thecapitol | I get dizzy when I think of all the ways we try to hide our maladies [OPEN]

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I get dizzy when I think of all the ways we try to hide our maladies [OPEN]

Who| Stephen and anyone who isn't actively participating in the break-in!
What| A big, big party to celebrate the soccer match, and also to celebrate Stephen being much less of a disgrace than he was. This is the party that made it into Celebrus, people. The Capitol elite is invited, and so is anyone involved with the Games! ...except for the people Cyrus crossed off the guest list behind Stephen's back.
Where| An event hall in the Capitol
When| Backdated to the Binding plot, the night of the break-in.
Warnings/Notes| Capitol gilding-over of atrocious things. Disney-ified portrayals of the Districts. Avoxes being used as furniture. And what you bring with you.

For having such a short time to plan it, Stephen and Porrim have really outdone themselves. The event hall is round, with a hallway leading to a large, circular, central room and smaller rooms ringing the outside. The main area is half ballroom, half dining area: the dance floor is off to one side, large enough to accommodate anyone who wants to dance, but with the lights low enough to make it feel intimate and un-intimidating even if only a few feel like dancing. The translucent mist that whirls around the area helps with the intimate atmosphere without impeding visibility badly enough to make dancing difficult. The other half of the room is round tables, kept clean and refreshed with food by wait staff who will bring the guests just about anything they ask for. The wait staff are all perfectly groomed, polite, and in possession of their tongues.

The decor is soccer-themed, but soccer as it would have been imagined by the ancient Greeks. Marble statues of athletes (clothed or half-clothed or with strategically carved folds of cloth) are tastefully placed around the low-lit room. The Greco-Roman aesthetic characterizes the whole room: carved pillars hold up the sound system and the tables, embossed vases whose figures are animated adorn the tables as centerpieces, and the wait staff is dressed in sporty chitons and peploses. It's Classically classy, but the sports imagery and the popular dance music that's muted enough in the dining area to allow people to talk make it informal enough to be comfortable.

At even intervals around the center room are twelve doors. Each one has a Roman numeral on it. Step through any one of them and it will take you to a recreation of the corresponding District that's both full of real props and holographic images. The technology isn't as good as Gamemaker illusions and certainly doesn't feel as real as the dream tech, but it can be interacted with, even if it doesn't "feel" real. You can "pick up" a dandelion in District 12 and blow its seeds away. You can run a hand through the water of a District 4 beach and pier and watch the ripples spread. Each District room has comfortable seating, themed food, and appropriately-dressed wait staff; there are even cast members re-enacting District life around the dining areas, giving each room a sense of authenticity. It looks, sounds, smells, and tastes like the District it's imitating, just -- better. Cleaner.

Oh, also, those who participated in the soccer game and won will be given laurel crowns made of solid gold.

District One is a balcony of a manor house, overlooking a perfect view of manicured gardens. You're not outdoors, but it sure feels like it. The tableware is sparkling gold, the chairs made of silky fabric that is a joy to touch but doesn't seem to stain, and being there will make you feel like a prince or princess.

District Two is clearly built into the inside of a mountain. There are broad, open windows, of course, letting in plenty of fresh air, and the walls and floor and ceiling are impeccably carved, but it's all made of natural stone. Outside, down in the valley, you can see Careers and Peacekeepers training.

District Three is ~~a charred husk~~ no, not at all, that would be tasteless. Three looks like Tron: Legacy. Glowing LED lines run through the walls and furniture, and it all looks so clean and spotless it can't be entirely real. The tables are angular, unnatural, and around the dining area are color-changing glow pools.

District Four is a broad pier that juts out from a beach into the ocean. The sand is real, but the water is not -- don't worry, you won't ruin your clothes if you fall in! The sun is setting, painting the sky beautiful colors, and there's no mistaking that sea-salt smell. Off to the side, attractive fishermen and fisherwomen work to bring in the seafood the Capitol enjoys so much. Rough-hewn but splinterless wooden tables and comfortable canvas chairs are on the pier, with an awning above to keep the sun off. Part of the pier is made of glass, so you can look down and watch the tiny fish as they swim around.

District Five is a power plant, but an elegant one. Lightning crackles across the walls and ceiling, leaping between metal rods in a dazzling display. But don't worry: it's not real. You can touch it if you want. It'll cling to your fingers for a few seconds before sparking out. The hum it makes is quiet and unobtrusive white noise.

