulevard that led to the Capitol’s Games Pavilion. The morning air buzzed with energy, amplified by the dazzling holographic projections that lit up the buildings around her. The Capitol was alive, a symphony of vibrant colors and sounds, and Effie felt its pulse beneath her heels with every step.

Ahead, the Games Pavilion loomed like a beacon. Its massive columns were wrapped in glowing screens that showcased highlights from past Hunger Games. A cannon blast thundered in one clip, followed by the triumphant roar of a victor. In another, flames erupted around a tribute as they were engulfed in a deadly trap. The footage was both captivating and chilling, but the crowd gathering in the pavilion’s courtyard watched with rapt attention.

Effie paused at the edge of the square, letting the scene unfold before her. Children in colorful Capitol attire pointed excitedly at the projections, their voices ringing with delight. A woman dressed in an elaborate gown modeled after a previous victor’s parade outfit posed for holopics, her lips curling into a practiced smile. Vendors sold miniature versions of iconic Hunger Games weapons, from spears to the infamous trident of Finnick Odair.

Effie’s chest swelled with pride. This was the world she was stepping into—a world of art, spectacle, and power. For years, she had admired the Games from a distance, marveling at the artistry behind each tribute’s appearance. But now, she had a chance to contribute, to be part of something grander than herself.

Effie’s reverie was interrupted by a commotion near the pavilion’s steps. A Capitol announcer, dressed in a suit that shimmered like liquid gold, had taken the stage to introduce an upcoming exhibit.

“Citizens of the Capitol!” he declared, his voice booming. “Prepare yourselves for a celebration of strategy, sacrifice, and style! This year’s tribute showcase will feature behind-the-scenes looks at the design process that makes the Hunger Games a true Capitol masterpiece!”

The crowd erupted into applause, their excitement palpable. Effie found herself clapping along, swept up in the energy. As the announcer continued, she moved closer to the stage, weaving through clusters of spectators.

“This showcase will highlight the brilliance of our stylists, the meticulous coordination of our logistics teams, and the unwavering dedication of the Capitol’s finest minds,” the announcer said. “Remember, every detail matters—because in the Hunger Games, presentation is everything.”

Effie’s heart skipped a beat at the words. She thought of Portia’s studio, the sketches of costumes she’d seen, and the precision with which every element of the Games was planned. The work was daunting, yes, but it was also thrilling.

The pavilion’s doors opened to a rush of citizens eager to see the exhibit, and Effie followed the flow of the crowd. Inside, the air was cool and fragrant, scented with the Capitol’s signature blend of floral and metallic undertones. The walls were adorned with larger-than-life images of tributes in their parade costumes, each one more dazzling than the last.

Effie wandered through the halls, her eyes wide as she took in the displays. One section featured mannequins dressed in past tributes’ outfits, their details more intricate up close than they’d ever seemed on screen. Another section showcased concept art and fabric swatches pinned to boards, offering a glimpse into the creative process behind the Capitol’s grandest show.

A holographic display in the center of the room caught her attention. It projected a 3D model of an arena used in a previous Hunger Games, rotating slowly as narration explained the thought that went into its design. “Every trap, every obstacle, and every vantage point was carefully calibrated to create a thrilling yet fair playing field,” the voice said.

Effie tilted her head, intrigued by the technical complexity of the arena. She had never thought much about the logistics of the Games before. Like most Capitol citizens, she had focused on the surface: the costumes, the drama, the victors. But now, seeing how much effort went into crafting every detail, she found herself even more captivated.

As she turned a corner, Effie nearly bumped into a young man holding a clipboard. He looked up, startled, then smiled warmly.

“First time at the showcase?” he asked, gesturing to the exhibits.

Effie nodded. “Yes, and it’s incredible. The level of detail is... inspiring.”

The man chuckled. “It’s a lot, isn’t it? I work with the logistics team, so I spend most of my time buried in schedules and supply lists. Seeing it all come together like this makes the chaos feel worth it.”

“You’re part of the logistics team?” Effie asked, her interest piqued.

