thecapitol | I couldn't lie, couldn't lie, couldn't lie; (OPEN)

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I couldn't lie, couldn't lie, couldn't lie; (OPEN)

Who| Nat and YOU!
What| A killer spends about five seconds feeling sorry for herself before she gets busy.
Where| District 8 floor and around the Capitol.
When| After she's been killed off in the tenth Arena and the week(s) after.
Warnings/Notes| Talk of death, flirting???

Having been on the verge of death one too many times, Natasha understands the difference between a close call and the real thing. When her eyes open in the vague familiarity of her assigned bedroom, there's no containing the loud gasp of air that comes with the initial shock. It's instinct--she couldn't breathe all that well when dying and now she can do it just fine? Has she been out long enough to recover? Natasha rolls out of bed and struggles a bit to free her legs of the confinement of her bedsheets before she gives up on that futile gesture. Dragging half the sheets wrapped around a leg into the bathroom, it takes her a few minutes to get the lights on and the clothes off.

No new scars. No sickness. Mild grogginess, likely from sleeping too much. Aches in her back and shoulders, also a reasonable effect of too much bed rest.

Natasha doesn't bother with putting on pants, but manages wrangling the shirt back on over her chest in frustration. How long has she been out and more importantly, how are her allies doing? The Arena can't be over just because she died, right? There were names that lit up the sky during the first week that she didn't bother to recall until now; Pyunma and Shion of District 4, Ian Gallagher of District 6, Armin Arlert and Rebecca Holiday of District 8, and Pruna of District 12. When she steps out into the common room in a tank top and underwear, she should see at least two other people there.

Or she would if it wasn't at a ridiculous time at night. At least there's a fridge she can raid for a late night snack. She just came back from the dead, there better be a tub of celebratory ice cream.

➊ (DISTRICT 8 FLOOR)
Having always been peculiar about sleep, Natasha somehow manages to spend the rest of her first night in bed. It's early afternoon by time she decides she's had enough with feeling sorry for herself. There will always be an immeasurable amount of guilt on her shoulders, so what's a little extra lick or two of weight? Now is the time for answers, not for worrying about Matt and the rest of her peers.

The Avengers are made of tough stuff, tougher than her if she's the only one who has managed to make it back. Time to see what she can do for them now that she's jumped out of the frying pan into the fire.

✪ (CLOSED: Très Jolie)
On her first day, Natasha had managed to avoid her own Stylist, but ran into another by the name of Victory. The Stylist of District 1 must hold a lot of weight, but the comment made by her remains present in her mind. What harm can come of spending a little time with a possible gossip? Natasha seeks him out, having paid Très little attention since her arrival with the intent of making it up.

Upon finding him though? 〈"My God."〉 Natasha manages to exhale under her breath in her native tongue. She's seen a number of things in her life, but this? This is the sort of thing she strays from and for good reason.

➋ (THE CAPITOL)
Now that she's gotten all dolled up (thanks to Très Jolie), Natasha is on the hunt for any respectable individuals who may or may not have a lot of money or power. If she's a celebrity, tonight she will play up the role accordingly. Watch out single men (and maybe some who aren't), she's ready to sink her fangs into something fresh.

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Harley is feeling particularly glamorous today and is strutting her stuff in an outfit that seems to be made entirely out of gems. It clatters and clanks like a beaded curtain as she shimmers and sparkles through the tribute commons area.

She's got a party in a few hours but she thought it might be fun to walk there in her new dress showing off for the world. Maybe she'll chat up some reporters. Maybe she'll make a hot new date. The world is her oyster and...she stops short to watch the screens as Elsa makes a beautiful ice castle in the arena.

"WOO! Go Elsa yeah! That's the control!" She shouted gleefully her voice echoing in the hall. Some of the staff clapped and cheered politely having long since learned to play along with Harley's enthusiasm.

Grabbing for a nearby victim (Who turned out to be Natasha) she bragged happily "Check it out! Check out what my girl did! She was so afraid of using those powers and now look at her!"

Powers? With a raised brow, Natasha turns her head towards the screen to witness it with her own eyes. A young woman conjuring forth ice and using it to create something majestic before her caught her attention more than the woman pulling her body around.

"Wait--they have powers?" Whatever fear she may have had for her allies removes itself in the form of a relieved sigh.

