Molotov Cocktease (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
molotov) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2014-07-31 09:06 am
molotov) wrote in thecapitol2014-07-31 09:06 am
Come and keep your comrade warm
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.
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.
no subject
There's a brief pause, filled with the fact that this was perhaps not the twist she had expected the story to take. The clown twist. "Of course it is, exactly like a movie."
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"I shouldn't complain though. Apparently in another universe they read comic books about me! Now that I'd like to see! Big beautiful full color illustrations of my best moments! When I'm at my most sultry! When I'm hillarious!"
Because Harley Quinn had discovered she was fictional in another universe and thought it was a hoot.
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"It's a multiverse thing, did they teach you that in sexy Russian death dealer school?"
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"Can't say that they did."
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"Oh it's great! Real nerdy stuff but not that hard to understand really. So let's take your world kay? Picture it clearly in your head. Now imagine a moment in your life where you made a choice. Could be a big choice could be a small choice. Just a choice. Got it in your head?"
She paused for a moment and then pressed forward, eyes alight with pleasure at sharing her vast knowledge of useless things.
"So in your world you already know what happened when you made that choice. But somewhere out there is another world where you made the other choice and things may have turned out differently! And that's basically the idea. A billion worlds out there like ours where something different happened that changed things in either big or small ways. Billions of worlds where there may or may not be a Molly like you depending on how things progressed. Heck there could be someone like you in my world and I just never met em! And vice versa!"
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Isn't it enough that she's been sucked into one of these worlds, apparently?
"Well, I hope I never meet them."
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"Still that's not here nor there...or maybe it is? Either way we're here and this is what's going on now."
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She leans back against the balance beam and shrugs. "Aren't we so lucky for it, too."
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"The only thing I need less is a hole in my head."
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"You get used to it, I just hope you're as good holding your temper as you look because I'm almost shameless and even I get embarrassed and frustrated with it sometimes."
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"What is it like?"
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"OK, did you ever have that moment in high school where you didn't realize you'd done something embarrassing? And everyone's stealing peeks at you or whispering softly like you're not even there? It's alot more familiar once you start to develop curves and every hormonal guy in a five yard radius is trying to see through your clothes on pure willpower."
She wiggled her eyebrows despite herself.
"Anyway, it's a bit like that. You never really know how much any particular person here knows about you because you're on TV. There are people who are paid buttloads of money to watch us and speculate on us. To talk about what we're thinking and to predict what we'll do next. There are people out there even now hunched over a computer writing sappy, sexy or just plain gross romance stories about me and other tributes who I may have never even met! And they'll post those stories online and other fans will read them and praise them and agree that "Like, Harley is totally in love with Wesker! Look at the way she smiled at him before he snapped her neck! That's love!"
She pulled a disgusted face. "For the record, if you ever meet a mentor named Wesker? He's a creep. Watch yourself."
Returning to the subject at hand.
"So there's who they think you are, who they're told you are, and all of that? It's way more important that who you are or who you want them to think you are. Because I spent months making friends in the city and all it took was for a special cuff on my arm for them to turn on me like a daytime talk show audience."
Despite her cheery attitude she seemed decidedly bitter about this point.
"Fame is fickle. Fame is fleeting. And worst of all? Fame is one of the only weapons you have when you're in the arena."
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The answer was no, not as long as they were shelling out their money to send her gifts.
"Thank you," she finally answers, nodding at Harley, and doesn't say anything more.
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After a moment her head popped back in to call back to Molotov.
"Can ya do me a favor? Just say "Moose and Squirrel." Just once please? Pretty please?"
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"Moose and squirrel?"
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Molotov had made a very strange friend today.