(no subject)

[gamemakers]

WHO| Everyone in the Capitol
WHAT| A must attend events, as the game start to come to their peak.
WHEN| Mid-way through week four
WHERE| A warehouse on the edge of town.
WARNING/NOTES| Alcohol, drugs, possible more. Crazy partying. If your tribute is dead this week, it is up to your discretion whether they are there or not (don't worry if you have not in game killed them, we can turn a blind idea to wiggly time lines by a day or two if you wanna jump in)

As usual, the Capitol was tactful and discreet in their party themes.

Nah. 

An old warehouse had been converted for this shindig, and filled with bright violet lights that made anything pale glow vividly. Attire among the guest had taken advantage of this; pale, neon colored clothes, many made with transparent layers, and dripping with neon paint. When there were clothes at all. More than a few people had opted to just decorate themselves with paint, glowing vividly under the black lights.

The music was loud, often interwoven with air raid sirens, the place well stocked with florid cocktails treats that seemed to smolder, carried around by avoxes in gas masks. And with the right words, it was more than easy to find anything else you might like. 

The couple throwing this party were known for walking just on the edge of acceptable, their parties always pushing taboos. Which made them that much more gossiped about. Still, the faces seen weren't those usually seen rubbing elbows at these things: a younger, wilder crowd.

But the hosts had made sure to drop enough cash in the right hands to be sure, whether it was their scene or not, all their favorite tributes were there.

Large screens showed the games, though often altered in strange, bright glowing colors.  In the center was a large sculpture, filled through with it own bright green iridescent fluid, rolling around in a hypnotic, phosphorescent patterns, turning all those near is a vivid, toxic green. 

Comments

[needsaprince]

Really, she tried just to not watch the Games when she was in the Capitol.

But something about the large, vivid screens held her attention taunt.

And that was how Lottie stood there, gaping up at the screens, watching the closest thing she had to friend here meet horrible fates. Momoko dying like that...it was still too fresh for Lottie. And Don...Oh Don.

Standing there, staring up at the screen, the look of horror and heart break on her face contrasted deeply with the pale pink dress, layers of sheer fluff her stylist had wrapped her in. Besides being a little too short, she had approves of the pink fluffy dress, the bright make up, and the strange shimmery scrunchy things woven into her hair. She had hoped this party might be a little more fun than others, a break after how hard that arena had been.

Nope.

((OOC-Momoko! If you want her here, just let me know! Lottie can totally be watching a recording))

[itsananimalthing]

A face which might not be familiar, but which came attached to a voice that probably was, sidled up silently behind Lottie. She might not know him, but he definitely knew her-- that horror was pretty hard to mistake, too. He'd been watching the games ever since what that talking turtle had said had happened, since he'd come back from dying, so nothing up there surprised him.

It had when he'd first seen it, but not now, certainly not in front of people who could see him.

"Pretty fucked up, huh?" he rumbled in her ear, the easiest way to be heard over the party without shouting.

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

Howard's trying to mostly avoid people - not an easy task in a room full of people raving - and keep to himself. Some people are curious, trying to get in his face about being a mid-arena tribute, but for the most part no one's impressed with teenagers who die of infection, so he's managed to keep most of them away from him.

He tugs and pulls at the too-skimpy jacket his stylist put him in - if they were going for a bare-chested bad-boy image, his body language alone fails it, and he's about forty pounds too small to look intimidating anyway. His pants are tight and paint-splattered in a way that makes him pretty uncomfortable, not from physical irritation but simply because he's a good decade younger than most of the people here.

He knows he should be schmoozing. He knows he'll need sponsors for the next arena. But it's too much too soon, and he hasn't been able to adjust. Given a few more hours he'd be on his game, but he just died.

He's twenty seconds from finding a table to hide under when he comes face-to-face with someone whose presence roots him to the floor. In her pink dress and peppy makeup, she looks much better than the last time he saw her - and he knows that, because the image of her lifeless stare hasn't left his mind for more than a few minutes at a time since then.

He stares a bit too long to pretend he was just passing by, and besides, someone at the party bumps him into her. He tries to make a noise and just looks kind of horrified instead.

