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

[molotov]

Molotov is hardly one to even think about loyalties, what with all her betrayals of the Party's ideals, but it's just sort of a comfort, that someone else at least maybe understands the mindset. A kind of shared background. And really, Molotov is just glad that there's another former Bloc person she doesn't have to kill.

Well, for personal reasons, anyway. No hard feelings over this whole arena deal, she supposes.

She heads for a bench, takes a seat lotus-style and looks at Albert. "What are these districts anyway? They told me I am District 6, what does that mean for me? Do I get some kind of... advantage or something, based on the number?"

[silberfuchs]

He takes a seat beside her, bringing his hand to his chin in thought to her question. "It's how the country of Panem is divided into regions. They numbered them, and each has a specialty. Six, for example, specializes in transportation. All that means for you is who you represent, who to suck up to for sponsor gifts, who lives on your floor, and what themes your stylist chooses for your clothing. It usually has to do with your District, though many of them draw on your place of origin too in, ah... ignorant ways."

There was one instance where his stylist wanted him to wear nothing but a German flag - the black, red, and gold tied as a sort of kilt - with a gigantic swastika painted on his naked chest. He nearly throttled her. He likely would have if she'd had any idea of the meaning behind the symbol and as it is he has to keep reminding himself that she simply doesn't know any better.

"Generally, the lower number the District, the more likely they are to have the money to afford better gifts in the arena, but there are plenty of Capitol fans as well." He doesn't mention his own District as the exception. He's had enough of speaking about the wholesale destruction of District 3, especially considering his suspicions that 3 may not be as destroyed as previously thought.

[molotov]

Occasionally, Molotov blurts out something stupid, just because everything else she's hearing requires processing. This is one of those times.

"I am not dressing up like a fucking train," she says flatly, "or a matryoshka."

There's a pause while she realizes the dumbness of that statement, then sighs. "How do we know who is who? How to suck up? What gifts do they give us? Why do we need to be dressed by someone else? This is the most absurd thing I have ever experienced, and I have been through some ridiculous shit."

That last question, by the way, should definitely go unanswered, given Molotov's demonstrated ability to dress herself.

[silberfuchs]

While the matryoshka comment makes Albert swallow a laugh, the rest of her questions simply receive a shrug. "Habit? They used to send two from each of their own Districts' populations to fight and die. I suspect they needed guidance through the whole process of television appearances, schmoozing with sponsors and the like when many of them I suspect assumed they would not be coming out at all, much less a victor. It takes a great deal of effort to make someone facing death presentable."

The mirth bleeds from his words as he explains, leaving them desolate and bleak. How was it then, when a boy and girl from each District were chosen at random to die for the entertainment of a far off city? He's learned that many of the Districts are poor and training for the Games was prohibited, though it seems 1, 2, and 4 got around that somehow. He remembers what its like to be poor, to have no heat in a cold Berlin winter and wonder where your next meal will come from or when it will be. How can people like that, with little hope of winning against the well trained and well fed, expect to face almost certain death with any grace on their own? It's a special kind of torture that, for a moment, Albert is almost glad they can take from Panem's shoulders, though he'd rather the Capitol cease the Games entirely.

"As for who is how and all that, your mentor is supposed to guide you. And the gifts are things to aid in the arenas. Weapons, survival supplies, medicine. Anything and everything could be a gift."

[molotov]

There's silence between them for a moment, if only because Molotov can't think of anything else to say about this. She just doesn't understand, none of this sounds productive or even useful. She guesses she can see the entertainment value, in sort of an ancient Roman way, but for years on end? Endlessly watching people die?

Doesn't this place have reality TV? Someone needs to create a Real Housewives franchise here.

"Why are they doing this at all?" she finally asks, watching Albert from the corner of her eye as she lights another cigarette. "They clearly started long before people like us ever started showing up."

[silberfuchs]

"Long ago, I'm not sure how long, the Districts rebelled against the Capitol and lost. As punishment, the Games were founded." He's quiet for a moment then shakes his head. "Why they're doing this to us I don't know. It seems to defeat the purpose."

Unless they're having trouble controlling the Districts and needed another scapegoat.

Huh... Come to think of it, that makes sense. A thoughtful look crosses Albert's face.

[molotov]

"I can think of more effective punishments," she mutters, then exhales smoke. "Probably they cannot keep reviving their own people the way they can with us. Or maybe they just cannot spare the bodies, need them for labor. That is what my guess would be."

Of course, Molotov hardly knows anything about Panem's history, so she's just guessing loosely based on general historical concepts.

[silberfuchs]

"Maybe. The Capitol gets their materials imported from each of the Districts. That system can't support itself if there's no one to work." That's really all he knows about Panem's history too. "I'm more interested in how they developed such far reaching technology."

[molotov]

She scoffs, rolling her eye. "That is something I doubt they are willing to share, proud as they seem to be of every little thing from Panem." There's an appropriate amount of sarcasm on that final word. "God forbid someone here be smarter than they are and reverse engineer their technology."

[silberfuchs]

"Exactly." He wants to tell her about the rebellion, about those working towards overthrowing this backwards system, but she's new and untested and he can't be sure he trusts her even though he's a little inclined to it in their shared experience.

"I'd be careful about where you go spouting anti-capitol sentiment though. A little is to be expected and they let slide to a point, but they're not above punishing us for words as well as deeds." He can give her that warning at least, though he suspects he doesn't have to.