"Only sometimes." Harley corrected her calming down but not letting go of her now captive audience. "You're new around here right? Yeah I never forget a face, except for concussions. Anywho-" She grinned cheekily.

"Sometimes to spice things up in arenas they give the tributes access to their super powers...or magic or what have you. Looks like in this arena the name of the game is already copywritten." She laughed at her own joke.

"If the powers turn on when everything gets all Special Level of Hell out there then that means when it goes back to the cool creepy...if it goes back to the cool creepy, their powers will get turned off again."

Powers meant her allies weren't all that defenseless. It warms her heart a bit to know they would be able to take care of themselves and help the others around them, because that is what the Avengers do.

"Have they shown anything with Rogers?" Natasha asked right after.

A gambit, but one she found herself willing to take. Captain America had always been the popular choice back home, so he ought to be the one here she advertised most. Win over a few sponsors and perhaps he could share the benefits with the rest of their friends.

"He's from District 7."

"Rodgers...Rodgers..." She tapped her chin thoughtfully "Oh yeah! Beefcake!" She grinned lewdly. "Boy the Capitol ladies just can't wait for him to bite the dust so they can get a better look at him. He's in hot contention for number one on the "Most datable" poles." She rambled.

"Still kicking in the arena though if that's what you meant. Too bad he's in the same district as that creepy blond kid."

"Beefcake." All right, now that earned a laugh.

"He would be so flustered if you were to call him that to his face." In fact she can picture it already; the sight would be worth snagging a photo of. "That warms my heart to hear--he had always been a survivor. It won't surprise me if he makes it to the end."

"It would surprise me unfortunately." She chuckled and sighed "As much as I'd love to see someone win in their first arena I don't think it's ever happened. At least not since the Capitol started pulling tributes in from other worlds. Before that they just didn't bring people back to life of course." She rambled for a moment before straightening up again.

"On the flip side I have seen someone win their second arena. Another mentor from my district, this kid assassin Mindy Macready. She's starting to regret it though. Winning means no more arena, but you still gotta watch it ya know? And go to all those fancy parties."

Thus Harley continues to partake in one of her latest pass times, over sharing.

Harley's not the only District 9 girl out there. Mindy's still got a job to do for her Tributes, so she's smoozing, in her best dress, having a drink here or there to fit in with the sophisticates. It was annoying, and to her, reeked of phony, but this was about playing the game, not being in your comfort zone.

of course, Mindy spotted someone all too fine with playing her part. She walked over, giving her a wink.

"Now I wonder what's going on in your mind right now."

Several things, none that she felt were appropriate to tell any of her comrades, much less someone at her age. Watching her intently, she tried her best to not appear as though she was wholly conscious of playing pretend or that she had developed an interest in her.

Not a positive one, but a cautious one. Only a fool would let their guard down around a child, especially a child who ended up a victor.

"I died." Natasha's response may have been a bit brunt, but people who were in shock often were. Part of the act. "Shouldn't be nothing, but here I am without counseling on the matter."

"Yeah. The first time is always a pretty bad experience. I sort of understood that I was going to be brought back, but in the back of your mind, you know, you're still dying, and it still fucking hurts. I don't think you ever really get used to it."

She at least knew how to bounce back, or was making the attempt anyway. That was a start.

"How did you go?"

"Made a mistake." A curt response, but it's not one she wants to talk about. Not when there's likely recordings of it.

"No one mentioned that eating food within an Arena would mess your mind up. Couldn't get warm, muscles ached. Not the best condition to pick a fight." She understands why she fell, just convincing herself that it was all right to after? No, she can't ever forgive herself for it.

Especially since she died in the arms of a man she cares too much for.

"Oh man, they went THAT route again?" Mindy made a face. "I thought they were done with that when I had to the arena the first time I got there. It doesn't always happen, but sometimes they just taint the food for the fun of it. Assholes. No wonder you couldn't function."

She must have been feeling as bad as when she stumbled into that bear trap. It felt like it could have been avoided, but she just missed it in the end.

"I should have known better not to trust."

In all honesty, she did know better. That's why sponsors were able to send food as she witnessed from her companions' gifts from the outside. She just thought her body could outlast poison.

"A novice mistake, but it's better to be free of that mess. Let them taunt and tease me, their words will only backfire on them should they pit me against another again."

