thecapitol | (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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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.