[molotov]

"Who says I am anti-Capitol?" she asks, perhaps facetiously, although honestly, she feels more neutral than anything else. "I am saying, in general, the only reason to hold things like that a secret is because you are afraid of what other people can do with it. And even the people from here cannot say that they aren't perhaps a little too patriotic at times."

She shrugs. "Things remain to be seen, I suppose. I've never been afraid of a little punishment when necessary."

[silberfuchs]

He smiles a little, as inappropriate as that may be. "It's good to talk to someone who has a pragmatic view of these things."

There are a few too many idealists and innocents, and of course the ones who fall the other direction, who have broken or are simply unrepentantly on the side of the Capitol.

[molotov]

"Is it that rare of an outlook?" she asks, although she's already spoken with enough people to understand his take on this, unspoken as it is. "It simply seems more like realism than anything else to me. But then again, I have a great deal of experience with governments."

[silberfuchs]

"It seems to be." He shrugs. "I think the opposite might be a coping mechanism for some people, but I can't say that it's useful to be blindly optimistic. I'd prefer to be prepared."

Alright, with the smoke curling around them he can't take it any longer. "Would you mind if I asked for a cigarette?"

[molotov]

Molotov lights a cigarette off her own before handing it to him -- she has more cigarettes than she knows what to do with, like whoever had prepared her bedroom knew what they were getting into. Endless chain-smoking.

"Pragmatism is the key to preparation," she says, "and I am always prepared. Optimism is for idiots. Anyone who holds dreams of some kind of massive reform is a moron. Completely delusional."

[silberfuchs]

God he wishes he could just give in and smoke like a chimney, but he just got his human body back after decades of being a cyborg, he's in no hurry to destroy it on purpose. Just... slowly, cigarette by cigarette. He puts it in his mouth and lights it, inhaling deeply of nicotine and his own hypocrisy.

"I wouldn't say that, it's just those who refuse to see the world as it is in conjunction to their dreams. There's nothing moronic about hoping for a better world, but blinding oneself to what it takes to get there is where the idiots and idealists get stuck.

The Wall did come down, after all, eventually."

[molotov]

"Not thanks to one ragtag group of dreamers," Molotov shoots back. "And even now, the government is hardly any different. It's all the same, under different names and with McDonald's instead of breadlines."

There's a deep inhale before she lets out a long stream of smoke, clearly not approving of any of it. "Besides, it is generations before any overthrown government sees real improvement. Usually the improvement is just having different faults, isn't it? Trade one regime for another, red for blue, gold for silver."

[silberfuchs]

"No, but those who made it happen had to believe it could or else why work towards it? And no offense to Russia, but the change in Germany has been dramatic in getting our own country back and united. I will give you that it was at least a generation." But he won't liken the democratic modern Germany - at least from his time - to the communist Soviet rule that lead him to make a run for the Wall.

[molotov]

"Germany is a unique case," she points out, "and the wall may have fallen, but the Party fell because we ran out of money. The wall was down for two years before the Dissolution, now wasn't it? But..."

She waves her hand dismissively. "It doesn't matter now. All I know is, twenty-odd years later, it's the new boss, same as the old. Literally, actually, in my time." There's a small laugh, an indulgent, sort of knowing laugh. "Putin is... he's something all right."

[silberfuchs]

"Mmm." It's an agreeable sort of noise, but noncommittal. He's practical too, not a dreamer in the sense of actually believing things will fall into place without use of a hammer, but he's willing to envision that better world and work towards it, even if it may only amount to as much as the labor of Sisyphus.

Maybe he just likes to punish himself.

He takes a long drag off the cigarette and holds it in his lungs for a moment before exhaling the smoke into the air above them. "You're KGB?"

He won't be the least bit surprised if she says yes and a no will likely having him thinking she's lying about it. She reeks of black ops in the way she carries herself.

[molotov]

"Not anymore," Molotov answers, and she doesn't care if he believes her. "Not since the Dissolution. It was fun while it lasted, though, when I was training with my father."

She doesn't bother mentioning that he was killed during her very first assignment. It's not worth feeling anything over something that happened more than twenty years ago.

[silberfuchs]

Her use of the word 'fun' in that context tells him a little more about her, but it seems plausible enough that she would stop after that date. "You've kept in practice. No one can go at the dummies like you were with rusty skills I should think."

It doesn't have lie written all over it, but she's holding back. Not that he has a right to pry, not without giving a little in return anyway. He takes another puff from the cigarette and leans back a bit. "I was GSG-9 after the Dissolution."

[molotov]

It should really be her father that speaks volumes -- she was raised this way, practically fed nothing but propaganda until it was all over. "Of course, it would be a waste to let so many years of training fall by the wayside," she agrees, rolling her shoulder. "Besides, what else am I going to do? Go work in a bank? Please."

She nods, gives him an appraising look. "I have known a few others. Good group."

[silberfuchs]

He snorts, unable to picture Molotov as a teller.

"It was, yes, or the near thirty years I was a member. Mostly behind a desk or training others, sadly, but I was deemed something of an antique for field work. Still, I would get missions off the books." Though he doesn't explain that those missions would be from a secondary team of veritable super hero cyborgs and not the German government, nor that his 'antique' status came from his early cold-war era integrated weapons systems (that he's now rid of) and not his age (though at around one hundred years old now, one could say that too, despite his not looking out of his 30's).

[molotov]

Well, he can hardly expect to say that and not have Molotov catch it, now can he?

"Antique?" she asks casually, glancing at him. "They might say fieldwork is for the young, but you are hardly retirement age." Her tone is light and conversational, but she looks... interested in what he may possibly mean by that word.