thecapitol | (no subject)

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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.

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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))

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

"I...is it common for them not to?" She asked, her voice raising an octave in panic. Glinda had been doing her best impression of a statue in order not to move enough to ruck the fabric of her short dress or to distress the neon bubbles on the bottom of her skirt. It hadn't done that much to assist her bid of modesty. Glinda didn't like to think they would make her go unclothed.

Then again, these were the same people who murdered ozian beings for sport. They were monstrous enough she supposed.

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 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.

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.

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.

She was nothing short of completely surprised when she was suddenly enveloped in a hug. It was a good distraction from not-really-dancing, though she was fairly certain that it was doing well to get swirls of paint smudged further across her skin, and she managed to twist enough to return the hug a bit awkwardly before figuring out who it was.

A little smile tugged at her mouth, and she tipped her head, looking almost expectantly up at him. "Hi," Ariadne greeted lightly, voice lifted to carry above the music, "You're back."

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?"

He gestured to everyone around them for a moment, glancing back to her. "We're wearing the most clothing I can see. This is the first time I've seen it like this, but I really wouldn't be surprised if it became some sort of sick trend."

Draco wrinkled his nose.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

Edited 2012-11-30 12:23 (UTC)

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.

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.

Darius, who was himself covered in it, smiled politely, meeting his eyes for an illicit second. He didn't think much of the paint either. On him, it was a multitude of overlapping radiation warning symbols in fierce shades of yellow, pink, green, blue and orange. It was already smeared in places, along his upper arms and back, and a clear handprint left by someone else's purple paint on his hip.

Anna snapped out of her distressed state at the sound of gasps and immediately regained her composure, playing it off as her being clumsy and soothing the worried crowd with her natural charm and wit. Good God, she felt sick inside but she was one hell of an actress and the crowd was eating it up. When an Avox came to clean up the mess, she apologized to the poor person without anyone noticing and she took another drink.

It was time to walk away from the television, because she couldn't stand to watch anymore.

"I do hope otherwise." She didn't care to show off her body in that manner after all. Not in public. Not to perfect strangers. "Surely they couldn't be that cruel?" Glinda was entirely aghast.

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