thecapitol | [that's a fine-looking high horse]

Entry tags:

[that's a fine-looking high horse]

Who | Cyrus Reagan and Molotov Cocktease
What | Following this conversation, Cyrus has more to say to Molotov Cocktease, and he's decided to say it in person. Over dinner.
Where | Restaurant Lux 4, in the Capitol.
When | After Cyrus' introduction; before the jailbreak goes off.
Warnings | idk does Molotov Cocktease not come with a warning label

Lux 4 has always been among Cyrus' favorites restaurants in the Capitol. It's built inside an aquarium - all four walls and even the domed ceiling are a part of the same enormous fishtank, and the light that comes down from above is muted and shimmering. It makes the air inside feel quieter, heavier; conducive to conversation, just shadowy enough to give the illusion of privacy.

Cyrus' purpose here has several parts. First: He wants to be seen in public. Were he arranging a meeting with some other government official, he might have chosen to have this conversation somewhere more private, but now, he has a vested interest in being seen - in making clear to everyone just how involved he intends to be in the lives of the Tributes he's come to observe.

Second: He wants to talk to Molotov Cocktease, specifically. The Tributes' disdain, their suspicion, their anger-- these he had expected. They frustrated him, but did not surprise him. Molotov, though-- she's frustrating, too, but in a way that-- intrigues him? Concerns him? Both? He isn't entirely sure. But he has a feeling it might be good to know sooner, rather than later, how much potential she has to be interfere in what he's here to do.

Really, though, he doesn't have high expectations-- he'll be more than happy to go home this evening with nothing but her sincere belief in his good intentions, and a better-established handle on her character. He's never dined with a Tribute before. Best not to set his expectations too high, right?

The Peacekeepers he sends to collect her are from his personal detail. This isn't a bid, of course, and he has no intention of treating it like one-- she'll be properly invited. There will be a printed card in the hand of one of the Peacekeepers, asking for the pleasure of her conversation at such and such time in such and such place, and she'll have all the time she asks for to prepare, within reason. Sure, the fact that she has a choice is less stated than implied; but the choice is, technically, there.

They'll escort her to the restaurant, and through the front doors; from there, she'll be guided by the wait staff to a table for two set only a little apart, quite close to one of the gently curving glass walls. Cyrus will be here already, dressed for a casual dinner in a nice place; a bottle of wine will already be on the table, though the glasses will be empty.

He smiles cordially when he sees her, and lifts a hand to wave her over, as though she could miss where she's being escorted - as though there was no one else involved in her journey here. "Good evening. Glad you could make it."

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"I was joking," Molotov says archly, like she can't believe that he would think she'd show up for a date with him. No, she'd take her death, in that case. "I only meant that if this is your invitation to a dinner where I tell you more about how bad at this you already are, I can only imagine how many Peacekeepers would show up for the unfortunate woman you actually wanted to date."

She seems more interested in watching the wine than listening to him talk -- like maybe she doesn't really believe he has anything different to say anyway. Of course, she didn't see the bottle get uncorked, so she waits for Cyrus to drink first, patiently tapping her finger against her thigh as she does.

"And what, exactly, has you thinking so much that you needed to invite me to dinner?"

He beckons the waiter without taking his eyes off of her as she speaks-- though the jab at his dating process gets a protesting half-laugh out of him. He decides to reply to the question rather than the couched accusation. It's far more straightforward ground to tread.

"Several things," he says. He does appreciate being able to skip the small talk. "It was certainly an engaging conversation. But, most notably-- you referred to yourself as someone with experience."

He pauses for a second as the waiter reappears, to gesture at the wine bottle; he continues as the waiter pours. "I'm regarded as someone with a great deal of experience in my area of jurisdiction. In Capitol-District relations." Not a boast, simply a fact. "Certainly among the most experienced people currently working under President Snow's administration."

The waiter vanishes; Cyrus picks up his glass and holds it up to her. "...So of course, I had to wonder what you meant in describing yourself in the same terms."

She snorts and rolls her eye, sort of like she thinks it's amusing that he'd describe his job that way at all. Her smile is small, wry, and she glances off the the side before answering.

"You are experienced in the pretty part of politics." It's said delicately -- she's taking the time to specifically choose every word. "The part with the cameras and speeches and parties. The part that makes everyone believe you really are working so hard in their best interests. I am experienced in the other side of the government. The side that people don't know about and don't talk about, except to whisper and hope we do not knock on their door. We remove the need to work in anyone's best interest but the reigning party's, you see?"

Her gaze is suddenly lighter, and she smiles again. "But that was a long time ago. My government is long gone. I went freelance after that, whoever pays more. Sometimes it is the government, sometimes the rebels. I know both sides, Mr. Reagan."

