thecapitol | (no subject)

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(no subject)

Who| Mentors, stylist, escorts, and anyone else keeping up with tributes in an official aspect.
What| The green room
Where| The tribute training center
When| start of the arena
Warnings/Notes| none inherent, tags thread subjects as needed.

The green room this round has been decorated with the sensibility of what would be, in our era, a turn of the century sitting room. Dark wood paneling, thick rich red velvet furniture, and plush red curtains drawn back over various monitors with heavy gold cords. Although the room is quiet large to contain so many people, it gives the impression of being intimate. The Avoxes, decked out in vaguely militaristic attire, serve food and drink in silver and crystal dishes, gold alcohol catching the light of the stained glass lamps around the room.

In the center of the room is a holographic projection of the arena, highlighting in flickering lights where each tribute is. Panels hidden discretely in the wood paneling can change the view of any of the screens so a mentor or stylist can pull up their own tribute, or one whom they would like to observe.

The projection can easily be shifted, with the flick of a hand, on to the person's own tablet, or even to be projected on one of the sitting tables placed around the room. On their screens other various information can be easily accessed: current odds, gossip, and even communication from potential bidders.

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Victory's eyebrows raise slightly at the energy in his handshake, but she supposes that radio hosts don't necessarily need to have the best social skills when it comes to physical contact.

"Yes, you seemed quite enthusiastic about, ah, what was the Tribute again..." She fans a hand at her collarbone. "My mind's just been so cluttered with business I hardly remember anything!

"Anyhow. I'm for District One. I'm new to the position of head Stylist." She sighs, deep and from the chest. "Of course, with the theme of this Arena I've hardly had a chance to show off. It's such a shame."

"Head Stylist!" He raises his eyebrows, clearly impressed, and lets his smile turn a little sheepish. "Well. I have to say, it's nice to find someone else here new at their job." Not that he feels at all out of his element here - but it's probably polite to give that impression. ...Anyway, he doesn't actually remember which dresses belonged to her at the Tribute auction - but hey! He's new!

"You know, I sure think you showed off pretty well," he says, with a glance at a nearby screen, where a barefoot Tribute in a onesie is creeping around a dark corner. "I mean, sure, there isn't much variation in design out there-- but what else but sleepwear could reflect so clearly how well our district Stylists know their Tributes?" His tone is warm - he believes every word he's saying. "I can't tell you how many moments I've already had where I've looked at a Tribute I've been following in interviews for months and thought, Wow! I couldn't have pictured them in anything else!"

"...But, even so," he goes on, smilingly, knowingly-- "I'll bet you're already planning for the Crowning, huh?"

It doesn't matter if Cecil means it or not - Victory laps up the praise like a hungry dog.

"Oh, naturally. The designing is the best part. Of course, I may have to scrap it all when the Victor finally gets announced, much less the theme..."

She titters, which sounds strange in contrast to her low, breathy voice, then wets her lips. She gives a long glance at Enjolras from the corner of her eye. "Not that I mind that last Arena was a bit of an upset, if it means that I get to look at our Victor a little more often...oh, who's that?"

She points at the display, and particularly at Hans.

"The best part about the Games," she says with a dramatic sigh, "are the visuals."

"Oh, I quite agree," Cecil says, without a glance at Hans. His eyes are on the tablet he's laid down on the table beside him, where Carlos creeps across this screen-- his outline perfect in the dim light of the Arena. He wonders briefly what Carlos would look like, crowned Victor. What could any design possibly improve?

He tears his eyes from the screen. "Sooo-- who are you betting on?" he asks, with a knowing lift of his eyebrows. Stylists know Tributes; in his experience, their bets are worth taking into consideration. And a Head Stylist's opinion isn't just conversation-- it's news. "Leaning toward someone from your own District? ...Or is it more about the visuals?"

"Oh, I don't do bets. I leave that to people who follow the events more. I'm so busy sewing and designing I don't have time to make wagers." She bends over the tablet, propping her face on her hands, her elbows on the table as she takes a seat. Her champagne flute glints in the light.

"Of course, if you'd be willing to tell me what to do, I can be..." She reaches over and hooks a fingertip in one of Cecil's belt loops. "Very obedient."

...Ah.

It takes him a second to reply. This certainly isn't the first time something like this has happened-- it is the Capitol, after all, and he flatters himself that he does enjoy some minor celebrity-- but he didn't think that this was the conversation they were having. He wonders if it was something he said. ...And if there is a way to extricate himself without offending her.

He glances down at her hand and back up at her, but otherwise makes no acknowledgment of the gesture. He leans no closer, his smile stays firmly in place, and his hands remain on the table between them. Awkwardness, he has learned in his years as a professional speaker of many words at one time, is best drowned out by conversation.

"Oh, I would hate to steer you wrong," he replies-- bright, friendly, and perfectly, perfectly neutral. "Especially considering the restrictions on Stylists' bets! And, well, I admit it-- I usually don't even bet until well after the Cornucopia. It means less of a payout, of course, but much better odds!" He chuckles. "I'm really not paid enough to bet unless I know I have a chance."

He hopes she takes the hint. As it is, she's blocking his view of the tablet.

Edited 2014-02-09 17:05 (UTC)

"Still," she purrs - outright purrs, like a kitten kneading at a blanket, with glittery lashes laying heavy and shedding sparkles onto her cheeks like fake tears. "You seem so invested in the games already. Surely you're picking up on something worth knowing."

