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Who| ALL Y'ALL it's a ho down
What| A catch-all reaction log for the plot developments. Saves you from making 5 logs each tbh.
Where| All around the place
When| During and post lock down, 3am~ sunday onward
WARNINGS| Panicking, talk of murder and violence. Singing the songs of panem.

When things like THIS and THIS are going down it's probably a good time to touch base with one another. Face caressing, crying and meaningful stares abound as the Tributes and Staff drag their knuckles hopelessly in an effort to figure out what the fresh hell is going on.

Make your own prompts, feel free to make them closed to specific people.

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The bland look he gives her at the reference is a solid indicator that he has no idea who she means, but he can easily assume it's a vapid entertainer of some sort. "You keep takin' the little shit I say and running with it, girl. It's not entirely dependent on one thing or the other, it all plays in to each other." He rolls his eyes. "But you know what? Most Capitol bitches don't know how scoring works, let alone you offworlders. Mercy."

He isn't offended by Molotov's disinterest, he grins wider. "He's abs attached to a weirdly endearing personality. More for me, though." He chuckles, but he's got to raise a brow. "I guess I've seen weirder schticks. If he's hot enough I'd probably get on deck with it."

There's a momentarily serious look on his face, but he tries his best to keep it bland. "Sexy can get dangerous for tributes. Crazy means they aren't looking to get you back to their place, that's for sure."

She can't help but laugh. "I couldn't give a shit, honestly. All I know is that I scored a twelve and it's up to everyone else to keep up or die. I've been here a week and I am already getting fan mail. Someone painted me a portrait! I've only done two photoshoots, christ in hell."

(She hung the portrait above her bed, it was surprisingly good.)

"Shoreleave is... well, he isn't for me, but then we were enemies for twenty years, so I suppose that is to be expected." She shrugs. "Everyone else seems to love him. 6'6", mustache, and I am pretty sure he only leaves the gym when he needs to make a joke. He is my ex's best friend, and you are definitely several large steps up from what he's currently screwing, so."

Molotov twists her mouth. "Good thing I'm a little bit of both, then."

"That's the spirit. Think too hard about it and you'll throw off your groove." He actually looks genuinely impressed. "You're in six, right? Fuck that. Stephen is a lucky asshole." He huffs out a loud sigh, waving his cigarette clutching hand dramatically.

"If you can't get your ass into eight you should come visit me. I'll make you a dress and you can do some free advertising for me." He doesn't hide the fact that he blatantly wants to use her popularity. She's showboating about it so it's perfectly acceptable. Right? Right. Now he'll thoughtfully consider the guy she's describing, quirking a brow as he does. "When or if he shows up, put in a good word for me. Can't say he'll be able to keep his dumb hat, though."

"Show me your work and maybe you can make all my dresses," she snorts. "I like Stephen well enough, but our stylists are impossible. I feel like I am sixteen again, all the alterations I have to make to my own outfits. It was one thing when no one had the time or money to make my clothes right, but now? Hah, pisses me off to do other peoples' jobs. It should be an even trade -- I'll look good, pull sponsors, and kill everyone, and they'll make my clothes, you know? But I am always pulling cutting things shorter, adding cutouts, extraneous shit off shorts. Who can see my ass with a poofy skirt... tail... thing on the back of them?"

Molotov looks over again. "Sell the schtick and I am all yours. I will get your name printed in every magazine and your ass in the hands of every statuesque gay man I know."

"Stephen is a sweetheart. A dense fucker, but he's got a heart." He can't help a little fondness slipping into his tone, that is until he starts sneering at the way she trash talks his colleagues. "Those fuckers have been phoning it in since the first quell. Pretty sure they forget they have a job until someone mentions the paycheck." Look at that obvious disdain in his voice and face before he lights up again.

"If you want to take a look you can traipse into Eight's suites, I doubt anyone is gonna stop you. 'cept maybe Joel." And the way he shrugs reads who cares. "Can't argue with benefits like that. It'll be a done deal, kitten."

"He has got connections," Molotov corrects, tapping her finger on the bar, "but he's sweet enough. Terribly eager to please." She does actually like Stephen a great deal, this is just how she compliments people. Because she's a bitch.

She thinks for a moment -- Joel, Joel, which one is that? Watching past arena footage has given her more names than she can immediately put to faces, particularly with a belly full of vodka. But then it clicks, and the smile that spreads across her face is downright nasty. "Oh. Well, good thing I owe him a black eye, isn't it? I will come see you in a few days, just put two or three things together for me. Nothing fancy, just crap I can wear for a casual interview or whatever."

Molotov really looks into the idea of punching Joel.

"Of course he has connections, his family is ancient and loaded" Trey shrugs. "It always says something about a guy who takes a job like this when he's old-money enough to party forever." That's as good as a compliment to Jolie, at least. Stephen is one of the few people Jolie is openly complimentary of.

A brow quirks at that dangerous smile, but Jolie isn't surprised. She'd worked a lot with Joel and while he could be a sweetheart at the strangest times, he was mostly a fucking asshole.

"Yeah, what'd he say to get in your grill?" Some gossip could be so good right now.

