Come and keep your comrade warm

[molotov]

Who| Molotov Cocktease and open! Plus a closed prompt for D6 suite
What| Um... "adjusting" to being in the Capitol
Where| D6 suite, training room, then the Central Commons bar
When| Early morning through pretty much the whole day
Warnings/Notes| Endless smoking, senseless violence to training dummies, irritable Russian woman

i. District 6 suite, sunrise
Unlike some of the other tributes, Molotov stayed in her room for the entirety of her first night, the door locked tight. Some might have thought she was sleeping or crying or whatever else it was people did when they were brought here, but instead, she was listening.

Listening at the door. At the walls. Any passing sound from her... suitemates was noted, analyzed, stored away and categorized in the way only a spy really knows how to do.

It isn't until light breaks that Molotov cracks open her door and steps out -- hearing that there was a training room was too much for her to resist. Her footsteps are soft, and she's hoping there's no one in the common area, no one to talk to or deal with or see her.

ii. Training room, early morning
Having made it all the way down to the right sublevel, Molotov finally breathes out a sigh of relief at seeing all the weapons. She knows she shouldn't feel that way, should be maintaining her indignation, but really, this is the only normal part of this whole experience so far.

She practices at home. She can practice here, even if there don't seem to be any guns to play with.

Molotov wastes some time trying to blockade the door out of sheer pettiness, only to have an Avox continually and respectfully remove everything that she places in front of the door.

She gives up on that fairly quickly.

Nearly every weapon she can get her hands on seems to be something she's delighted to use, demolishing dummy after dummy. She runs across the room, turning handsprings and flips as if she really has to chase down an inanimate object.

Eventually, Molotov starts feeling her fury again, and that why you might (if you get there late enough in the morning) find a sweaty redhead clinging to a training dummy, legs wrapped around it, stabbing it over and over and over in the head as she grunts with anger.

Oh, and one more thing. Molotov's taste in clothing is, well, unconventional, and she's managed to modify her workout clothing to reflect it. Basically you're seeing a lot of... well.

iii. Central Commons bar
One thing Molotov has never really cared about is proper drinking etiquette. She doesn't think much of starting her day with a healthy glass of vodka and an orange. That's just a deconstructed screwdriver, right?

So it's a bit surprising to her that she's made it to nearly noon without the help of a little liquid stabilizer. After all, she's pretty sure that the situation warrants it. Who stays sober after being kidnapped to be a human sacrifice?

Even though Molotov did have the courtesy to make a trip upstairs and change, it's still not the kind of thing most people consider to be normal clothing. It probably was before Molotov got her hands on a needle and thread.

She's going to have to talk to the stylist or whatever about all these funeral shrouds in her closet, what with their sleeves and pants legs and cloth over the torso and back.

Comments

ii

[worldsaway]

There's a bothersome sort of restlessness that settles over Thor near constantly these days. People are suffering, people are in danger and there's little more he can do but observe and offer his company as a comfort. It does little to sate his guilt, but he knows the ramifications of acting out would have far worse results.

As such, there's rarely a day where he's not in the training center, though he arrives a little later than Molotov. He'd started his morning with a long walk around the city and entered the training room to finish it with some weight training. It's not as if he isn't expecting company but.. a woman straddling a training dummy with such ferocity is certainly an interesting way to start the day.

"I think it's fair to say you've won." He observes, dressed more appropriately in sweatpants and a nicely fitted shirt. He offers her a friendly grin, not hiding the fact that he's amused.

[molotov]

Molotov is so far lost in her own rage at this ridiculous place and its game and the fact that she's expected to share a bathroom that she only barely manages to restrain from leaping from her dummy to this intruder and begin stabbing him in the face instead.

When her head whips around to see who it is, there's definite fight-or-flight present in her face, the way her pupil is dilated, her muscles all tense. It takes a beat before she breathes out and gracefully steps down from her mount, heels clicking on the floor, and carefully wedges her knife into the small ball of stuffing left of the training dummy's head.

She's breathing a bit too hard to be smiling, so she places her hands on her hips and just looks at him. "I heard we are supposed to hear cheering when that happens here."

[worldsaway]

For a moment Thor is tensing in return, but he relaxes his stance. He hasn't seen her around before, so he can only assume she's new. He was in a similar, frantic state upon his arrival so he can sympathise. His smile remains fixed on his face as she approaches and he gives her an appraising look.

"Such festivities are reserved for when we are locked within an Arena." And unable to participate, of course. "Though I imagine it will garner the attention of fellow tributes." He gives her a sly look. "Are you a recent addition?"