Edited 2014-08-18 18:44 (UTC)

Cyrus nods slowly as she speaks. And he drinks - an appreciative sip from his glass. It's a good wine. He hopes she'll try it.

His expression stays neutral. The phrasing of freelance is one he finds... interesting; so far as he knows, the Capitol has never hired a mercenary to do political work. He supposes Mentors might count, in a more vague interpretation of the definition; but they don't ask to be paid.

In reply, however, he only says lightly, "You assume a lot about my experience in politics."

As soon as he drinks from his glass, she relaxes just a bit, speaking before she reaches to try the wine.

"You hardly seem like the kind of man with wetwork in his past," she answers, just as lightly. "Do feel free to correct me if I am wrong, but they do not usually put guns in the hands of those who are the faces of the government. It might not look so nice for the Capitol if it got out that Cyrus Reagan was taking out dissidents with his hands instead of his words."

She takes a long sip of her own, peering at him from over the rim of her glass.

The question, Cyrus personally thinks, is simply one of definition. He wonders what Molotov Cocktease would consider some of the things he's done in the past-- whether she would count them as wetwork or not. Whether it was enough that he had had a seat at the table where the Reagans had planned his father's counter-poisoning twelve years ago, or if she would accept nothing less than it having been his hand poised over the Senator's wine with the deadly vial.

Of course, he has no intention whatsoever of correcting her. No one in the Capitol, he's sure, could imagine Cyrus Reagan involved in anything so low. It's important to him that no one ever does.

So: He holds her eyes for a second, his expression grave-- and then it collapses into a grin. "...You've got me. All my shooting has been at targets and small wildlife," he admits, with a smile and a shrug. It's true - he hasn't carried a gun at any point in his career.

"But, returning to our relative forms of experience, if I may--" Because this was just an aside, just a joke-- "I think it's unfair of you to imply that I'm not working hard in everyone's best interest."

Molotov watches him carefully, reads between the lines in his face, the joking answer. She doesn't for a moment believe that he's ever actually carried out a real kill, felt that gravity of knowing you personally took a life, but she also doesn't believe in the innocence he's trying to play off, either.

He's high level government. She's thinking he's met a few people like herself before.

"I never said that," she replies, placing her glass back on the table. "I just think you are working hardest in President Snow's best interest, in the Capitol's best interest. Can you really tell me I am wrong?"

"Well," he says. "We would hope the Capitol's best interest is everyone's best interest." That is the essence of politics, even in a world run by a single-party dictatorship whose representatives are chosen primarily by appointment and not by vote. If he sees the irony in that, he makes no visible sign.

Also, it isn't a yes. She isn't wrong.

"Though I suppose that's the reason for my current assignment, in a way," he adds. "To ensure that that remains the case. If there's a discrepancy between the interests of our city and those of its residents-- native or otherwise-- it could present a threat to our stability."

She has to snort back a laugh. Can he really not see the inherent impossibility of what he's saying, the fact that there's no reconciliation?

"And do you really think we find it in our best interests to be prisoners?" she asks, jovially enough. "The Capitol kidnaps us, refuses to let us go, forces us into death battles for its own entertainment. We are watched twenty-four hours a day -- here, drinking wine with you, this is probably the most privacy I have had outside of a bathroom since I got here. And you think that you will somehow be able to satisfy everyone with your little announcements and plastic olive branches? Do you even have an inkling of a plan, Mr. Reagan?"

For a second, frustration breaks through into Cyrus' expression. He's heard those words, and variations on them, many times in the past few days - prisoners and entertainment and kidnapping. It's rapidly leaving the realm of irritating and turning into wearying.

And so, for a moment, he drops the script.

"Look," he says. He's serious, here-- he's leaning forward a little, his elbows on the table and his hands spread to gesticulate. "I can't enact wide-scale systemic change with a wave of my hand. I can't. Even to try would be pointless - I could hardly stand up in front of Panem and announce my comprehensive plan to end the Hunger Games and expect to have a job when I sit back down."

He's speaking more freely now, with less regard for the people around him who might hear him saying something other than exactly the right thing. "But if I have my way, then these little gestures, these tokens of support-- they'll be only a beginning. I am planning to change the law, Miss Cocktease. My plan is to rewrite the rules that govern the way the Capitol and the Tributes interact. That isn't nothing."

Molotov takes another drink from her glass, lets her face become more serious as well, and nods. She's actually sure that those are the words he's heard from literally every person he's spoken to, but can he think of others that describe the situation more accurately? That he wouldn't feel the same if the worlds were switched, if it was Molotov's world forcing him to fight in a battle to the death that they were throwing parties to watch?