“Assistant coordinator,” he said. “Not the most glamorous job, but it’s rewarding. The Games are a machine, and we’re the gears keeping it running.”

Effie smiled at the metaphor. “I’ll be joining the logistics team soon,” she said, her voice brimming with pride. “Portia Rivendell offered me a position.”

The man’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Portia? That’s impressive. She’s one of the best—demanding, but brilliant. If she chose you, you must have a sharp eye.”

Effie felt a flush of pride. “Thank you. I’m excited to get started.”

The crowd in the pavilion began to thin as citizens moved on to other attractions, but Effie lingered, her gaze sweeping over the displays one last time. She felt a renewed sense of purpose. This wasn’t just a job—it was an opportunity to be part of something extraordinary.

As she left the pavilion and stepped back into the sunlight, Effie’s mind buzzed with ideas. The Capitol’s obsession with the Games was undeniable, and while some might view it as excessive, Effie saw it as an art form—a celebration of creativity and discipline.

She squared her shoulders and walked with purpose, her heels clicking against the pavement. The Capitol’s glittering world wasn’t just a backdrop anymore. It was her future.

Effie arrived at Aurora Tower the next morning, the buzz of the Games Pavilion still fresh in her mind. The memory of the dazzling displays and the intricate coordination filled her with equal parts excitement and apprehension. Today would be her first real test—a chance to prove to Portia Rivendell that she belonged in the world of Capitol elites.

She had risen early to perfect her appearance, her outfit meticulously chosen: a structured cerulean blazer paired with a flared skirt in white and silver, accented by a crystal brooch in the shape of a snowflake. Her blonde hair was swept into a sleek updo, and she’d chosen just the right amount of glitter to highlight her cheekbones. Every detail mattered, especially when working for someone as discerning as Portia.

The elevator ride to the twelfth floor felt longer than usual, her heart thudding in time with the soft hum of the lift. When the doors opened, Effie stepped into the studio and immediately felt the weight of the room’s energy.

Aurora Tower’s main styling floor was a hive of activity. Assistants darted between workstations, carrying swatches of fabric and trays of jewelry. Mannequins lined the walls, each one half-dressed in parade costumes for the tributes of the upcoming Hunger Games. Designers huddled over sketches and holoscreens, their voices low and urgent as they debated cuts and embellishments.

Effie tightened her grip on her clutch and made her way toward the back of the room, where Portia stood at a massive drafting table. The stylist didn’t look up as Effie approached, her sharp eyes scanning a design on the holoscreen before her.

“You’re on time,” Portia said, her tone brisk but neutral. “That’s a start.”

Effie hesitated for a moment before speaking. “I’m ready for whatever you need me to do.”

Portia glanced at her, one perfectly shaped brow arching. “We’ll see.” She handed Effie a clipboard with a list of tasks. “Your first job is simple. Coordinate the accessories for the District 1 tributes’ parade costumes. Their stylist wants gemstones—big, ostentatious, and enough sparkle to make the crowd blind.”

Effie’s eyes widened as she scanned the notes. “Accessories?”

“Details matter, Trinket,” Portia said sharply. “A costume is only as good as the way it shines under the Capitol lights. The wrong necklace, the wrong cufflinks, the wrong shade of gold—and the entire illusion falls apart.”

Effie nodded quickly, her nervous energy transforming into determination. “I understand.”

“Good,” Portia said, turning back to her work. “Now go.”

Effie’s first stop was the Accessory Vault, a sprawling room filled with shelves of jewelry, belts, and other embellishments. Each piece was tagged with a holographic label indicating its material, origin, and designer. The sheer variety was overwhelming—everything from delicate silver chains to bold, jagged chokers encrusted with emeralds.

Effie took a deep breath, forcing herself to focus. She reviewed the notes on her clipboard: District 1’s theme was luxury, their costumes inspired by precious metals and gemstones. Their stylist had requested “a dazzling blend of modern opulence and timeless elegance.”