"Next time just go for the gifted food, and see if everyone else gets affected by the food around them. People can usually spare some food if you have decent enough sponsors. Really, it always comes down to the terrain."

She'd been lucky to get the museum and she knew that. Who knew what a place with monsters would have done to her?

"Is anyone actually taunting and teasing you about it?"

Information is plentiful in a world where politics and gossip are highly sought after commodities. The Capitol thrives off of making a show of everything; the Tributes, their lives, and those who enjoy watching them are the ones who are of interest to Natasha.

It doesn't take the Stylist of District 8 long enough to chat her ears off about various individuals, but one name catches on above the rest. Stephen Reagan, a man who seems to strike out more when it comes to love, but he's young. Youthful men make mistakes and enjoy the sound of their own voice. Rarely were they wise enough to keep their mouths shut, especially when there was a pretty lady to impress.

Natasha only hopes her age has remained a secret. Her looks won't betray her, but knowledge can if it falls into the wrong hands. While telling Tony Stark her age went amusingly well for her, it might not translate as smoothly to boys looking for love. With a face in mind, she walks through his floor dressed to kill (though not blatantly femme fatale) and stops only when she finds her target.

Stephen is sitting out in the common room, tapping away at a tablet when he hears the door open. He glances up, just to see who it is -- and the glance turns into a stare.

She's not one of his, he can tell that much. Stephen's taken great care to get to know each of his Tributes, helping them with their Capitol personas and netting them sponsors. However, Stephen has gone through the roster of new Tributes several times and has watched all of Flickerman's interviews. Although Stephen hasn't seen her much in action, she had stood out to him. Memory turns up a matching card: Natasha.

Oh, man. Oh, wow. What on earth was she doing here?

He stands, quickly, powering off the tablet. "Excuse me," Stephen says, taking a step or two towards her with a friendly expression. "I'm sorry -- you didn't take a wrong turn, did you?" If she had, he was more than willing to help point her in the right direction.

There wasn't much action to have behind her. Avoiding fights for most of her time in the arena, Natasha was sly and used more than a few tricks to avoid being caught by the others. The fights she did engage in were by her own hand and well fought up until she was mortally wounded. That part didn't go over so well. What should have instantly killed her she managed to slip out of and instead--no, this wasn't the time to think about her death.

Now was the time to play a whole other game, one with less death and more deceit.

No one must have warned him of her moniker The Black Widow, Natasha muses by how quickly he approaches her. Had he known who she was, who she really was, would he have been so willing?

"What if I told you I came here looking for you?"

Oh, it wasn't that no one had told him of the Black Widow. It was just that Stephen Reagan had a disproportionate sense of his own invulnerability, having grown up privileged in Panem. She was a Tribute; therefore, she couldn't harm him. It was a system Stephen had barely even begun to question.

"Me?" Stephen could hardly believe his ears -- or his luck. However, it was completely possible, he reminded himself, that her interest was not personal. He was an Escort, after all, and helping Tributes was his job. It was also possible, he remembered, that she sought him out because of a grievance. It was a sobering thought, and the excited surprise dropped from his face, replaced with crisp professionalism. "Well -- if that's the case, I'd be happy to help you with whatever you need. What can I do for you?"

"Relax." Natasha insists with a tone that hints at light-hearted whimsy, a hand reaching out for his arm in a personal gesture. "I didn't come here for one of those conversations."

Straightening up after, she tries her best to appear as though she's a fragile girl. Her gaze averts his own mostly, but she does look up every few seconds only to duck back down.

"I had a rough time in the arena and thought maybe I could relax a little tonight? My stylist suggested I try to find a date and you were the first one to come to my mind. You know all of the best spots, don't you?"

One eyebrow goes up. Stephen's heard the gossip: Natasha is a spy, the Black Widow, who weaves webs and ensnares men to get what she wants.

None of this discourages him, of course. Far from it. It just makes him fully aware that she's putting on an act. She wants something, he imagines, but can only really think of one thing he wouldn't give her willingly. Money, yes. Extravagant gifts, yes. A one-night stand, absolutely yes. But there is no reason to think that she suspects that he knows compromising information about the Capitol, and even if there were, he feels certain he wouldn't tell someone he just met.

