thecapitol | Come and keep your comrade warm

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Come and keep your comrade warm

Who| Molotov Cocktease and open! Plus a closed prompt for D6 suite
What| Um... "adjusting" to being in the Capitol
Where| D6 suite, training room, then the Central Commons bar
When| Early morning through pretty much the whole day
Warnings/Notes| Endless smoking, senseless violence to training dummies, irritable Russian woman

i. District 6 suite, sunrise
Unlike some of the other tributes, Molotov stayed in her room for the entirety of her first night, the door locked tight. Some might have thought she was sleeping or crying or whatever else it was people did when they were brought here, but instead, she was listening.

Listening at the door. At the walls. Any passing sound from her... suitemates was noted, analyzed, stored away and categorized in the way only a spy really knows how to do.

It isn't until light breaks that Molotov cracks open her door and steps out -- hearing that there was a training room was too much for her to resist. Her footsteps are soft, and she's hoping there's no one in the common area, no one to talk to or deal with or see her.

ii. Training room, early morning
Having made it all the way down to the right sublevel, Molotov finally breathes out a sigh of relief at seeing all the weapons. She knows she shouldn't feel that way, should be maintaining her indignation, but really, this is the only normal part of this whole experience so far.

She practices at home. She can practice here, even if there don't seem to be any guns to play with.

Molotov wastes some time trying to blockade the door out of sheer pettiness, only to have an Avox continually and respectfully remove everything that she places in front of the door.

She gives up on that fairly quickly.

Nearly every weapon she can get her hands on seems to be something she's delighted to use, demolishing dummy after dummy. She runs across the room, turning handsprings and flips as if she really has to chase down an inanimate object.

Eventually, Molotov starts feeling her fury again, and that why you might (if you get there late enough in the morning) find a sweaty redhead clinging to a training dummy, legs wrapped around it, stabbing it over and over and over in the head as she grunts with anger.

Oh, and one more thing. Molotov's taste in clothing is, well, unconventional, and she's managed to modify her workout clothing to reflect it. Basically you're seeing a lot of... well.

iii. Central Commons bar
One thing Molotov has never really cared about is proper drinking etiquette. She doesn't think much of starting her day with a healthy glass of vodka and an orange. That's just a deconstructed screwdriver, right?

So it's a bit surprising to her that she's made it to nearly noon without the help of a little liquid stabilizer. After all, she's pretty sure that the situation warrants it. Who stays sober after being kidnapped to be a human sacrifice?

Even though Molotov did have the courtesy to make a trip upstairs and change, it's still not the kind of thing most people consider to be normal clothing. It probably was before Molotov got her hands on a needle and thread.

She's going to have to talk to the stylist or whatever about all these funeral shrouds in her closet, what with their sleeves and pants legs and cloth over the torso and back.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

For however much time he spends with his fiance, the early morning is Albert's to train and keep in shape. Lately it's more habit than anything, a chance to let his mind shut off and focus on his body instead. It's only a little past seven when he enters the training center clad in too short running shorts and an entirely too tight t-shirt (his stylist keeps insisting on tight clothing. He's won nearly every other battle with her, this he has to endure) but comes up short when he sees someone else is there.

Violently and repeatedly stabbing a dummy.

Half naked.

Well then.

It's not the strangest thing he's seen, nor the most violent, but he does make sure to stand far enough away that he can seize her up as he gets her attention. That amount of displayed rage can turn on a dime and he doesn't want to end up the target without some warning.

"I think it's dead." A little joke to try and show he means no harm. Better than startling her by going about his business and potentially getting a knife in the neck like their dummy friend there. This woman looks somewhat unstable...

All the proper parts are covered! And she's certainly wearing more than if she were going to the pool, so Molotov can't really see what could be the problem with most of her ass hanging out. If you've got it, flaunt it, that's her approach.

By this time, the dummy's fallen to the ground, Molotov attached to it the whole way down, still stabbing, and at the voice, she sits up properly astride it to wipe at her forehead, sighing.

"I did not hear any cannons," she answers, calmly for what's just been going on, then stands up, kicking at the dummy with the toe of her boot. "There are plenty to replace it anyway, right?"

"That's true." It's a little perturbing that she's so blasé about death in the arena, though it would be a little hypocritical of him to point it out. She has the same feel of someone in his line of work, an aura of having seen things no regular person should see and filing them away, there's just a difference in her nonchalance comparatively speaking.

"You're new, I take it? I haven't seen you before."

It's true, she's seen some weird crap, it's very commonplace in her world. And even when she's not dealing with it firsthand, it's plastered all over the news, the superheroes and their stupid themes, the crazy assholes regularly trying to destroy the world for no apparent reason. Paraplegics with David Bowie's panda.