She loops an ankle around his, clearly not taking the hint. Why would she? "Unless you have nothing to tell your audience."

"Uh..." Cecil swallows. This is difficult. This is so awkward, it's actually impeding his ability to communicate. He gently extricates his ankle, hooking it instead around the leg of his chair, to keep her from getting to it, and scoots the chair back a few inches, pointedly.

"Well!" he says, still bright, if a little desperate at the edges. "Actually, I try not to tell my audience which way to wager! It leads to hurt feelings, and angry phone calls, and strange notes pinned to the door of my apartment after hours, and... you know how it is." No, she probably doesn't, but he hopes-- he hopes very much-- that she can maybe guess how it is. "I mean, not that your interest in... in my interest in the Games isn't terribly flattering! But I really don't think I can help you."

He still doesn't want to offend her, but he isn't sure how she can possibly be construing anything he's saying or doing as any kind of interest. What a persistent woman.

"No? Well, would your audience maybe forgive you a bad wager?" Victory leans in, so she's resting her elbows on his knees, big lower lip pouting at him. A glisten of natural pink is evident, like the fruit of a slice of lemon, past all that lipstick.

"Maybe if you had a..." She takes a deep breath, until it almost seems like she's begging to either be interrupted or asked to finish her thought, before saying "special guest?"

This has gone far enough. Cecil leans forward only far enough to put his hands around Victory's wrists and gently lift her arms off of his knees, letting go of them only when they are very much back in her personal space.

"...Look, Ms. Hannibal." His tone remains polite and neutral, but it's more pointed now-- I'm on to you. Really! The things some people will do for a radio spot! "If you would like to arrange an interview or sponsored publicity segment, you need only say something! There is really no call for these... theatrics."

Considering how long he's spent today with Finnick Odair's arm slung around his shoulders, this is perhaps a little hypocritical. ...This is, honestly, completely hypocritical. But Finnick had, at least, been considerate enough to demand something from Cecil before offering him the possibility of a future meeting-- a much more orthodox way to make arrangements in the context of the Games, in Cecil's experience. He supposes no one has given Victory Hannibal the memo - simply throwing yourself at uninterested people is no way to make a first impression!

Edited (NOTHING IS GOOD UNLESS WRITTEN TWICE, CLEARLY) 2014-03-02 23:24 (UTC)

"Theatrics?"

Victory apparently can't take the hint, even when it's spelled out for her in block letters and neon paint. She drapes her arms over Cecil's shoulders. She's a squid, all tentacles and suckers.

"I have said something. There's no saying I don't want something more." She doesn't, but this is just icing on the cake, isn't it? Besides, maybe there'll be a scandal for her to follow in the paper.

Cecil's attempt to slip out of the way of her arms fails miserably. He ends up with too much of her weight on him to get up in any way gracefully, caught in an awkward lean away from her that serves only to hold them closer together. He's not sure at what point in all of this his hands ended up around her waist, only that they are there now-- holding her further away, but at what cost?

"Look-- I don't want anything more!" he says, and he knows that she can hear him-- her ear is far closer to his mouth than he ever intended it to be. "I am here to watch the Hunger Games! I mean, I am also here for reasons of personal sponsorship, but that is completely secondary. And this is certainly not conducive to either goal!"

"Oh!" Victory's face falls, and indignation rises. And with that, so do the crocodile tears. Of course Cecil, who isn't even that good-looking anyway, would want one of those pathetic Tributes over hardworking, underrated Victory. She shoves herself away from him.

"Don't touch me!" she yowls, mouth crumpling up into some sort of parallelogram distress shape. Sobbing hiccups start to rack up her throat. "You pervert!"

She reaches over and grabs some champagne from a passing Avox, and throws it in Cecil's face.

In the space of about ten seconds, Cecil goes, with blistering speed, from horrified (when the tears begin), to relieved (when she lets him go), to completely horrified, with more than a trace of bewilderment (when she starts shouting), to-- well. He is not sure there is a name, within the narrow limits of human language, for the feeling of receiving an unexpected faceful of champagne from a woman he does not know, who is publicly furious with him for refusing her overt advances. This has never happened to him before. He is not sure how common a part of the human condition this is.

...In any case, it is not remotely comfortable. It takes him a moment, sitting with his hands up and his mouth a perfect O and his tablet (and his suit, and his hair) covered in champagne, blinking liquid out of his eyes, to process feeling that many things in such rapid succession. Oh, god-- No! he wants to cry to all of the people in the room who are now watching the two of them over the rims of their glasses-- This isn't what you think! I didn't--!

"I-- Look--" he tries, desperately, and he isn't sure if he's furious or terrified, if she wants to be comforted, if it would look better or worse if he just-- walked away-- "This is-- this is all a misunderstanding!" He reaches for her, and thinks better of it inches away from her arm. "Miss Hannibal, I most certainly did not try to touch you, and I would appreciate it if you would refrain from making such hurtful accusations, especially in front of a group of people who-- who definitely saw what really happened, there!"

His voice is too high-pitched on the last sentence, more wishful thinking given voice than any actual observation.

If Cecil's high-pitched, Victory could shatter glass. She wails and her face is screwed up into the most unflattering expression.

"Look what you made me do," she shrieks as his hand draws close to her, then retracts. "Security! Security!"

And then she faints. Supposedly. She collapses to the ground and somehow manages to avoid hitting her head, her lips parted and her lashes batting in a way that shows that she even knows how to pose while unconscious.

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