"I understand that, Mr. Reagan," she says, her tone quiet as she gazes at him. "I do not expect you to change the system single-handedly. Everyone that does is a moron. And I know that you cannot put your entire life on the line to speak out, because it wouldn't help anyone if you did. But what I question is how you think Tributes should be treated, how the Capitol should be interacting with us. You haven't given me a straight answer about that, and if you can't be honest about that, how can I keep having this discussion with you?"

Those words, in Cyrus' opinion, are a symptom of ignorance - an obvious conclusion drawn primarily by those who have no conception of how the wheels of the world actually turn. That isn't something for which the Tributes can be blamed, of course, but the people he's used to working with don't usually labor under the same delusion.

He's never considered what it would be like if his role were switched with any Tribute. Why should he? It will never happen.

It's gratifying, though, to hear Molotov say that aloud - Everyone that does is a moron. Gratifying to hear an opinion he's been biting his tongue to keep to himself sitting there in the air between them.

"I think," he says, sitting back a little, "That the issue is less with my honesty, and more with your willingness to believe me. I've told you how I think Tributes should be treated: Consistently. I might not be able to change the fact that you're here, but I can make it impossible for a Tribute to be Avoxed for expressing an opinion. I can codify punishments that actually fit your crimes-- and make it impossible to harm a Tribute based on suspicion alone. A pretty basic starting point, sure-- but, like I said. Only a beginning. And a necessary one."

The waiter chooses this moment to return with a basket of bread. Cyrus allows him to hover a second, to top off their glasses, and to leave before he continues, this time with a roll as gesticulation aid.

"I wouldn't blame you for not believing me," he adds, with a shrug. "But I'm afraid we won't get much further unless you're willing to give me at least the benefit of the doubt."

There's a long, hard silence while Molotov just looks at him, eye flicking over his face as she looks for anything that gives him away. It isn't that she thinks he's lying -- certainly she doesn't believe he thinks things should really be worse for Tributes -- so much as she thinks he's intentionally double-talking her. 'Consistent' isn't mutually exclusive with 'better' or 'less like living dolls'. But is it worth it to push him now?

God, she hates politicians. Everything is easier with assassins and spies.

Finally, she lifts her glass again. "All right, I believe you," she says, letting her voice have a hint of submission. She's never met a politician (or a man, for that matter) who didn't sink right into that. "So I suppose that brings us back around to what I'm doing here. I've never written a law, Mr. Reagan."

Cyrus, being both a politician and a man, falls headlong into it. The words are barely out of her mouth before his expression relaxes into something more satisfied.

"Don't worry," he says, with a smile. "I won't demand you legislate-- the point of all this was not to punish you, after all." Ha ha. His job: So difficult!

"I don't know if you'd noticed," he continues, "but my reception in Tribute Tower... has not been a warm one." One would have to be blind, deaf, or as far away as District Twelve not to have noticed this, he thinks. "I suppose I simply wanted the chance to explain myself in a-- a kinder setting. To make as clear as I could where, exactly, I'm coming from. I can't do this without the help of the Tributes-- and I'll admit, my faith in my own ability to win their help has taken a blow." He lifts his wineglasss again; sips; raises it, and looks at Molotov over the rim of it. "You're an intelligent woman, obviously. Not every Tribute could see to the heart of the matter as clearly as you do. Not every Tribute has your experience. Your help--" Hers, in particular, over and above that of the other Tributes, his voice said-- "--would mean a great deal to me. And I didn't feel the network was the place to ask for it."

At the very least, his willingness to be manipulated by just her tone makes Molotov more comfortable, enough to smile at him as she takes another sip of wine.

"Well, that does give me two more questions," she says, her long (super fake, thanks stylists!) eyelashes fluttering. "First is what kind of help you want from me. I can't exactly go around telling everyone how sincere and wonderful you are -- no one would believe me, first off, and they would just say that I haven't been around long enough to know the truth. And anyway, trust isn't easy to come by between Tributes, Cyrus. Not when we are all being asked to kill each other in a few weeks. I would be accused of trying to backstab them. So tell me what you want from me, something that would make sense."

Her arm snakes out, and she takes a roll from the basket, placing on her plate and delicately tearing a bit from it before looking back up at him. "My second question is, what do I get from you in exchange for my assistance?"

Cyrus allows his smile to settle in place. It's the answer he wanted, or near enough to it. Negotiating a price is, in all things he considers important, the last step.