[itwasrhetorical]

It had taken a lot for Glinda to accept that this was reality and not just some horribly confusing dream of her own mind's creation. It had taken even more for her to comprehend that a government had arranged for her to be murdered on national televisions and now they expected her to be graceful and friendly to the people who had watched her die and done naught to help.

She hadn't even known what a television was before coming to this accursed place.

The lights and the noise and the shocking nakedness was all too much for her and Glinda, despite her usual centre of attention limelight demands, found herself shrinking into an unpopulated corner and trying to avoid anyone who tried to talk to her. She didn't even like her outfit that she'd had to beg her stylist to make a little more modest. It was much too tight and bright and not nearly demure enough for her likings. It wasn't that they weren't nice enough people. It was just that they were drinking and naked and frankly a little scary.

The witch looked between the horrifying sights around her and the dizzying and horrifying sights on the screens and both felt and looked completely lost.

[mudbloodhater]

Draco had been mingling with a handful of people for a little while now, had partook in a drink or two, and was now almost on the edge of enjoying himself. Almost. He needed some air, though; he needed to get away from the crowds that threatened to crush him if he didn't dance along with them (and he didn't dance, especially not to that sort of music), which meant that he had found himself in Glinda's corner fairly quickly, leaning against the wall to catch his breath.

He glanced over to her, skimmed his eyes over her outfit and the way she looked out of sorts, and frowned a little, "Your stylists too, hm? I'm counting my blessings they gave me clothing."

/backtags into the nether!! i hope you don't mind, but one witch for another? 8)

[overbite]

This was not the first time that Jade had died, but it was the first time she hadn't already known she would be coming back (and also the first time she'd been eaten by a giant turtle monster, which probably counted for something). But corners were no place for her to idle in, even if the world around her still moved faster than she thought and didn't seem like it would even be there if she reached out to touch it, so she wandered the room with her eyes everywhere but the sickening screens or where she was going. She was vacantly staring at a neon splashed pattern to the left of the direction she was actually moving in when she inelegantly walked right into Glinda.

"Oh—oh! Jeez, sorry," she said, and after blinking a few times and readjusting her focus, sounded more sincere when she repeated, "Sorry. That was my mistake, I should have been paying attention!"

[peacekeeperavox]

Dressed in skin-tight shorts, a full body pattern of paint in hazard shapes, and a neon-streaked gas mask that covered his mouth, but not his eyes, Darius was circulating through the party with a bowl full of swirled, glowing paints, available for any guest who wanted to further ornament themselves.

[nofunandgames]

Elias reached over, before tentatively dipping his fingers in a vivid blue, before rubbing it between his for finger and his thumb.

He had lucked out tonight, more escort than attendant, and dressed in simple white.

"I can't imagine spending all night covered in this..." he muttered, before looking up at Darius. "Ah, sorry."

He had never really gotten the knack of not talking to them. Not the way he should.

[mudbloodhater]

His first day out of the Arena again, his first day feeling normal since Merlin knew when, and this is what he goes to.

Great.

Draco was one of those who had actually opted for clothing, not feeling at all comfortable showing off his pasty British body to hundreds of people he didn't know, especially since he had a thought that he might very well glow without those paints (not to mention the fact that he didn't trust them, since they were glowing, and that was perfectly unnatural). He'd managed to avoid the stylists for the most part, getting them to tone it down to just a simple black t-shirt (that he was still ever so awkward in, considering it did a spectacular job of showing off his Dark Mark), and too-tight trousers. He was doing a remarkable job of being able to avoid looking upwards at the screens, especially when some of the other party-goers took the time to rub elbows with him just for being one of the recently-dead Tributes.

Part of him wanted to actually partake in some of the festivities; there was a handful of people who looked like they were having fun, and fun was just what he needed.

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

Howard's in heaven, but he's fairly sure it's someone else's. Some power that be mixed up the memos when he died and switched his version of paradise with that of some gothy club kid.

As for Howard, he mostly has spent the evening quiet and passive, letting his 'stylist' shuttle him around and rush him in to get changed for the event. He still isn't entirely sure what's going on, and mostly just wants to hide in a dark corner until he understands why he felt his heart stop and why he closed his eyes and woke up later healthy again, but maybe all the moving around is keeping him busy. The only time he made any indication he was present to his stylist was when he refused to let himself be set up to wear nothing but pain. He managed to argue his way into a pair of black pants with paint splatters and a jacket that doesn't cover his chest no matter how he tries.