"All that matters to me is that he keeps me in the right eyes," she shoots back. "I don't care if his connections come from family or from dealing coke, I just care that he does his job and does it well."

She groans to even think of Joel, and pounds back the rest of her drink. "He can't let things go. Doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut. And he has an attitude when he doesn't have a leg to stand on. And he is a fucking child, making fun of peoples' names."

The people in question, of course, being Molotov herself. She doesn't really care about anyone else.

"Of course he will, he does his job. That's more than I can say for a lot of the assholes on payroll around here." Clearly he thinks very highly of all his other co-workers. There's very little distinction between people he admires and people he loathes when it comes to work.

Trey can't even hide the amusement at Molotov's annoyance, because it's everything he's experienced before. Difference is that he will continue to deal with it while Molotov makes her plans.

"I've worked for that guy almost six months now, I can promise you he's like that all the damn time. Can you imagine having to dress him?" He pulls a face and shakes his head.

"Did I ever get your name?"

She lets her leg swing idly, and shakes her head. "Theme him like a princess or something," she jokes, snorting. "Gender bending fun for the whole family. The wooly mountain man with a feminine twist to him!"

The alcohol might be having a bit of an effect, after a few glasses.

"Molotov Cocktease," she says, offering a hand for a shake.

Trey lets out an uninhibited snort at the idea of Joel in a princess dress, but he shakes his head. "As a professional man in a dress, I'd never insult my culture by trying to shoe horn him into it. Besides, he'd complain and I'd never hear the end of it."

He puppets the gesture of someone yammering with his hand before he drops it down to give her hand an enthusiastic shake. "A man who can't take a name like that seriously is a man who doesn't get out much." He follows that up with a wink. "Trey Pierce. Everyone'll call me Jolie, though."

"Is there anything he won't complain about, though?" she reasons, but nods to the rest of it. She'd have to assassinate Joel if he ever wanted to be a mercenary, the shame he'd bring on her profession. With his beard.

Molotov is aware of drag queens, but only to an extent (she just doesn't seem to cross paths with them... ever. It's actually kind of a surprise, given the bullshit rest of her world), so she cocks her head after the handshake. "Jolie?"

"A couple of things." Not that he doesn't trust Molotov but.. Okay well, he doesn't he just met her. Joel is an ass, but Trey won't bring Ellie into the grudge match.

A grin starts to form at her question, because he does so like to flatter himself. "I'm a queen, baby. I'm all about the alter-ego. Jolie is what they call me when I'm under fifty pounds of hair and make up."

It would probably shock Trey to learn just how little Molotov would care about some kid, but it's also probably just a good idea in general to not trust her too much. She's kind of totally insane, a well-hidden kind of insane, so one never knows what might happen.

"I feel like I've been cheated," she says, smiling, and gestures at him. "I finally sit and have a drink with a drag queen, and this is what I get? Like going to The Cheesecake Factory and all they have is salad."

"These are trying times, girl. I can't be getting dolled up without breakfast." He nods at the now empty cocktail glass in front of him. "I guess if it means that much to you we'll have to do real drinks sometime. Like maybe when we're not in the wake of despair running on three hours sleep- but then it'd never happen." He shrugs. "I'd let you take me out any time, though."

"If you need breakfast, it's only proof that you did not get enough dinner in your system," Molotov tells him with a laugh, "but usually there's more vitamin C to be found in a screwdriver or a mimosa, so you get a pass. Tomorrow night? Somewhere fun, I don't know anything outside of the tower, really."

"Of course I fucking didn't, woman. Nobody really eats around here." He'd use the dragnet as an excuse, but he was already in bed when they burst in. Alas. "So soon? You must really like me- don't even have to wait for you to call me back." He winks. "Asking a drag queen to show you around? Dangerous, it's a date." He doesn't care how presumptuous that sounds.

"Your people must be less advanced than mine if you can't live off vodka and granola bars." Because Molotov doesn't really eat either. If not for her magnificent ass and tits, she'd probably weigh about 90 pounds soaking wet.

"Sounds more fun than having anyone else do it. Like I need a contingent of Peacekeepers and Escorts making sure I stay in line."

"I don't doubt some of these people do, but I can't deal with Joel and all my other tributes without the fruitiest cocktail I can find and a lemon slice." Damn, he's making himself hungry. This was not the intention.

"Who the hell brings peacekeepers and escorts to a date? They're awful at parties, unless their suits are nice and tight." He taps his chin thoughtfully. "I'm flattered that you trust me, I'll put on my best face for you."

"I don't know how you're doing it without a gallon of grain alcohol and a shotgun." Her smile is a joking one though, and she reaches out to tweak his cheek as she slides off her barstool. "I look forward to it. I'm going to try and get some more sleep before I need to head to the training center. Got about an hour before I need to be up. Tomorrow night, Miss Jolie."

Trey smiles in return, even more so when Molotov reaches out to tweak his cheek like he's some baby queen and not a grown-ass man. It earns her a faint snort and an eye roll, but he lets it slide.

"Sleep well! Don't want you looking like trash for our date." He waves airily, already looking forward to this little shindig.

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