"I don't need anyone to think I'm kind," he says. It's blunt, matter-of-fact, spoken without vitriol. "I wasn't given this assignment in the hope that I would make friends. All I need is for your fellow Tributes to believe that I am working for them, and not against them." He pauses; realizes he's shaking a piece of bread at her with every word; and breaks off to set it down on his plate.

"...In short--" His hands are in his lap now-- "I don't care what they think my motives are. I don't care if they like me. I only want their cooperation. And if you would be willing, in future, to talk about my goals around your Arena-mates in a way that makes clear how much better they are than the alternative, I would be very grateful."

Another pause, to make sure that's sunk in. "...As for payment... hm." His smile picks back up, but only on one side of his mouth. "I hadn't thought that far ahead. What did you charge back home?"

She laughs, turns her head away and covers her mouth. "You could never afford the kind of time you're talking about," she says, regrouping and turning her gaze back to him with a smile. "Besides, what do I want for money? If your people are anything, it is generous. The Capitol doesn't exactly leave us wanting. No no, what I need are sponsors."

Her grin is almost wolfish now, her teeth bared perhaps a bit menacingly. "If you want my help, you are going to help me hook sponsors, Cyrus."

There are not many things in the world that Cyrus can't afford; but he's not going to belabor that point. His eyebrows go up at the request. Not so much out of surprise - it's a perfectly solid request - but because he's seriously considering it.

"It's been a while since I played that game," he says. Years, really. He'd put a lot of store by sponsorship, back at the beginning of his career; these days, he has far less reason to care. ...Had far less reason to care.

"...Which is not to say that I won't." He's already putting names onto a mental list, swirling the wine in his glass thoughtfully. "I think that's a perfectly fair exchange."

"Good, because I already made sure the paparazzi are waiting outside." Molotov takes a sip of wine, her smile lessening to simply pleased and demure. "Just smile and wave and pretend to be happy when they take pictures, that should be all that's necessary. Let them tell the story."

She reaches out for bread.

Cyrus' smile wavers, in the manner of someone who isn't sure whether or not he's supposed to take that as a joke.

"...Doing your Escorts' work for you?" Publicity is much more up Stephen's alley. Cyrus hadn't planned to be a part of any Tribute's sponsor-hooking ploy.

"What story were you hoping for?" he asks, with a smile that is now firmly present, but a little too determined. "Tabloids are fickle allies, Miss Cocktease. Especially here. An image, I think you'll find, is... not an easy thing to remake." Whether he's talking about his image or her image is unclear, and unimportant.

She tears a piece of the bread and butters it politely, shrugging.

"Tabloids are the only weapon I have, Mr. Reagan. I'm not afraid of them -- there isn't really a story for them to spin that will make me look bad. And doesn't it make you look better too? Don't you look more serious about accomplishing your job if you have a vested interest in a Tribute? Let the world think that, for once, one of you people don't think of us a living action figures. Let the other Tributes think that. A love story hits a lot of notes that political speeches don't."

Molotov relaxes back in her chair, eating her piece of bread and sipping at her wine.

"Don't tell me I let the stylists truss me up like this for nothing."

"A love story--!"

Cyrus' laugh is short and incredulous.

"Look," he says, and he's grinning-- not outright laughing, but openly amused at the idea. "Whatever story they tell-- whatever interest they think I have in you-- it's not going to be a love story."

He's still grinning as he finishes off his glass of wine. God. A love story. Seriously. "Plenty of people in my position have an interest in Tributes. Their only point of inquiry will be how much I'm bidding on you."

Her expression and tone are dry enough to soak up water as she looks at him. "Yes, I know that. And that's why you have to act the part. Pretending, you know what that is? Or are your acting chops not up to snuff?"

She polishes off her wine, watching the fish swim by next to her. "Give them the right soundbites and they chase the story you tell them, not the one they make up. No one buys a whore to tell them how sweet they are, how much they enjoyed dinner together. But I am sure you already know all about that, being a man of your position and all."

Cyrus' grin falters.

No, it's not his acting chops. It's not that he doesn't know what pretending is. It's that this has turned far, far more involved than he wanted it to be - and worst of all, he can't even pinpoint at what stage in the conversation that happened.

This is too high a price. Friendship, that's one thing-- a business partnership, more or less the same thing-- a bidding relationship, scandalous, but manageably so. Love, though-- with a Tribute--!

It takes him too long to reply, and too long to decide what expression he should be wearing. It results in something uncertain, and unsatisfied.

"I know that," he says. Carefully. "I suppose my question is whether such a story is necessary. A love story is always good sponsor-bait, but I would hate to give the impression that my interest in the Tributes is anything less than completely professional. I have a reputation to uphold, too, you know."

