thecapitol | (no subject)

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He felt somewhat better when he realised that he wasn't exactly the only dressed strangely; his outfit seemed infinitely better than the vast majority of everyone in the room, and that at least gave him reason to be a little bit smug. Besides that, he wasn't fighting for his life any more. Even if being eaten had hurt like a bitch.

Draco hadn't met the man who had run into him, hadn't seen him in the Arena, and that was reason enough for him to feel entitled to getting a little pissed. The fact that a drink's been spilled at least half on him was frustrating in and of itself, and the blond whirled, glaring already.

"Do you mind?"

Howard only knows the faces of the other tributes he ran into in the arena and those still on the screen, so the way Draco reacts to him is pretty unexpected to him. Not that Howard has all that much idea what's going on, but everyone here's been otherwise treating him, and the other tributes he's recognized, like some kind of celebrity oddity, someone you sort of want to rub elbows with but not get too close to.

"My bad," he says, not sounding like he's apologizing at all - and if there was any question, a bit of a sneer works up his face. "I'm surprised I missed you, you pretty much glow in the dark."

As long as it wasn't a potential sponsor, Draco had no issue with snapping at someone. Probably not the best idea in the world, where people were all but encouraged to take out the people that annoyed them, but that didn't really stop him. He rolled his eyes, wishing with all his might that his wand would work, rather than just being a useless stick up in his room, so that he might rid himself of the infernal stickiness already coating his arm.

"I'm surprised you're at this party at all - you're a Tribute, correct? Aren't you theoretically supposed to stay alive in these things?" He sneered right back, half-tempted to just knock the remainder of the drink onto Howard. But he was better than that.

Howard's grateful that the lighting hides the way his cheeks are flushing at Draco's comment. It's not as if he's proud of laying there, fever-wracked and miserable, dying on camera as his body cooked away his brain. He still doesn't know who this stranger is, but he starts putting the pieces together, and his conclusion is either sponsor or fellow tribute.

Well, if Draco's a sponsor, Howard's fairly sure he'll get his support when pigs fly, so he might as well not even try.

"You're one to talk. Either you died too or you're here to throw money at the worst TV show ever." He raises an eyebrow. "And if you died, I guess you at least had enough time to squeeze yourself into those pants afterwards."

It feels good to argue about petty things, actually. Much better to be worrying about some snobby British guy getting in his face than where the next meal is coming from, or if the sound in the woods is another tribute coming to kill him.

"I was killed through no fault of my own. I even took out another one before I went out," Draco announced smugly, a wide smirk playing at his lips, visible only when the lights saw fit to dance across his face. He wouldn't even recognise who he was talking to later on, both because he couldn't really catch any distinctive features of the man's face, and because he just didn't care. But Howard had a point - it did feel good to just argue about petty little things like this.

It made him feel considerably more at home, in fact.

"As for the trousers, that was the work of my stylists, though I'll make no secret of the fact that I like it much better topside," he replied, shooting a little glance to one of the nearby Capitol girls, who promptly tittered, flattered by the indirect compliment of her home by a Tribute.

Howard's gut twists a little thinking he's in a conversation with someone who takes killing as a point of pride. Howard's hands aren't clean in the arena, but he was forced. It's different.

"I don't give a shit about your stylists." Although admittedly Howard would do several illegal things to obtain a legitimate shirt. "Or the girls here. Way to have taste."

He chances a glance down at the cocktail glass in his hand, sticky with the spilled liquid. Nowhere to put it now.

Truth be told, he was nothing short of nauseated by the fact. But if it put him in higher standing amongst the other Tributes, meaning they didn't see him as someone who was weak, someone who could be easily taken out, then it was all the better. It was all about reputation, and Draco was the king of cultivating that.

"I wouldn't insult them, if I were you. They're the ones keeping your arse alive when you go back in," Draco drawled none too kindly. "And for the record, I don't give a shit about your opinion, so you'd do well to keep it to yourself. Much like your drinks, though I imagine your inability to manage that is tied to your clearly failed attempt to seem well-adjusted around these parts. Do try harder next time."

Howard snorts. Having not had a sponsor last round, even though he knows how the game is supposed to be played, he doesn't hold them in very high regard. Besides, he has his doubts anyone's going to put money behind the skinny black kid with significant vertical challenges.

That Draco's right just bothers him all the more.

"Yeah, well. Given that we're both at the same party for dead people, I'm going to take your advice with the grain of salt it deserves." He mock salutes Draco. "Laters."

Edited 2012-12-01 06:45 (UTC)

Not if he continued to act like that, they wouldn't. They would support the charming, rich, blond brat who knew how to hold a conversation in his upper-class English accent. A fact Draco would only continue to exploit for as long as he could.

He decided immediately that he didn't really like that bloke, simply based on attitude alone. There was really only room for one snide git, and that was Draco. At Howard's retreating back, he flipped a rather crude gesture, turning to a nearby Avox who had brought a towel so he could clean himself up a little. Convenient, that.