thecapitol | (no subject)

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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, dressed in pearls and shedding glitter like confetti, hasn't met Chris before. Perhaps it's his good looks or the mystery that draws her to him - either way, she spends a good portion of the night watching him from the corner of her eye (not terribly easy when her false lashes block out a solid chunk of her peripheral vision).

After being rebuffed by Cecil, she takes some time to compose herself in the lady's room with hysterical, Broadway-esque sobs that are only 10% real and 90% her trying to convince herself how sad she is. Once she's gotten the tragedy of her rebuke out of her system, she returns to the common area and decides to go for the kill.

Like a sequin-covered shark in stud-infested water, or a mixed metaphor in a bad writer's chances at being taken seriously.

"Hello, stranger," she says with that affected, breathy voice that, depending on the listener, can either communicate 'sex kitten' or 'unrepentant diehard chainsmoker'. "I don't think I know you, or your...friend."

She waves the hand that isn't carrying a glass of champagne at Champion.

"I'm Chris," he says without missing a beat, trying not to be distracted by how shiny she is. He gestures to himself then to the dog. "And this wonderful creature is Champion. He's a mix. Half awesome and half amazing."

"Now we're not strangers anymore. At least, not once I know your name."

Victory's voice lowers to a sound like waves schooshing over the sand. Talking about herself is probably her favorite thing. "Victory Hannibal. I'm the head stylist for District One. And very, very single."

She reaches down and delicately pats Champion on the head, with the sort of awkwardness characteristic of someone who hasn't played with a dog in her whole life.

"What a coincidence. I, too, am extremely single. Overwhelmingly so." And so very lonely, not that the bright smile suggests anything of the sort. "And if I may say so, it is of no surprise to me that you're a District stylist: you are very well-groomed." This is how Chris Traeger employs yolo.

Victory's eyes light up like little blue fireworks. She grins, and they disappear under the heavy lashes.

"Well, they say if you don't have your hygiene, you don't have anything, am I right?"

Is she mocking him? No! Couldn't be. His smile seems to pick up extra wattage somehow.

"I'm not sure who's ever said that, but I'm certain someone must have. You are absolutely right." He points to her now. "Victory Hannibal, District One Stylist. Excellent."

How could Victory mock a face like that? (Answer: she couldn't. Her brain has been entirely redirected to her ovaries.)

"That's my name." She giggles, as if Chris has just told her a fantastic joke. "So. Are you and Champ here enjoying the party?"

"And a beautiful name it is. Clearly, you and Champion were meant to be." He laughs with her, inclining his head slightly. "Oh, yes. It is literally the most fantastic party we have ever attended."

"Oh, Champion's not really my type." Victory blinks a little, not sure if she took that sentence correctly (what with Champion being a dog). "You, however..."

He chuckles. "Oh, no, silly.. I mean because 'victory' and 'champion' have very similar definitions." Champion gives a little half-bark in confirmation.

"Oh, good!" Victory laughs and it's a profoundly fake sound, like she's trying about eight times too hard. "Do you know what your name's supposed to mean? It'd be hilarious if it meant 'winner' or something."

"Christopher means bearing Christ which came from the very fascinating story of Khristophoros, a giant who carried people across a river. When I feel down I like to imagine that I am that giant." A beat. "So while it doesn't mean winner... he was very strong."

"Well, I think you're a little short to be a giant..." She licks her lips, then takes a sip of champagne. "But that only means you're closer to Earth, right?"

Short? He wanted to be offended, and okay, maybe he was a little. But the way she said closer to Earth made him feel connected. It was something he hadn't felt since Meredith had dumped him.

"I am literally an average height of all men within Panem." So, not short, but not tall either. Still, average was good. Or perhaps by its very definition average was not good, it was merely average, but he wanted to explain himself anyway. "Which means I can look 90% of the people I meet directly in the eye. While I believe you mean 'closer to Earth' as a means to sooth my ego, it is actually a beautiful sentiment."

"Well, you aren't the average looks," Victory says, laying it on thick, thick, thick. She reaches over and loops an arm around his shoulders, pretending - badly - to be a little tipsy. "Oops."

She tries to shove Champion away with her foot as he tries to sniff under her dress. "I'm full of beautiful sentiments, you know."

"Oh," he exclaims as her arm slips around him, tilting his head a little. "Well, thank you. I am in the 85th percentile of all male looks in Panem." That's a joke, Victory. Isn't he funny?

"I don't doubt it, though. Why are you trying to kick my dog?" He's still smiling and he doesn't try to move away, but Champion looks way offended approaching growly.

"Only 85th?" Victory politely chuckles and reaches over to play with his collar.

"Oh, I'm not, ah, I'm not kicking him, he's just- I think he might be in love with my legs!"

"It might be 90th..." Oh, yep, that's distracting.

"Well, why wouldn't he be? They are fantastic legs. And I am sure that they excel at their intended purpose." Which is walking!!!!!!!!!! Quit it.

"I'd say 95th." She leans forward and licks the tip of his earlobe. "You should touch my legs."

His eyes go wide, but he's frozen to the spot. He knows the proper reaction is to pull away, but he finds himself shuddering instead, giving out a girlish giggle. Oops.

"I... Victory, that's very--" But then Chris makes the mistake of glancing sideways. She is so beautiful and he is unbearably lonely. "Okay."

Wait... what? He blinks, looking at her legs and flushing a bit before his gaze tracks slowly back up to her face.

"But maybe - not here?"

Jackpot. Victory smiles that satisfied serpent smile that shows her gums.

"Are you inviting me back to your room, Mr.- oh!" She yelps, hopping away from Chris and swatting at the dog behind her.

"Champion! Your nose is cold and that area's private!"

The laugh comes back and he puts a hand over his face, embarrassed and delighted all at once. It felt good to laugh. Except she had asked him a question, a night-changing question.

Perhaps even a longer-lasting change than that, dependent upon her and how the night went. But for now he could perhaps just worry about this one night, and how he didn't really have any right refusing anyone so amaazing right now. And she was: amazing.

"Let's go," he's saying instead of anything else, rising up off the couch and offering her his arm. Champion is so judging him, but Chris isn't concerned by it. He's just a dog!!!

Victory laughs too, but she looks a little less enthused about it - not because she isn't delighted to go to bed with a Mr. Traeger, but because Champion's still trying to nose up her dress.

"So much more interesting than my Tributes anyway."

He gives Champion a look and the dog finally backs off and away, allowing them to stand together - or Chris and then Victory, anyway.

"While I do lead as interesting a life as one can as a budget auditor... it hardly compares to the life of a Tribute." Chris is thinking hard about this, even as he leads his beautiful companion out of the party, Champion following obediently after in his cutie hobble. "Especially one from another world. I can't even imagine how exciting that must be."

In so many ways, he envies them. He doesn't say that, though; he knows it's a little untoward. He knows dying multiple times must not be great or anything, but they had experienced so much. And yet Victory is calling him interesting? He may tell everyone his job and life is so fascinating but it's mostly a line.

Not that Chris Traeger doesn't love his life (and everything) -- he does. He just wonders if there might be more than this provincial life.

"You," Victory says (practically exhales) to Chris, "are the most beautiful budget auditor I've ever seen, and I would love to have you do my taxes. But right now, you need to take meto another world."

Yes, she picked up all her pick-up lines from bad 80's movies. She slips a hand down from Chris' waist to his rear, giving that firm, runs-however-many-kilometers-a-day tush a friendly squeeze.

It doesn't take much longer for them to leave the party.

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/wrap?

kills u with italics and fails to end things???

and end!