[silberfuchs]

For however much time he spends with his fiance, the early morning is Albert's to train and keep in shape. Lately it's more habit than anything, a chance to let his mind shut off and focus on his body instead. It's only a little past seven when he enters the training center clad in too short running shorts and an entirely too tight t-shirt (his stylist keeps insisting on tight clothing. He's won nearly every other battle with her, this he has to endure) but comes up short when he sees someone else is there.

Violently and repeatedly stabbing a dummy.

Half naked.

Well then.

It's not the strangest thing he's seen, nor the most violent, but he does make sure to stand far enough away that he can seize her up as he gets her attention. That amount of displayed rage can turn on a dime and he doesn't want to end up the target without some warning.

"I think it's dead." A little joke to try and show he means no harm. Better than startling her by going about his business and potentially getting a knife in the neck like their dummy friend there. This woman looks somewhat unstable...

[molotov]

All the proper parts are covered! And she's certainly wearing more than if she were going to the pool, so Molotov can't really see what could be the problem with most of her ass hanging out. If you've got it, flaunt it, that's her approach.

By this time, the dummy's fallen to the ground, Molotov attached to it the whole way down, still stabbing, and at the voice, she sits up properly astride it to wipe at her forehead, sighing.

"I did not hear any cannons," she answers, calmly for what's just been going on, then stands up, kicking at the dummy with the toe of her boot. "There are plenty to replace it anyway, right?"

[silberfuchs]

"That's true." It's a little perturbing that she's so blasé about death in the arena, though it would be a little hypocritical of him to point it out. She has the same feel of someone in his line of work, an aura of having seen things no regular person should see and filing them away, there's just a difference in her nonchalance comparatively speaking.

"You're new, I take it? I haven't seen you before."

i

[capitolprivilege]

Unluckily for her, Stephen had been out most of the night. When she left her room he was still dressed from the night before, staring at a tablet bleary-eyed.

It wasn't that he had wanted to party. Ever since the news about District 3's destruction at Capitol hands had broken, Stephen hasn't really been in the mood. But if he suddenly stopped doing it, it might look suspicious, and he has social relationships to maintain.

So here he is, disheveled, with a hangover creeping up on him, when he sees one of the new Tributes slipping into the common area. She looks lithe, and terrifying, and very irritable.

Oh, no.

"Hello," he says. "You're one of the new Tributes for Six, right? Is it Belle, Skye, Astrid, or Molotov?" Stephen only throws in the last name for the sake of completeness; Molotov doesn't sound like a woman's name.

[molotov]

When she sees him, Molotov freezes, all her muscles taut like she might actually pounce from pure tension. Within seconds, though, she manages to forcibly relax herself, eye darting as she takes in other possible exit routes.

"Yes, I am," she answers, voice strong despite everything else. Her accent is heavy, thick on her voice from not speaking at all the previous evening. "Molotov Cocktease. I do not know those others, sorry."

[capitolprivilege]

--is that her real name? he wonders, but doesn't ask. Stephen's survival instincts are telling him that now is not the time to bring that up. He sets the tablet by his side and puts his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

"It's okay," he tells her. "I'm not another Tribute. I'm just an Escort. Stephen Reagan," he says by way of introduction. "It's my job to help you."

Ordinarily, Stephen would stand up, but sudden moves seem like a bad idea.

iii

[metalicarus]

Jet kept his visits to the bar limited since his father's untimely arrival in the capitol, he'd been so freaked out by his old man's arrival and ending up like him, that drinking seemed like the worst choice he could make.


But there were days when the glitter and glam of the capitol and how it ruled their lives became too much. Coupled with the nightmares that were just starting to fade from this last arena, the blond found himself settling into a spot at the commons bar. At least he wouldn't have far to go if he drank too much.

He didn't really pay attention to anyone else around him until the bartender had placed his drink in front of him. That was when he noticed the gorgeous, scantly clad, red-headed woman only a few seats down from him. He didn't think he'd seen her before, maybe she was new. Granted, he hardly knew everyone, but a woman like that with something as identifying as an eye-patch probably wouldn't escape his notice.

"You're new, aren't you?" It wasn't the most socially accepted way of greeting someone, in fact it could almost be rude except his tone wasn't, but he didn't try to make it sound any better.

[molotov]

Two drinks deep, neither of them recognizable or strong enough for her tastes, Molotov just glances over at the newcomer, ashing her cigarette into the bowl of peanuts off to her side. She's not entirely sure if this is a no-smoking area, but no one seems particularly eager to stop her, and anyway, who even eats those disgusting, filthy peanuts? No one, no one eats them.

She snorts and breathes out smoke, polishing off her drink before answering. "Everyone seems to be asking that today. Must be something in the drinks." Peering into the bottom of her glass, she tries it out. "'Are you new?' Hm, nope. Maybe it's the food. I have not eaten today, so I would not know."