A few people are giving him curious looks, something about him being the first mid-arena tribute in a while, but he's trying to avoid too much company. He tries a cocktail, cringes on the taste of alcohol, and tries to contemplate taking small sips and seeing if that makes it taste potable. Unfortunately, he doesn't get much of a chance to think on that, because he makes a sudden turn and ends up bumping into a taller, paler, less-ridiculously-dressed young man, spilling said drink everywhere.

[makeflowersgrow]

Unfortunately, Eponine was not one of them.

It was him. HIM. The man who had murdered her.
Except - he wasn't a man at all. Well, he was. But he was barely older than she was. Still. Eponine felt a surge of anger clutch at her, and she pushed her way through the crowd. She would recognise that boy anywhere. He was the last thing she had seen before she died.

She pushed her way roughly through the crowd, earning more than a few complaints, and more than a few unwelcome pinches and gropes from random Capitol citizens eager to touch a part of the Games. But she didn't stop until she was behind Draco. She opened her mouth and yelled as loudly as she could,

"YOU!"

[buildingreality]

Ariadne was a little bit more used to the parties that the Capitol liked to throw by now; she found that complaining about them did her no good whatsoever, and merely wasted her breath. In fact, the more she went along with, the more people seemed to like her. And that was very useful right now, especially if she wanted to keep some of her - well, not her, per se - Tributes safe and alive for as long as possible.

So yes, she had gone with the dress code stated for the evening. Yes, she felt incredibly awkward showing off that much of her body. No, she wasn't going to complain.

Ariadne's stylists had done her up that night in a barely there sort of outfit: a bright red shirt with a transparent mesh back and merely a thin strip of fabric to cover up her front, a pair of skin-tight shorts, and more glowing paint than she really knew what to do with. Her hair had been pulled up out of the way into a messy sort of bun, though that hadn't saved it from the streaks of paint glowing through.

She couldn't help but watch the screens a little as she bopped to the music, reminded a little of the parties she'd avoided in her youth. The Games still raged on, and they were all partying. Apparently that was the norm.

[wheresthepie]

The next thing Dean knew, he woke up in his apartment bed, good as new. He knew his head was getting bitten off, and he was sick last time he checked, but now? He felt like a million bucks. It was great.

Getting up, happy that he could actually move, he saw an outfit, or part of one on the edge of his bed. Pink Pants, and a pair of black boots. Looking at his chest in the mirror, he was covered in neon paint; pink, orange, green, and blue. All things he would never normally wear, but there they were, bright colours on his body.

While in the mirror, he checked for scars, anything, and he was practically as good as new. So, he felt it would be probably a good idea to go to the rave.

After getting dressed, and struggling to walk in the boots, he arrived at the party, and headed towards the bar. First thing he needed was a drink, following that, he walked around a bit, looking for familiar faces. The first face he saw was Ariadne. And when he saw her, his face lit up and he ran towards her, pulling her into a hug.

[itswhoyouare]

Well, as usual the Capitol had made it their mission to piss her off as much as possible, and as usual they succeeded. The rave theme was ridiculous even for them and her wardrobe would have been nothing but body pain if her stylist had her way. But, remembering the advice she'd gotten from Shepard, she managed to talk them into putting her into some black criss-crossing fabric that at least resembled some vague type of clothing, paired with booty shorts and tall stiletto heels. Her hair was down for this and the only paint on her body was the number 4 on her chest identifying her district, and two streaks across her cheeks like war paint.

She'd once again opted to hide near the liquor stand, nursing a steamy cocktail when she saw the games on television and her heart stopped. Dean was just standing there, and then some monster bit his head right off and she wanted to throw up. Hundreds of grisly homicides and crime scenes in her career, but this was too much and she felt the glass slip from her hand, shattering as it hit the floor and the color drained from her face.

[the_marshal]

The shattering glass, all those jumping, glittering shards, and the quick chorus of horrified gasps of the closest Citizens was enough to snap Wyatt's drifting mind back to attentin. Blinking and frowning, he looked around-

-and spotted her.