Effie scanned the shelves, pulling pieces that caught her eye. She selected a collar necklace studded with diamonds, a pair of bracelets shaped like cascading waterfalls of sapphires, and a sleek gold belt that gleamed like liquid sunlight.

Satisfied with her choices, Effie arranged the items on a display table in the center of the vault. But as she stepped back to admire her work, doubt crept in. The pieces were beautiful, but did they truly convey the level of extravagance expected from District 1?

She glanced around the room, her eyes landing on a pair of dangling earrings shaped like chandeliers. They were bold, almost garish, but they captured the Capitol’s love for excess perfectly. Effie added them to the collection, the final touch that made the ensemble feel complete.

When Effie returned to Portia’s station, the stylist was in the middle of adjusting a mannequin’s collar. Without looking up, Portia motioned for Effie to set the accessories on the nearby table.

Effie arranged them carefully, ensuring each piece was displayed to its best advantage. She stepped back, folding her hands nervously as she waited for Portia’s reaction.

The stylist turned, her sharp eyes sweeping over the collection. She picked up the chandelier earrings, holding them up to the light. “Bold choice,” she said, her tone unreadable.

Effie’s heart raced. “I thought they’d add a touch of drama,” she explained. “They’re extravagant without being overwhelming, and they’ll draw attention to the tributes’ faces during the parade.”

Portia tilted her head, considering Effie’s words. “Not bad,” she said finally, setting the earrings down. “Your instincts are good, but you’re not quite there yet. Accessories aren’t just about complementing the costume—they’re about telling a story. District 1’s story is dominance, superiority. Remember that.”

Effie nodded, her cheeks flushing with equal parts relief and embarrassment. “I’ll do better next time.”

“You’ll have to,” Portia said bluntly. “Now, take those pieces to the stylists and make sure they approve. If they don’t, you’ll have to start over.”

Effie spent the rest of the day bouncing between workstations, adjusting and refining the accessories based on the stylists’ feedback. By the time she returned to Portia’s studio with the final selections, her feet ached and her head swam with details.

Portia inspected the revised collection with a critical eye, nodding in approval at the adjustments. “You’ve got potential, Trinket,” she said. “Don’t squander it.”

Effie felt a surge of pride at the words, even if they were delivered with Portia’s usual sharpness. “Thank you,” she said softly.

As the studio quieted for the evening, Effie lingered at her desk, reviewing notes for the next day. She knew this was only the beginning—a small task in the grand scheme of the Hunger Games—but it felt monumental to her.

For the first time, she wasn’t just a spectator to the Capitol’s grandeur. She was a part of it.

The final hours of the day melted away in a blur of whispered instructions and the hum of machinery as Portia’s studio wound down for the evening. Effie remained at her station, meticulously organizing her notes from the day. The clipboard in front of her was filled with details: measurements, color preferences, and the intricate notes Portia had scrawled in her sharp, angular handwriting.

She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and glanced across the room at Portia, who was reviewing a fabric swatch under the warm glow of a spotlight. Even at this late hour, Portia’s energy seemed unwavering, her posture poised and her focus absolute.

“Trinket,” Portia called without looking up.

Effie snapped to attention, gripping the edge of her desk. “Yes, Ms. Rivendell?”

“Come here.”

Effie hurried across the studio, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. She stopped a few feet from Portia, clasping her hands in front of her to hide her nervousness.

Portia held up a long strip of metallic fabric, letting the light dance across its surface. “What do you see?”

Effie blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “It’s beautiful,” she said carefully. “The way it reflects light—it feels bold, commanding. Perfect for the Capitol stage.”

Portia’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “Good. But it’s not just beautiful. It’s a weapon. When a tribute wears this, the audience won’t just see a costume—they’ll see power. That’s the point.”

Effie nodded, her mind racing to absorb the lesson. “Every choice sends a message,” she murmured, more to herself than to Portia.

“Exactly,” Portia said, rolling the fabric into a neat bundle and placing it on the table. “Remember that.”