District Six is lovely, if Stephen does say so himself. It's a series of luxuriously-furnished train cars, with realistic-looking, picturesque scenery rushing past that reflects the geography of all twelve Districts. The floor hums gently; it feels like you're really moving. In one of the train cars can be found one District 6 Mentor, Linden Lockhearst -- usually. He's been part of the party's marketing: he has promised to, at this party, disprove fortune-telling completely. Come talk to him! You'll be surprised at what he can tell you about you. ♥

District Seven is a tree house! It's about a hundred feet up in the crisp, pine-fresh air, affording a gorgeous view of the surrounding forest. Birds sing, deer frolic below, and stunningly attractive lumberjacks can be seen going past, hard at work. They're also very attractive. Look, Stephen and Porrim planned this party -- what did you expect? Go watch the lumberjacks. It's worth it.

District Eight is artistic. It's divided into sections, almost mazelike, with walls made of cloth, but it's kept from feeling claustrophobic by the fact that the ceiling -- also made of cloth -- looks like the sky. No, really. Clouds are scudding across it, blown in the same direction as the light breeze that flows through the room, keeping it from feeling stuffy. The cloth walls are similarly illusory: touch them and they feel real, but projected onto them are broad plains with great lakes not too far distant. The chairs and tables are all cloth and wooden frames.

District Nine is grain. It's hard to make grain interesting, but Stephen's given it his best shot. This is the room with the most open-air feel. Grain, amber waves of it, as far as the eye can see. There's a trick to this room: walk out into the grain, and you won't hit a wall. You're on a moving sidewalk that responds to you, and the holograms will bend to give the illusion of distance between you and the tables in the crop circle in the center of the room. D9's bigger on the inside.

District Ten doesn't have real farm animals. Goodness, no. Too unpredictable, and the smell would detract from the Old West charm of this room. The door leads out onto the expansive porch of a ranch house, where the tables are. It overlooks paddocks of horses and fields of gentle cows. Two or three playful but impeccably trained herding dogs are the only real animals here: they are impeccably clean and will only approach if you call them over. Their handlers in cowboy hats and jeans aren't far away, keeping a watchful eye. Somewhere, Wyatt Earp wants to die.

District Eleven is an idyllic orchard. The apples can be picked and eaten. You won't be punished for stealing food, because you're from the Capitol! Ha, ha. The wait staff is dressed as sexy farmers, with straw hats and coverall-shorts and plaid shirts artistically tied up, talking in easygoing drawls. It's all very charming, like it's right out of Song of the Goddamn South. This is some unfortunate fucking shit.

District Twelve is probably the most ordinary out of all the rooms. The feel is of small-town Appalachia. Coal miners with impressive arms can be seen going to and from work along dirt tracks that wind between the little houses, a man plays a banjo and sings a little ways off, and pine-covered mountains rise in the distance. The food is rustic but delicious: warm baked bread, goat cheese and strawberries, roast goose with herbs -- you wish you lived in this dystopia.

Oh, and one more thing... In the main room, there are statues that are dressed more classically. Togas, chitons, flowy robes, bangles, sandals -- they're holding trays of food, trays of drinks, baskets of bread and fruit, all classically beautiful, all with -- very realistic-looking hair and eyes, now that you're thinking about it -- oh god they're moving. Cyrus Reagan has been involved in the planning of this party from the start, and he's ~~BUTTED IN~~ put a few of his own touches on it without talking it over with Stephen. Hand-picking Avoxes for their looks, dressing them up, and commanding them to stand perfectly still so they can be the tables, he felt, fit the theme perfectly.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He hadn't wanted to go out tonight--he'd been coerced into it by one of his colleagues, who'd insisted that he needed a chance to unwind. The network breach has had him uneasy for the past few days, frustrated at the lack of answers and the endless bureaucratic finger-pointing, and by all accounts he'd rather be in his office filling out paperwork, if only to feel that he's accomplishing something.

But he's here, chatting with his colleague and the man's date, nodding to some people he knows and doing his best to disregard a few that he'd met his first year in the Capitol, back when he'd punctuated his days with raucous parties and the haze of alcohol. For once, he's out of uniform, dressed simply in a gray suit and black tie, with his gun holster hidden beneath the jacket. He double-takes at the avox he takes a drink from, then forces his gaze away, unsettled by her statue-like stiffness. He's never been terribly comfortable around avoxes to begin with--not with the nagging thought that someday he might spot those men he tortured five years ago, loose-hanging threads from his former career--and the furniture-like quality these have doesn't help.