You know, just the normal stuff. She figures the arena can't be that much weirder.

"Fresh off the... whatever they brought us here with."

"That's a mystery to me as well." He shrugs as if it doesn't bother him though it's been in his thoughts for some time. "What should I call you, Madam?"

At the word 'madam' he looks perturbed. He'd meant to say Fraulein but the translator chip doesn't allow it, automatically translating his native tongue. It's not the first time this has happened so he shouldn't be surprised, but it is the first time that it sounds awkward.

"Sorry. Miss."

Molotov blinks at him, the way his speech seems... odd, stilted maybe. She hasn't tried to speak Russian really, not since she got here, so she hasn't noticed the loss of her own language. After all, her accent is still there, heavy as ever and making her words occasionally sound harsher than they are.

"You can call me Molotov," she says, frowning, but extends her hand anyway. "Molotov Cocktease."

That is the single most unfortunate name he's heard anyone be graced with. And he has a friend actually named Great Britain. But nothing shows on his face that the name is anything but normal. He just accepts it as he accepts her hand, giving a firm shake.

"Albert Heinrich. It's a pleasure, despite the circumstances."

It is not an unfortunate name, it's a great name. Molotov would argue that any German name is a terrible name, given World War II and those massive Soviet losses, but she's not about to go thinking that he's all unfortunate for it.

"Yes, a pleasure." She takes her hand away and then lights a cigarette. Where did that pack and lighter come from? It is a mystery, but she is definitely now smoking in the gym, because that is totally normal too. Just like her name. "East or West?"

She's not the only smoker there either but he didn't think to bring a pack down with him when he'd intended to work out. He takes a bit of a longer breath than necessary but doesn't ask for one, more because her question surprises him than his hesitation as to where the pack of cigarettes is hiding on her person.

"East." It's a short answer and it was a long time ago, but he knows she'll understand the implication just from asking in the first place. Still, he obviously bears to ill will towards her in particular. "Though I suppose that's no longer really a distinction, what with the country being reunified. Or... gone, as the case may be in this time. Or world. One of the two."

Never go anywhere without your cigarettes, that's Molotov's motto. One of them. One of the stupider ones. Smoke in every possible situation except when on an active mission (unless you're really well hidden). A good sniper can see a hot cherry for miles.

Well, her father hadn't worded it like that, but sometimes there was crossover between the KGB and the OSI.

"Ahh, good," Molotov says, visibly relaxing a bit just from hearing it. These things, even twenty years later -- for her, she supposes -- are still a sort of comfort. "How can no one know anything outside of this place?"

"I don't know, I just know there's nothing through any of the normal modes of information. Television is always taken up with the Games and there's nothing in the library that I can find." Post apocalypse or something to that effect he guesses. Or the government tries to keep them blind, which is also entirely possible given the dictatorial mode of the state.

"Everything is very insular. There's no news even of the outlying districts unless it's hand fed via the Capitol's media machine or acquired through subversive means." Despite the grim topic, he's glad to get off the subject of Germany. He expects because he answered East that she assumes that's where his loyalties lay, judging by her relaxing. That's hardly the case.

Molotov is hardly one to even think about loyalties, what with all her betrayals of the Party's ideals, but it's just sort of a comfort, that someone else at least maybe understands the mindset. A kind of shared background. And really, Molotov is just glad that there's another former Bloc person she doesn't have to kill.

Well, for personal reasons, anyway. No hard feelings over this whole arena deal, she supposes.

She heads for a bench, takes a seat lotus-style and looks at Albert. "What are these districts anyway? They told me I am District 6, what does that mean for me? Do I get some kind of... advantage or something, based on the number?"

He takes a seat beside her, bringing his hand to his chin in thought to her question. "It's how the country of Panem is divided into regions. They numbered them, and each has a specialty. Six, for example, specializes in transportation. All that means for you is who you represent, who to suck up to for sponsor gifts, who lives on your floor, and what themes your stylist chooses for your clothing. It usually has to do with your District, though many of them draw on your place of origin too in, ah... ignorant ways."

There was one instance where his stylist wanted him to wear nothing but a German flag - the black, red, and gold tied as a sort of kilt - with a gigantic swastika painted on his naked chest. He nearly throttled her. He likely would have if she'd had any idea of the meaning behind the symbol and as it is he has to keep reminding himself that she simply doesn't know any better.

"Generally, the lower number the District, the more likely they are to have the money to afford better gifts in the arena, but there are plenty of Capitol fans as well." He doesn't mention his own District as the exception. He's had enough of speaking about the wholesale destruction of District 3, especially considering his suspicions that 3 may not be as destroyed as previously thought.

Occasionally, Molotov blurts out something stupid, just because everything else she's hearing requires processing. This is one of those times.