[metalicarus]

"It's the eyepatch." Blunt and tactless were the earmarks of his younger self, but he didn't feel like trying right now, so he just let his mouth run instead of checking it with his head.

"It's kind've identifiable, so you stand out. The clothing's pretty eye-catching too, but I'm gonna guess that has more to do with your stylist."

Jet himself was dressed up in some kind of ensemble that could only be defined as tight. His shirt was form-fitting and the neck cut low and his pants hugged everywhere his stylist had wanted it to hug, but it wasn't bird-themed, plane-themed or rock-themed, so he hadn't fought her on it. The pants were blissfully black and the shirt a bright sapphire that 'brought out his eyes.' It could be worse. Needless to say, the New Yorker's opinion of the clothing options was low at best.

2

[soldieronwards]

Using the training room feels too much like giving the Gamemakers what they want for Bucky. But it's almost second nature to him to train, to keep his considerable skills sharp, and besides, it's a good enough place to keep an eye on his fellow Tributes. So he's down there shortly after waking up this morning, checking out the weapons and the equipment as usual--

--and pausing at the sight of a newcomer in very little clothing near the weapons as well. Casually, he moves closer.

"Don't expect to get this kind of selection in the Arena itself."

[molotov]

That's really Molotov's approach to it. A sense of familiarity -- you can't sleep in your own bed, can't wear your own clothes, you have to share a bathroom despite being a multi-millionaire in your late thirties, but by god, you can keep the part of your day where you work out and keep yourself in check.

Molotov's grip on the handle of an axe automatically tightens at the sound of another voice, and her red ponytail whips to the side as she looks back at him.

"I would only expect it if I needed it." Her gaze on him is cautious, and she certainly doesn't appear to be letting go of that axe.

[soldieronwards]

On the other hand, he doesn't seem concerned. He picks up a nearby knife, studies it for a moment, then puts it back before glancing at her again. "Really? That's good to her. The people here will love watching you fight with a rusted railroad spike."

He lifts his brows. "It's all about entertainment."

Something about that red hair and her attitude bothers him. He keeps it under wraps.

2

[revvinguptheharley]

"Nice eyepatch!"

The compliment came from a bubbly looking blond woman who was currently balancing on a large rubber ball. She was standing on one foot with the other bent up behind her and she looked surprisingly comfortable given her perilous perch.

She too had passed on the traditional training center jump suit and was wearing some scandalously cut stretchy black shorts which clung to her curved rump as well as a loose white tank top.

that username is obscene in its proper context

[molotov]

Molotov's first thought is that balancing on a ball is a useless skill in this room. She can hardly imagine any scenario where ball-balancing could save one's life, at least not in the arena.

She stops attacking dummies to watch this overly perky girl, though there's some sneer as she approaches a set of uneven bars. "Thanks. I had my eye ripped out of my head just because I liked the look," she snipes, then leaps up onto the bars and starts swinging -- back and forth, back and forth, over for a handstand. Hand over hand, turn and swing back down, leap to the next bar.

It's soothing, gymnastics. Her first love, long before murder ever entered the picture.

ii.

[aintyourdad]

For whatever reason - maybe boredom, maybe a need to get away from his suitemates, whatever, when Joel realizes that there has been an influx of newcomers, he makes a point of heading down to the training room after his morning coffee to check things out - see who's here, if there are any new faces, what they might be up to.

He comes here pretty often, though he rarely actually makes use of the weapons unless he's helping someone else learn, but he watches a lot. Today, he watches a woman angrily stabbing away at a dummy.

"Not great technique, maybe, but he'd be just as dead, anyway," he comments mildly after a while.

[molotov]

Things that tend to be poor ideas: surprising Molotov when she's in a violent frenzy.

She actually backflips off the dummy when Joel speaks, landing on her feet, facing him, knife still in hand. She's breathing hard, and there's a visible moment before she flickers back out of blind rage and into reality, where stabbing a dummy doesn't accomplish anything besides a lot of mess.

Her demeanor changes drastically, and she lets out a slightly sheepish chuckle before scratching the back of her head and dumping her knife onto the weapons table.

"You missed the technique lesson, this is the session on destruction," she says, hands on her hips, her skin shiny enough with perspiration to indicate that she's been at this for quite some time. Of course, the amount of stuffing on the floor could also testify, so.

[googledox]

"Not that it was ever alive but you've already hit it multiple times in every possible vital point," came an arch voice from off to the side. "I'm almost positively certain it's deceased."

Over to the side, there was a man with green skin engaging in his own daily workout, dressed a touch more conservatively in black spandex workout shorts and a tank top. The green skin was...probably actually not that unusual in her line of work.

