thecapitol | [OPEN] Everybody get some cherry candy yum-yum

Who| Oceana and all y'all
What| it's between arenas, and everyone's favorite trash mermaid is a bit restless.
Where| the Tribute Center during the day, and a swanky bar in the Capitol in the evening.
When| 7/31
Warnings/Notes| Language??

one. daytime

There are definitely other things Oceana needs to be working on right now. After all, the next Arena is never far out of sight, and her tributes will need things to wear. But if she has to spend another minute holed up in her workshop she's pretty sure she's going to flip her lid. So she decides to strut her stuff around the tower instead, making the rounds--peeking in on some friends and making some social calls dressed in a black catsuit, giant rhinestone belt, patent leather pumps and a positively huge blonde wig that doesn't appear to have been brushed, ever.

She also finds herself making a kitchen stop, because a bitch gets hungry and nothing fills her up better than a cup o' noodles and the hottest hot sauce she can find. Don't interrupt her when she's trying to eat, though. She can and will cut a bitch.

two. out on the town

By evening, Oceana's desire to socialize has turned into a desire to socialize while imbibing astonishing amounts of alcohol, so she changes into a sequined minidress and heads out to find somewhere dark and swanky with loud music where she can do so.

"Vodka, straight, in a martini glass," she orders in a bored tone. "Ooh, and could you put like, six olives on there?" The queen smiles, teeth frames by a lush red pout. "A girl's gotta eat, right?" Apparently the bartender isn't into six-foot tall men in dresses and heels, so she turns to the person next to her.

"Wow, no sense of humor at all. Screw that, I'm fucking hilarious."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Eva's not particularly fond of the assistant Stylist, whose hiring she wasn't altogether quietly opposed to. It's not that she has anything against the boy (and it's always 'the boy', because no matter how much the kid pads his chest Eva won't see him any other way), it's that his sense of style and hers are, so to speak, at odds. She sees Oceana as completely misguided in her decorative choices, as dangerously underdeveloped for the difficult task of marketing a District.

She shouldn't, she thinks, have been surprised that the powers that be insisted on the novelty of a rough-around-the-edges drag queen over Eva's concerns about her District's survival. That doesn't mean she isn't resentful.

She's making the effort to get back into Mentoring. The difficulty isn't in showing up and performing her duties, but in being asked to give a damn about what seems like an endless line-up of chum to throw to the sharks. It was easier, she thinks - easier and more painful - when the Tributes were from her own hometown. There was a common ground between her and the teenagers they fed into the machines before the Neverending Quell. She doesn't know how to connect to all these deathless brats who come in and expect to rail against a system they don't understand.

Still, the best way to get to know them is to see them as they live, and as such she's spending time in the District Suite, pouring herself wine and arranging some cheese on a plate in the kitchen. She hears Oceana from all the way down the hallway - those horrible pumps clacking against the hardwood - and she sighs before she looks up.

"You know, if you spent half as much time improving your craft as you did padding your hindquarters, you might actually learn how to properly hem a dress."

Oceana has always been aware of Ms. Salazar's open dislike for her, but unfortunately she's got a mad case of I Don't Give a Fuck, and if she flaunts her foam-rubber curves just a little bit more when the mentor is around, well, who can blame her? It's well worth it to see the woman's hackles go up whenever Oceana is in the vicinity.

She strides into the kitchen serenely, sailing past Eva and going straight for the fridge. "Yeah, and maybe if you took some makeup tips from me you wouldn't look like such a dour cunt all the time." She's been working on her vocabulary. She pulls a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries out of the fridge and puts one in her mouth, right between those plush painted-on lips.

"Besides, I'd like to see your bougie ass do my job."

"Bougie?"

Eva's hand closes tight around the handle of the knife she's using to cut up the cheeses. She takes a deep breath and lets it go, rolling her fingers over it. The Capitol infused the violence into her, injected it into her like a drug, and though she loves the high it gives it it also means she's relinquishing control over herself.