"Well, yes," Stephen says. "I've been playing this game for longer than I'd like to admit," he admitted, wryly. The Capitol's culture is obsessed with youth -- how could it not be, when its idols were between 12 and 18 -- and being twenty-seven isn't something he admits all that easily. "If it's really what you want, I'm sure I can show you a good time. But, really..." Stephen hesitates a moment, choosing his words. "You don't have to play coy. Actually, I'd prefer it if you didn't." His tone is light; he's not calling her out to feel superior, or like he's caught the Black Widow. It's not even that he's asking for complete honesty.

Really, it's just that Stephen prefers his partners with more bite. Especially if he knows they're capable of it, and are hiding it. Badasses are what make Stephen go weak at the knees, and it's that cool, collected toughness that caught his attention in the first place.

Is that what they say about her? Not far from the truth, but it does make the life of a spy difficult when she cannot spy. With everything monitored, it meant there was information within the cracks and it was that alone she'll pry out of the hands of her benefactors. Eventually. For now she plays it as cool as she can, even with his request.

"I wasn't aware you were the kind of man that enjoyed being dominated." Blunt, perhaps a shade too much, but she doesn't let up. "If that's what you want, that is."

Stephen bursts into a laugh, surprised and taken aback and tickled all at once.

"No, no, it's not that," he says, ~~although it's not entirely untrue~~. "I just don't want you to feel like you have to play yourself down. Bold women don't scare me." If he was going out on the town with Natasha, he'd rather go out on the town with Natasha.

“I keep forgetting that crucial little detail.” A convenient lapse in judgment, but really. Nothing frustrates the Russian spy more than the reality that is a lack of privacy. What else is public knowledge about her, she wonders.

Maybe she wouldn’t have to think on it for long. If it’s known by him, then it’s something she ought to be able to look up for herself. Tucking it away for now, she can only recover with a bold detail that’s sure to become public soon enough.

“If you’re going to be proper about these things, it’s Natalia.”

Only one person in the Capitol calls her by her true name and now one more has been given the opportunity. Whether he takes the bait of making matters more personal or not--well, that will tell her all she needs to know about him.

Darling, he'd call you anything you wanted.

"All right, Natalia," he says with a smile, accepting the offer and offering his arm in return. "What kind of night out did you have in mind? Dinner? Drinks? The Hunger Games isn't the only show in town, but if a club's more your speed..." Stephen gives an easy shrug and an inviting smile. "Or we could start with dinner and see where the night takes us."

Kevin's downstairs in the main Common Area, planning to try to talk to some sponsors but he's feeling even more miserable than he has been by the time he gets out of the elevator. He's so cold and the whole time his eyes are open, it's like looking into a really grainy TV. He moves to see about getting some coffee or something else hot to drink when his muscles start spasming again, forcing him to find a seat instead. And then his ears start ringing. He curls up in his seat, probably looking as miserable as he feels.

"Hey there handsome." Natasha wastes no time in swooping in to offer a comforting tone or a helping hand, should he want it. Sympathetic in every way, even for someone who should be feeling just as miserable, she squats down to eye level with him.

"Are you unwell? You look upset." Great deduction skills there, she's really playing up that role well.

"Need me to get you anything? I don't mind."

He squints at her, blinking to try and clear his vision, but the graininess of his vision doesn't obscure her face too badly. She's the one he saw in the store.

"Cold," he mutters, gritting his teeth through another muscle spasm.

"How can I help?" She asks without hesitation, taking control of their conversation to present herself as helpful. Not overly, but offering it if he needs it.

"Body heat or something warm to drink?"

"Coffee," he says quietly, trying to ignore that this is a woman, probably the same age as his stepmom was. The Capitol won't let them have any powers so she should be safe. And it's not like anyone else has offered to help.

Much older, not that she looks or even acts it. Keeping a youthful appearance has saved her more than she cares to admit, just as acting as though she was an inexperienced woman has made those around her underestimate her. Coffee isn't the best cure, but she's not going to tell someone who ails from something unknown to her otherwise.

With a nod, she hurries off.

How she manages to return with a cup this quick is a miracle (she asked someone else nicely), but once she's back in his general vicinity, she offers it to him.

"There you go. Drink up, and relax."

He reaches for the coffee, smiling slightly. He closes his eyes as he takes a sip. The warmth feels good. He cradles it to his chest until another muscle spasm makes him spill it across his clothes. "Ow!"