If there was anything that could distract him from his bone-deep weariness, it was the sudden, consuming guilt he felt at coming face-to-face with the woman he'd murdered.

She looked distressed - and given the puddle of glass and booze at her feet, she was the glass-breaker - and normally, his first instinct would be to offer comfort and to discover the source of her upset, but this wasn't just any woman.

He'd wronged her.

So instead, he remained frozen, unable to help, unable to turn-tail and run.

[x5452]

"Now you get it, right?"

Max's voice comes from behind Anna, and should the lady cop turn, she'll see the Victor, standing there holding a pair of drinks that glow brightly in the darkness. She holds one out in offering.

[itsananimalthing]

Riddick was here. He rather obviously did not want to be here, and there was very little shmoozing going on with the other party-goers. In fact, though he was dressed to the nines-- him, in a suit! a weirdly cut suit, sure, in a weird purple-y color that oddly matched his reflective eyes, but still, he'd never thought to see it happen-- he made a forbidding sort of presence. He had his goggles down over his eyes, protecting him from the random flashes of light and unpredictable colors.

Well, not his goggles, but some darkly tinted lenses that his "stylist" had crafted for him when said stylist decided that squinting in pain didn't look very good. They worked, and they stayed on his head well enough, so he put up with them.

But this party? And these petty, disgusting people? These he was putting up with on sufferance. His brooding aura made many of the capitol citizens who moved towards him in his corner change their mind and make haste off somewhere else. Dark guy in the corner? Yep, that's Riddick.

I really want to make a pun about Max's feline DNA and "it's an animal thing".

[x5452]

Predators can smell their own.

Max knew that Riddick was one to watch. In a perverse way, she was kind of sorry he hadn't arrived earlier, because some feral part of her wished he'd been in the arena when she'd had her go. Facing him would have been a challenge.

She loiters near and keeps an eye on him, which is complicated in and of itself. She watches him, knows it's likely he knows she's watching him, aware that he knows that she knows that he knows she's watching him.

[x5452]

Max watches the Games. She watches the Games intently.

Suffice to say she watches it to keep track of certain fellow Tributes; her stylists actually haven't dressed her so much for the nines for this party as put her in strategically slashed and paint splattered casual clothes that show off her body and catch the neon glow in darklight. There are even streaks across her face in a primitive war paint style.

Max takes a moment to consider the others. New faces, and a few look potentially vicious.

[retrieverchef]

Eliot slipped out of the corner, grimacing at the paint smeared across his chest, sides, and back. At least before there had been a semblance of a pattern. Well, there was a pattern to part of it. Not one he was eager to show off, though. He looked up as he walked into someone.

A smile graced his lips as he recognized his former ally. "Max," he greeted. "Should've expected to see ya here."

[the_marshal]

He had just died for Christ's sake. He hadn't even had time to get used to being not dead again. But here he was, painted and primped, and hating everything his life had become.

It wasn't even so much that he was angry (though that was inherently familiar to him as well), he was just... tired. Tired of these people without a care as good people suffered. Tired of the Games, ever present and unescapable even here, outside the arena. Tired of the pain.

He'd even consented to his getup with the barest resistence, merely sighing wearily when his stylist had produced dozens of shining silver buckles and took to gluing them down the length of his, once again, bare back. At least the pants were alright and he didn't have a tail this time.

Off by himself, he stared blankly at nothing in particular and wondered how much longer before he could go back to his room and just stop for a while.

(OOC: Just imagine that picture without all the black pleather and, you know, male.)

[nofunandgames]

"Well, that's a new look."

Glowing drink in hand, Elias gave Wyatt a wry, familiar grin.

"How are you doing? You did...very good."

[makeflowersgrow]

Eponine had found her way here much by accident; she had followed a Capitol couple there as she had tried to pick their pockets, only to be swept inside.

This place never failed to astonish Eponine. The strange technology, the colourful people - they wore less than the real whores in Paris - and the Games. Everywhere, the Games. It made her feel funny to think that these people had seen her die. Probably cheered when she died. They were demons, the lot of them.

But they were rich. Eponine had decided to get as much money as she could, so that when she went home, she could at least live a pleasant life.