Eventually he pokes into the rooms, curious as to how the districts are being represented. Two isn't too far from the truth, though the air is certainly cleaner than he remembers, and he stands and watches the holographic figures for longer than sheer curiosity might warrant, his mind distant. He also can't help but take a look at Seven and Eleven, the districts he served longest in, even though he ends up being a tad snippy to the overly attractive staff. Seven in particular makes him want to cringe, thinking of weathered men with a wildness in their eyes, and he has to force back the memories with another drink.

He'll be around to mingle until about eleven o' clock, when he'll head back to his apartment. He has to go to work in the morning, after all.

A perhaps unexpected sight Quintus would find in Eleven was one Albert Wesker, looking startlingly like he belonged. His usual dark attire - those blacks and blood reds and midnight blues - had been replaced by a simple, all white assemble. A button-down and slacks that appeared breezy and relaxed as he sat in elegantly carved seat in the orchard.

Like a image out of old history. A wealthy plantation owner in the heyday of the grand old South.

Holding court with a pair of sponsors until their mayfly attention spans had them fluttering off to see what else the party had to offer. ("I hear ten has actual dogs.")

"Take care not to overdo it," he told them as they left. Voice dropping low and dry as they moved out of earshot. "I don't know how I'd ever manage."

"Ever manage what?" Quintus asks over his cocktail glass, watching the sponsors walk past a staff member, his mind absently ticking off the less obvious inaccuracies in the woman's appearance--the lack of sunburn, the completeness of her teeth. Odd, the things he remembers.

"To carry on without them," Wesker replied. "Though one supposes I would find a way, taxing though it would be, if only for my tributes sake."

A mint-julep sat on the low, small table before him. Untouched, sweaty lightly in the faux humidity. The toe of one polished shoe lifted to miss it as he crossed his legs elegantly, one over the other, and shifted to see Quintus better.

He recognized the voice of course, but he'd seen little of the actual man himself. (Which was at once intriguing, as frustrating. He prided himself on details.)

"Mr. Falxvale, I presume?"

He smirks at the sarcasm, his scar pulling the expression into something more like a grimace.

"Mm-hm." He leans over to offer his hand to Wesker. "I don't think we've had the chance to meet. You work for the city peacekeeping forces, don't you? I was on city surveillance the past couple years."

He took the hand, his long-fingered grip firm, and unnaturally warm. Feverish.

(The virus, ever-churning, beneath his skin.)

"I do." He released Quintus and shifted back into his chair. "...And you, are currently responsible for towing the line at Tribute Tower. Which explains why we haven't crossed paths before now."

"Yep. I try to stay in regular contact with you guys but keeping things together there can be a job and a half. Especially with all the offworlders coming in." There's no particular resentment in his voice, just a mild amusement, making light of his situation. "How long've you been a peacekeeper?"

"He says to an offworlder," Wesker replied with a similar sense of bemusement. "No offense taken, of course. I understand not all are as cooperative as I."

His thumbnail picked idly at the nails of his other fingers, considering the question with a small tip of his head.

"I was brought in shortly before Penny's death. Fortunate timing, really. She had a chance to pass along what she knew."

He said it with a straight face.

He shrugs. "There's exceptions to every norm."

The mention of Penny's name brings a slight tension to his posture--he'd never approved of her tactics, having viewed the wrath she incited as unnecessary trouble. Not that he'd ever expressed as much when she'd been alive, of course.

"She was damn tough, I give her that. You guys got along well?"

"Implying that Penny 'got along' with anyone, well or otherwise."

Behind the lenses of his sunglasses, Wesker's eyes narrowed, noting the the shift in Quintus' stance. Not unusual when Penny came up... but still, worth remembering.

"I think it would be more apt to say she recognized that the decision to bring me into the fold was above her pay-grade, and thus not her place to resist. Openly."

He has to laugh at that. "I know how that is. Speaking as a control freak myself, it can be frustrating when someone up the chain of command makes a call without your input. But that's just how it works."

He takes a sip, smiles and asks, "How much shit did she give you?"

"Indeed," he replied, as if he understood.

And he did, if in the opposite direction. How many times had he 'made calls,' as Quintus put it, only to have some fool bungle it down the line?

"And less than she was known for, I'm sure. Once she realized I am a difficult man to cow--" and he clearly had no shame in saying so, the words said with the same, purred confidence as everything else, "--things simplified."

"Well, good for you for standing your ground." His smile, to his credit, doesn't waver. "We need more people like that the ranks--people who do their job and don't get dragged down by the junk. Were you working in a similar position back where you came from?"

Wesker chuckled at that, the sound like the scales of a snake over loose stone, over rattling bones.

