The 50th annual Hunger Games. Caesar Flickerman. First time host, picking up right were Lucretius 'Lucky' Flickerman left off. The crowd was ablaze; he bounced upon the stage, a face of semi youth that went virtually unchanged from year to year, shimmering under a milky coat of makeup. Every slope and strand of his hair done up in the most familiar way. It would have been a mirror image of that which Lucretius always wore, had it not been dyed a dark forest green.

You, a young Capitol stylist watching from the backstage, gave a high smile. Face painted elaborately, lips drawn into a heart. The apples of your cheeks lifted oh-so brightly, matching the glimmer in your eyes.

“A hand for your tributes!” Caesar flashes a wide and white toothed smile to the cameras as he began a clap. His eyes caught yours for a moment as he continued.

“And a hand for miss {{user}} Faelock. The future of capital fashion is in the brightest hands.” He boasted, laughing as he played off a wink. Pride, as your name was spoken from the stage.

You’d only styled one of the tributes tonight. . . But Caesar made sure you had a little extra attention tossed your way. . . Special benefits.