Eponine moved among the crowds. She stood out, dressed in a long (opaque) skirt and fitted blouse, but she moved quietly at least, reaching, when she was able, into pockets to relieve these decadent people of their valuables.

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

It takes a pickpocket to see a pickpocket, and while Howard's times of adolescent theft have never been as desperate as Eponine's (his were usually the product of boredom and rebellion), he's got a good eye for the trade. He isn't sure what the girl in the skirt is doing the first time, but he has his suspicions, so after a moment he follows her.

She's almost as skinny as he is, and not all that much older. Obviously, life hasn't been too kind to either of them lately. He's spent a year starving and scrapping and she doesn't seem at all at ease with these rich socialites, so he guesses she's poor. Might be wrong. Who knows. But there's no way she's a sponsor.

"Nice hands," he says as he passes her by. He has no valuables on him, but if he did he'd be keeping a firm grip on them.

[retrieverchef]

Eliot kept a smile on his face but anyone who knew him could tell he was not happy. He'd barely opened his eyes from dying yet again when he'd been dragged off to be shoved into a pair of hideous, black, leather shorts and black bracers. Then they'd painted his chest with some ridiculous neon body paint and driven him to this nuisance of a rave. His stylist hadn't even been involved this time. Apparently, someone had specifically requested the outfit. He hid a grimace. Barely out of the Arena and he was already bought and paid for tonight. Worse, he didn't seem to have an individual client so much as open season.

He walked over to the open bar. Between the altered colors on the TV and neon paint under the black lights, he already felt like he was hallucinating. Everything had an odd tinge of not-quite-right and the siren gave the feeling of being back on a battlefield or a prison in North Korea. He ordered the strongest drink he could think of. There was no way he was getting through the night sober and at least, if he ordered his own drinks, he might be able to avoid getting drugged again.

[itswhoyouare]

While Anna didn't exactly know Eliot aside from nearly running him over at the Halloween ball, she could easily tell he was struggling. But then again, she was a profiler -- reading people was just a part of the job. She had her own ridiculous ensemble of black crisscrossing fabric paired with black booty shorts and stilettos, but her paint exposure was a minimal amount. Just the number 4 across her chest and two swipes across her cheeks like war paint. If her stylist had her way, it'd have been worse.

Like Eliot, she needed booze and wandered off to the open bar to procure herself a drink when she noticed he was having a hard time. She was on the lookout for people spiking her drink and her eyes didn't leave the bartender until the drink was in her hand.

"I'd ask if you're alright, but that's a ridiculous question considering the circumstances." She said slowly, offering a sympathetic half-smile letting on that she knew he was faking it right now. Perhaps she was offering counsel. Maybe he'd even recognize her from the Halloween Ball.

[itsnoteasybeinggreen]

Now this was weirdly more like it, Lorne needed a party. He grabbed one of the vivid drinks and sipped at it gingerly. It was good, needed vodka, but was pretty good. He walked around looking at everyone there trying to look happy. He just needed to lose himself in this, he needed music. Unfortunately the rhythmic drone ans sirens didn't really count in his book.

That thought turned his ginger sipping to chugging, and he grabbed another drink.

[mannersmatter]

She realized how rude it was she was squinting at the man, well...a little too late. It had already passed out of the realm of polite.

His look just didn't match the party. And it took too long for her to realized that was...just how he looked.

"I'm so sorry."

[gruesome]

Some had only arrived back that morning, just in time to be hurriedly handed back to his design team, which is how he came to be here, still half in shock but with his fur all styled into glowing blue and green spikes and whorls. He drifted through the party in a half-blind daze, eating nothing, greeting no one, until he found himself in front of the screens. He could barely see them, but he knew his own voice, recorded only hours earlier.

"No! Mister Grey! Stop!"

He stood there, frozen, all four hands and two feet clenched into fists so tight he didn't realize he was drawing blood.

[greymatter]

It was a while later before Grey arrived, his stylist having decided to mix rave and mad science. His hair was in a purposeful state of disarray, and the splatter of red paint across the pristine, white front of the lab coat glowed brightly in the room's black lights. His left hand was, of course, left gloveless.

The scientist glowers as he moves through the dancing crowd and attempts to find a quieter, stiller corner.