"In a sense perhaps," he said after a moment, white teeth flashing. "At the time of my - liberation, I was leading the last survivors of my world's collapse in a final battle against extinction. I could hardly allow myself to be distracted by 'junk' then, either."

And before that, he'd been the tender of Umbrella's magnificent garden. It's guide as it had grown and multiplied, pruning as necessary, and raking in the profits.

"Wow. Our troubles have got to be boring by comparison." And thank goodness for that, he reflects. "Are you glad to be away from that place?"

"I loath to leave work unfinished," Wesker replied, the tip of one polished shoe twitching slightly, keeping some slow beat only he could hear. "But the problems are merely different, and they do keep me occupied."

Somehow, he managed to make it sound magnanimous. As if he'd volunteered to help them first, instead of being an inter-dimensional kidnapping victim left with little choice in the matter.

The sentiment doesn't sit well with Quintus--it's a bit too outside the bounds of obligation, unburdened by the yoke of duty. Becoming a peacekeeper had been duty to him, an expectation to fulfill, and though he took his current position in part due to the intellectual challenge, he doesn't like the notion that an outsider might be able to waltz in with so much choice, working to keep occupied.

(And so much acceptance, too, protected by fame when he might very well have no stake in this--)

"Glad you found some way to use your time," he says, busying himself with his glass again, his fingers tight against the crystal stem. "I figure you don't have to deal with the Arena anymore?"

Quintus' fingers tightened, and Wesker's eyes narrowed behind his dark lenses, watching.

Touched a nerve, had he?

"Everyone deals with the Arena," he replied simply. "Some more than others, but from Districts to Capitol, it touches all."

It was almost poetic.

"For me, as both a Peacekeeper and a Mentor, it is always present."

"You're not wrong," he concedes. "So you're mentoring too? That's got to be a handful, having two full-time jobs."

"Of course." It sounded obvious, because to him, was is. "I was brought to Panem, foremost, to be a tribute; and upon victory, a tribute becomes a Mentor. The Capitol has honored me by allowing me to - branch out, but I haven't forgotten that."

His head tipped.

"Especially considering it's a district... sorely lacking."

It hadn't escaped Wesker that he was the first victor for District 11 in some years, and that none of the previous were willing to come forward and offer their assistance.

Quintus gives a soft sound approaching a laugh. He knows well that in his position, showing any kind of bias or favoritism to certain districts isn't a good idea, but he can't help some agreement.

"Eleven? Yeah, it's--I was stationed there for a few years, and if you haven't seen it, it's definitely more of a rural area. Not a lot of activities going on that'd carry over to the Arenas.

"You do have a competent Escort, though. I've spoken to her before."

"I've been," Wesker replied, somehow managing to sound even more unimpressed despite the general impassiveness of his face. "I was among the tributes taken on the tours some time ago."

And, perhaps, the only one remaining. He'd have to do the math on that someday.

"But yes, I agree on the placement of Ms. Sorrows. Nothing is quite so refreshing as competent co-workers."

"Somebody should put those tours together again, provided we can pull them off safely. I think it's good for the tributes to be able to see what they're representing."

He knows they wouldn't quite be able to witness the reality--not what he saw while deployed there, certainly--but there's something disingenuous in them only getting to view the rest of the country through the lens of TV screens.

"Considering the issues we've had around here with unprofessional behavior, I appreciate her too. There's certain things I expect from the Tributes, especially the ones that haven't been around too long, but I get tired of seeing crap crop up among the staff."

"If you think they'd be of value, for all the effort," Wesker said mildly. "I can't say my fellow took very much from the previous... though perhaps that's because nearly none of them remain."

Which was entirely the Capitol's decision, but it continually struck Wesker as odd. The time and effort and expense they put into their tributes, only to kill them sometimes only days after the fact. It was gratuitous even for him.

Then his mouth twitched, coolly amused.

"Not that we'll name any names."

"That's a shame."

He says it with a fair amount of detachment, as though they're solely talking about investments here, when in reality his feelings are more mixed. On the one hand, he understands the politics behind the switch to regeneration-capable offworlders, while on the other he's caught thinking of his brother in that distant Arena, the horrible finality of his gruesome death. With that in mind, there seems to him a cheapness, an unfairness to the current system. There are too many things that death hadn't meant, and now, with the institution so changed, it seems even more irrelevant.

"Of course." He manages a hint of a smirk at that. "Needless to say, if I were in administration, I'd have undertaken some disciplinary action by now."

I get dizzy when I think of all the ways we try to hide our maladies [OPEN]

Quintus | Open

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