Of slightly greater interest, he was currently in one of the Training Center's odd training contraptions, a small cubical frame filled with shifting rotating arms and columns inside whose aim was to hit the man and knock him off his feet. Avoiding them took tremendously fast reflexes, agility, and acrobatic skill, as well as a very pronounced spatial and situational awareness. At the quick speed it was currently operating at, the obstacles were difficult if not impossible to avoid. Perhaps someone could manage it they were truly focused and determined.

What was odd was that he wasn't completely focused on it. He was focused on the conversation with her and yet still dodging the spinning arms and rotating floor blocks with ease.

Doing a back-bend over one of the lower arms, he said, "Isn't it far more economical to dispatch your enemy and not expend extra energy on unnecessary blows?"

[molotov]

Honestly, as far as Molotov is concerned, green skin and a smug tone like that just means one thing: supervillain. And that's annoying, because it means the Guild must have some kind of presence, because only idiots are affiliated with the lesser villain organizations, and this guy doesn't appear to be a complete loser, even if only because he knows how to turn those machines on, something Molotov had been unable to figure out during her vicious jabbing at the screens of the foreign machines.

She's been sticking mostly to weapons and the more conventional workout fixtures.

Molotov turns her head from the man, rolling her eye before plastering a fake smile to her face and looking back at him. "Well, sometimes you have extra energy to let out. He's fine, tell the Sovereign that. Thanks!"

'He' most certainly was not fine, but she didn't need Guild spies knowing that she was taking OSI cash and had abandoned him to their clutches. It wasn't Molotov's fault that he was boring.

[lifewithnoconsequence]

If you want information and answers, then the most logical thing to do would be to go to where the people are, and the obvious for where the people are, is the bar...and the whore houses. Krebs, however, did not wish to go find the later, no, not at all. Even with his shattered view on morals, there were still lines that he did not wish to cross. The memories of the many boys who came back from the comfort zones, complaining of blotches of rashes that appeared in their nether regions still brought a small smile to his face.

No, he would not go to such places. Instead he decided to visit the bar. He wouldn't drink, Harold did not like the way it slowed him down and made the past return. He did begin to drink in the sight of a red head wearing a rather...revealing dress.

He had to keep in mind that the people here were far different from the people back home. But hot damn, not even the flappers from back home would dress like that. Not always anyway. He made a rather obvious attempt not to stare, but stare he did. Nineteen-twenties America never exactly allowed for many women to show off so much skin, you see.

[molotov]

It was doubtful that his escort would allow him into a whorehouse, anyway -- whores could always be brought into the suite, and it's not as much of a PR disaster. But then again, it could always be played up into the whole "bad boy" angle, trite as it might be.

Either way, the bar was where indeed where Molotov and all her skin were located, and it only takes a moment for her to feel the stare, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling up unpleasantly from the sensation of being watched. She finishes her drink, the third she's had of something blue and mysteriously sparkly (but pretty delicious, honestly), then turns around on her barstool, leaning back with her elbows on the bar as she scans for the peeping Tom.

He isn't hard to spot, but then again, it's hard to hide from Molotov's well-trained eye. Singular. Because she definitely has an eyepatch over the other socket.

The upper of her crossed legs swinging idly, light glinting on all her chintzy-looking gold jewelry, she tilts her head to the side, openly returning his stare now. Hers is perhaps more challenging than admiring, but what else is to be expect when one feels ogled in an uninviting way?

2

[orestes]

A year and change in the Capitol had effected him more than he really wanted to consider. He barely blinked when the woman entered the training area, interrupting his morning routine. Her manner of dress would have been shocking for him, even a year ago, but now it seemed just another gimmick. Perhaps she was hoping to woo the sponsors with her body, enough people played that angle to make it a viable option.

What caught Enjolras' attention wasn't her obvious skill, enough people here were skilled or becoming so. No, rather it was the back and forth with the Avoxes. After her third attempt to sequester herself away from the rest of the Tributes, he blinked, collected his preferred throwing knife from the target in the corner, draped a crimson hand towel around his shoulders, and made his way over to her.

"The Avoxes are trained to perform certain tasks." Somethings haven't changed enough in the year and change he'd spent in Panem. English still sounded foreign to him and his words are thickly accented even now. "They have no control over their actions. It is an unkindness to make their work harder for them."

[molotov]

At the current moment, Molotov is so distracted with trying to pull a dummy back from the Avox that this newcomer manages to surprise her. She's tense when she turns to look at him, eye wide and maybe a little dangerous, ready to fight if she needs to.

Although she seems to relax, she's really just as stiff as ever, though she does reform her stance to a simple standing one. The Avox carts away the training dummy, utilizing the welcome distraction.

"They told me that they are just supposed to obey," Molotov says, her own accent as thick on her English as it's ever been.