"I am not dressing up like a fucking train," she says flatly, "or a matryoshka."

There's a pause while she realizes the dumbness of that statement, then sighs. "How do we know who is who? How to suck up? What gifts do they give us? Why do we need to be dressed by someone else? This is the most absurd thing I have ever experienced, and I have been through some ridiculous shit."

That last question, by the way, should definitely go unanswered, given Molotov's demonstrated ability to dress herself.

While the matryoshka comment makes Albert swallow a laugh, the rest of her questions simply receive a shrug. "Habit? They used to send two from each of their own Districts' populations to fight and die. I suspect they needed guidance through the whole process of television appearances, schmoozing with sponsors and the like when many of them I suspect assumed they would not be coming out at all, much less a victor. It takes a great deal of effort to make someone facing death presentable."

The mirth bleeds from his words as he explains, leaving them desolate and bleak. How was it then, when a boy and girl from each District were chosen at random to die for the entertainment of a far off city? He's learned that many of the Districts are poor and training for the Games was prohibited, though it seems 1, 2, and 4 got around that somehow. He remembers what its like to be poor, to have no heat in a cold Berlin winter and wonder where your next meal will come from or when it will be. How can people like that, with little hope of winning against the well trained and well fed, expect to face almost certain death with any grace on their own? It's a special kind of torture that, for a moment, Albert is almost glad they can take from Panem's shoulders, though he'd rather the Capitol cease the Games entirely.

"As for who is how and all that, your mentor is supposed to guide you. And the gifts are things to aid in the arenas. Weapons, survival supplies, medicine. Anything and everything could be a gift."

There's silence between them for a moment, if only because Molotov can't think of anything else to say about this. She just doesn't understand, none of this sounds productive or even useful. She guesses she can see the entertainment value, in sort of an ancient Roman way, but for years on end? Endlessly watching people die?

Doesn't this place have reality TV? Someone needs to create a Real Housewives franchise here.

"Why are they doing this at all?" she finally asks, watching Albert from the corner of her eye as she lights another cigarette. "They clearly started long before people like us ever started showing up."

"Long ago, I'm not sure how long, the Districts rebelled against the Capitol and lost. As punishment, the Games were founded." He's quiet for a moment then shakes his head. "Why they're doing this to us I don't know. It seems to defeat the purpose."

Unless they're having trouble controlling the Districts and needed another scapegoat.

Huh... Come to think of it, that makes sense. A thoughtful look crosses Albert's face.

"I can think of more effective punishments," she mutters, then exhales smoke. "Probably they cannot keep reviving their own people the way they can with us. Or maybe they just cannot spare the bodies, need them for labor. That is what my guess would be."

Of course, Molotov hardly knows anything about Panem's history, so she's just guessing loosely based on general historical concepts.

"Maybe. The Capitol gets their materials imported from each of the Districts. That system can't support itself if there's no one to work." That's really all he knows about Panem's history too. "I'm more interested in how they developed such far reaching technology."

She scoffs, rolling her eye. "That is something I doubt they are willing to share, proud as they seem to be of every little thing from Panem." There's an appropriate amount of sarcasm on that final word. "God forbid someone here be smarter than they are and reverse engineer their technology."

"Exactly." He wants to tell her about the rebellion, about those working towards overthrowing this backwards system, but she's new and untested and he can't be sure he trusts her even though he's a little inclined to it in their shared experience.

"I'd be careful about where you go spouting anti-capitol sentiment though. A little is to be expected and they let slide to a point, but they're not above punishing us for words as well as deeds." He can give her that warning at least, though he suspects he doesn't have to.

"Who says I am anti-Capitol?" she asks, perhaps facetiously, although honestly, she feels more neutral than anything else. "I am saying, in general, the only reason to hold things like that a secret is because you are afraid of what other people can do with it. And even the people from here cannot say that they aren't perhaps a little too patriotic at times."

She shrugs. "Things remain to be seen, I suppose. I've never been afraid of a little punishment when necessary."

He smiles a little, as inappropriate as that may be. "It's good to talk to someone who has a pragmatic view of these things."

There are a few too many idealists and innocents, and of course the ones who fall the other direction, who have broken or are simply unrepentantly on the side of the Capitol.

"Is it that rare of an outlook?" she asks, although she's already spoken with enough people to understand his take on this, unspoken as it is. "It simply seems more like realism than anything else to me. But then again, I have a great deal of experience with governments."

"It seems to be." He shrugs. "I think the opposite might be a coping mechanism for some people, but I can't say that it's useful to be blindly optimistic. I'd prefer to be prepared."

Alright, with the smoke curling around them he can't take it any longer. "Would you mind if I asked for a cigarette?"

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