"Did you learn that word from your personal tutor, Oliver? When you were growing up in the Capitol while Panem 'citizens' from District Nine starved and froze? Because I learned all of my words from the papers I managed to steal from the mayor's office. We couldn't afford books and education."

Oceana's too busy licking the chocolate off another strawberry with her head stuck in the fridge to notice any signs of aggression, but she does catch the edge to Eva's voice, so when she proceeds it's a tad less insulting. Just a tad.

"Yeah, yeah, we all know, you grew up dirt-ass poor. Doesn't mean you gotta take it out on everyone else." Just to be safe, the queen crosses with even strides to the other side of the kitchen island with her plate of treats. "Also, don't call me Oliver when I'm in drag, for fuck's sake. It's very invalidating and it makes you sound like you have a stick up your ass--oh, that's right." She gives Eva a winning smile. "How could I be so thoughtless?"

"I'm sorry that I'm not terribly concerned with the social niceties of men dressing up like clowns." She'd say she's sorry for invalidating him, but that would be very, very dishonest. She'd like to deflate him like a balloon, sink claws into him and drag that outsized ego across the floor.

"You may think I'm being hard on you, but I just have standards which I expect the District to meet. I actually take my position seriously." She gestures with a hand at Oceana's outfit. "You look like the only positions you take seriously are sexual."

God. Right now, Oceana's starting to get pretty damn irritated, and the more childish part of her wants to crawl up on the counter and rub her homo germs all over Eva's fucking cheese plate. But that would only be proving her right, so O resists, shifting so her hands are on her hips.

"Okay, what the fuck is your problem? Like, I get it, you hate raging fucking homos like me, but I'm pretty sure it's way more unprofessional for you to be such a cunt to me than it is for me to express myself through fashion as is expected."

Eva looks back down at her cheese plate, as if she can't be bothered to look at Oceana while she talks.

"My problem with you is that your work is unpolished and, what's that word you people use, somewhat 'busted'. And since I care about the image that the District projects, I'm not exactly thrilled with an Assistant Stylist who can't seem to find the bristled end of a brush. That's my problem with you."

She glances up. "That you're a 'raging fucking homo' is secondary. I don't like your aesthetic and I think you're sloppy, that's all."

Oceana's content to listen to Eva's scathing analysis of her work, and as the woman goes on the queen's gaze goes completely dead. She's not going to give this bitch the satisfaction of an emotional outburst. As much as she's got a flair for the dramatic, she knows when it's best to keep quiet and not give her foe the satisfaction. So, while what she really wants is to spit in Eva's spiteful fucking face for insulting a citizen of the Capitol, she merely leans across the counter, close enough that she's pushing into Eva's personal space.

"I'm the Lead Stylist, Eva. And don't fucking forget it."

"How could I forget a tragedy?"

It's not Oceana's wisest decision. Eva's used to her space being invaded by people with the worst sort of intentions, people who have bought her like a plaything, who believe they've earned her company by sending a morsel of food to a District Nine Tribute in the Arena. She's deferential to them. She isn't to Oceana.

She lashes out, fingernails sharp, and tries to slap and slash that painted face.

It's immediately clear to Oceana that she's made the wrong choice. Some people are just not cool with a queen all up in their grill. She lets out a harsh cry and pulls her head back sharply. She'd try to fight back, but she's pretty sure Eva could fuck her up to the bank and back, so instead she spits out, "Bitch." There are angry red marks across her cheek and they fucking hurt, but her pride is wounded worse.

Rashly, the queen dashes her hand across the counter, sending Eva's wineglass flying to shatter on the floor. "Fuck you, Eva," she grits out, making for the door.

At the sound of breaking glass, Eva goes further, grabbing her cheeseplate and flinging it at the retreating queen. It smashes against the wall, missing Oceana by a few inches.

And Eva, too, storms out, furious at Oceana for pressing her boundaries, furious at herself for so easily giving in to the temptation to draw blood, and furious at that damn cheese plate for no longer being able to hold her meal.

[OPEN] Everybody get some cherry candy yum-yum

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