He drops the cup as he scrambles to pull off his shirt. "Ow, ow, ow!"

He smiles as he reaches for the coffee. His eyes drift closed as he takes a sip before cradling the cup to his chest. He sighs contentedly, finally getting a little relief from being so cold. And then a muscle spasm makes him splash the hot liquid across his torso.

"Ow!" He drops the cup on the floor as he fumbles with his shirt. "Ow, ow, ow!"

It's as if she's experiencing one of those days where she just can't win. Next time she needs a lid and not to fill the cup so much; knowledge tucked away for later for it does her no good now.

"Hold still, I'll help." Her voice remains calm and she hopes it's enough to comfort him, to remind the boy that she's in control of the situation and can help if he allows her to.

To tell the truth, Jolie hadn't been terribly offended by the avoidance. Some tributes are like that. Cagey, antisocial, aggravating, Joel. It happens. If there'd been more time before the Arena, Jolie might have made a concentrated effort to get into that pretty face, but it ain't worth the rush. She'll come round when she bites the dust, and she bit it a lot faster than Jolie ever expected. Whoops.

Currently, he's in his work room, the door slightly ajar as he had intended to leave it soon. He doesn't get dragged up to sit around in a work room, after all. He's just having some predrinks.. Okay. A huge predrink, while he sketches out some outfits for his tributes. There are discarded sketches all around the room, some of them more identifiable than others. There's Charles in a sharp suit, pinstripes to make him look taller. Braniac in white to contrast the particularly bright green that Jolie has scribbled all over his face and.. a picture of Joel as a yeti. For no particular reason.

At the exhale, he looks up, a well drawn eyebrow arching curiously as he pauses the sketch. "Oh hello. Look what the cat dragged in."

It's almost as if said cat deposited her into his lap as a prize, a feast for the predator who appears malnourished and incapable of hunting for himself. Cats were magnificent creatures like that, but often associated with criminals; better to be the Widow instead of something like 'Cat Woman'.

"Disappointed? I'm sure you'll tell me all about it." Natasha quips as she steps right in, moving around the trashed pieces of paper. So many faces she recognizes, so many outfits that just didn't do them justice. "He'd never go for that." She comments idly on one before moving to stand in front of him, a look crossed between distress and stoic on her face.

"I need a date."

"Me? Disappointed? Never. My job ends when you get in the Arena, kid." He shrugs, pulling a face when he does that seems to indicate he stops caring about them when he's not dressing them. It isn't true at all, of course, but he doesn't like to get attached.

A brow quirks at the observation, but he dismisses it. It's on the scrap pile for a reason, and he makes a point of not taking advice from tributes. Besides, he's more interested in why she's here and why she's got that look on her face. At the request, his face splits into a grin and he lets out a short, loud laugh and shakes his head.

"You're asking the wrong guy, lady. I think I'd prefer one of those boys you got following you around, the blond one. Short hair, always looking like he left the stove on. I like that in a guy." He answers wryly, a hint of a joking tone in his voice. "What's your type?"

Rogers. Roger that. Might be worth trading him out for some information and while she ought to feel a bit guilty about that, she doesn't let it show.

"Confident man who thinks he's smart, but really just likes to hear himself talk." Explains why she's been getting chummy with Tony Stark in case anyone asks and now someone who is a 'higher up' in a sense can answer that for her in interviews. "I heard a name, but know little of him. Do you fancy a trade?"

A hand on her hip and the other waved around in front of her as she speaks, "I give you the opportunity to doll me up in order to seduce a man and I give you the opportunity for dinner with the Captain."

Jolie hums in thought when she describes her perfect man, because it's ringing quite a few bells as far as fellow Capitolites go. He taps his pen on his sketch pad before burying it into his hair, tossing the pad aside and folding his hands over his lap artfully and eagerly at her proposition. His face lights up like a god damn Christmas tree, pearly whites shining past painted red lips.

"You got yourself a deal, sister." He offers a hand to shake before drawing it back just a little with a curious look. "You're sure you can make that happen?" He doesn't want to doubt her ability, but the hunky guy seemed so honorable and noble and above stuff like this. Hopefully, Jolie was wrong.

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I couldn't lie, couldn't lie, couldn't lie; (OPEN)

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✪ TRIBUTE TOWER ➢ STEPHEN REAGAN

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