She turned back to Effie, her sharp gaze pinning her in place. “Now, let’s talk about tomorrow. I’ll need you here early—six a.m. sharp. We have fittings, a logistics meeting, and a full walkthrough of the tribute showcase. Can you handle that?”

“Yes, absolutely,” Effie said, her voice firm despite the flutter of nerves in her chest.

Portia studied her for a moment before nodding. “Good. Don’t disappoint me, Trinket.”

Effie left the studio that night feeling a strange mix of exhilaration and exhaustion. The streets of the Capitol were quieter now, the vibrant chaos of the day giving way to a softer, more subdued energy. Lights from the upper tiers glimmered against the sky, casting a faint golden glow over the city.

She clutched her bag tightly as she walked, her mind swirling with thoughts of the day. Portia’s words echoed in her ears: It’s not just beautiful. It’s a weapon. Effie had always viewed fashion as an art form, a way to express elegance and creativity. But now she was beginning to understand the deeper layers, the calculated strategies that shaped every decision in the Capitol’s most prestigious circles.

By the time Effie reached her apartment, the fatigue had settled into her bones. She kicked off her shoes and sank onto the plush loveseat in the living room, letting her head fall back against the cushions. The weight of the day pressed down on her, but beneath the exhaustion was a growing sense of purpose.

She glanced at the holopad resting on the coffee table. The screen lit up as she picked it up, and she quickly typed a message to Portia:

Thank you for the opportunity today. I’m ready for tomorrow.

Effie hesitated for a moment before hitting send, wondering if the message sounded too eager. But the holopad pinged a reply almost immediately.

Be sure that you are. The Games don’t wait for anyone.

The next morning, Effie woke before dawn. She moved through her apartment with quiet efficiency, her hands steady despite the lingering fog of sleep. Her outfit for the day was carefully chosen: a fitted blazer in deep violet, paired with a high-waisted skirt and a silver scarf draped artfully over her shoulder. She pinned her hair into an elegant twist and added a touch of glittering powder to her cheeks for a final touch of Capitol flair.

By the time she arrived at Aurora Tower, the sky was just beginning to lighten. The studio was already buzzing with activity, assistants and designers moving quickly between workstations as they prepared for the day’s tasks.

Portia greeted her with a sharp nod as Effie entered the room. “You’re on time,” she said. “That’s a good start.”

Effie smiled, her confidence growing. “I’m ready to begin.”

The day unfolded in a whirlwind of activity. Effie worked alongside the logistics team, coordinating schedules for fittings and managing the intricate details of the upcoming tribute showcase. She navigated the chaos with a steady determination, her clipboard never leaving her side as she kept track of every moving piece.

By mid-afternoon, Effie was tasked with assisting the stylists during a test fitting for one of the District 2 tributes. The young man was tall and broad-shouldered, his costume designed to evoke the image of a gladiator. Effie watched closely as the stylists adjusted the fit of his armor, taking mental notes on their techniques.

“What do you think, Trinket?” Portia asked suddenly, her voice cutting through the room.

Effie blinked, caught off guard. She studied the costume for a moment before answering. “The armor is striking, but the shoulders could be more defined. It would emphasize his strength and create a more imposing silhouette.”

Portia raised an eyebrow, then turned to the lead stylist. “Adjust the shoulders,” she said simply.

Effie’s chest swelled with pride. She felt a renewed sense of confidence, a spark of validation that reminded her she was capable of holding her own in this world.

By the end of the day, Effie was physically drained but brimming with anticipation for what lay ahead. As she packed up her notes and prepared to leave the studio, Portia approached her.

“You did well today,” Portia said, her tone neutral but edged with approval. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Effie nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Thank you, Ms. Rivendell. I won’t let you down.”

As Effie stepped out into the cool evening air, she felt a surge of determination. This was only the beginning, but she could feel the weight of possibility pressing against her, urging her forward.

For years, she had dreamed of stepping into the Capitol’s most elite circles, of carving out a place for herself in a world that seemed untouchable. Now, she was finally on the path to making that dream a reality.

Effie Trinket was ready for the next step.