(Because of course, there's nothing unprofessional about a mere bid.)

Molotov finishes off her wine, raises her napkin from her lap and wipes her mouth, all very calm and collected. Then she rises from her seat, collecting her things.

"All right then," she tells him, letting her voice be utterly deadpan. "Well, I only want one thing, and if you don't want to give it to me, then we don't have anything more to talk about, do we? I should leave, before the rumors that you've purchased me to be your whore start up. I'd have to kill you, and I don't really want to do that."

She counts it down in her head as she begins to walk away. Five... four...

He lets her stand. He lets her gather her things. He lets her leave a death threat. He lets her walk away.

He lets her get about five steps before he says, "Molotov." (Louder than he wants to; through gritted teeth; knowing that he will be overheard, that the people around them will already be glancing over their menus at this scene, that her story is writing itself even as he says her name.)

He keeps his voice calm, and friendly, and knows with every word exactly what this looks like. "There's no need to leave yet."

To Cyrus's credit, she's past one when he stops her, just barely. She pauses, turns and looks at him, one hand on her hip and the other at her side, holding her clutch. If Cyrus is paying enough attention, he'll notice she's pouting, looking every inch the put-out girlfriend.

When Molotov decides on a story, she never breaks character.

"Are you sure about that, Cyrus?" she asks, taking slow steps toward the table, pretending she doesn't notice every face watching from behind menus and wine glasses, every barely audible murmur at the nearby tables, every eye tracking her as she makes her way, sparkling in the light with every step.

"I'm sure." He's keeping his voice quiet, even as she steps closer (and he watches every step, as though if he looks away she'll decide to leave again)-- the less of this is overheard, the better. "I think we have more to discuss."

There's a pause, just a second too long to be natural. But it's in this pause that he makes his decision; in which he... not folds. But agrees, tacitly, to bend.

He manages to smile almost naturally as he adds-- just as quietly-- "...Besides. We haven't ordered dinner yet."

It's not a promise. Not yet. But it is a concession.

Molotov lets it dangle for a moment, gives everyone a beat to wonder if she'll forgive whatever it is he said that offended her.

Then she returns to her seat, picking up her menu and looking it over. "I'd like more wine," she says calmly, as if she'd never gotten up in the first place. She does smile at him, though, over her menu. "And I forgive you."

Cyrus signals to the waiter, and it's the cue everyone around them needs to drop their eyes back to their dinners and direct their conversations back to their neighbors-- nothing more to see here. A public tiff that was almost interesting. Disappointing to near everyone else in the room.

He is beginning to understand, looking at Molotov smiling across from him, replaying what he just allowed to happen in his head, just how desperate he is for an ally. He does not return the smile.

He allows the waiter to pour and step away before he speaks again. "Your help is important to me," he says. "I'm not going to pretend it isn't. But there is only so much I am willing to pretend on your behalf." No one around them will read anything angry in his expression, but his voice has gone colder. "I am prepared to leave a lot implied, if it will help me, and you, to fulfill the terms of our agreement-- but I am not here to act for your benefit."

"I already told you," she murmurs, taking a sip from her glass, "that I don't need you to act, not unless you want to keep making everything difficult. You just need to exist in the right places at the right times, give your fake politician smile and offer me your elbow. The same things I'm sure you were raised to do anyway, given your place in society."

Setting her glass down, she watches him from across the table carefully. "That's all it takes to have me on your team. Help me tell my story, and I'll help you tell yours."

Cyrus finds the statement that he's the one making this difficult deeply unfair.

He allows himself a long second of silence - a long second to consider her over the softly shimmering centerpiece - before he says, finally: "...Warn me next time you intend to engage me in any storytelling." It's mild enough. It's also all he's got. Not a defense and not a deflection; as near as he's willing to get to outright acquiescence. There will be a next time, it says, grudgingly. He'll allow this story to be told.

With a sense of duty, he lifts his wineglass to her, inquiring. It's a gesture, he thinks, of the kind she's looking for-- natural, not meaningful, but open to interpretation. A stand-in, in this case, for the handshake that concludes a successful transaction.

Molotov's smile is wide, pleased and just affectionate enough to fool anyone still looking at them. It only masks the smugness of getting what she wants. She raises her glass in kind, inclining her head.

"Deal."

With a nod, and a brief smile, Cyrus drinks. To... whatever this is. (He doesn't have a name for it. He's never done anything remotely like it before. He'll have to think of a name for it later, when he's at home and has the time to wonder what the hell he's gotten himself into.)

"...So," he says, more easily, more like he sounded at the beginning of the evening, light and casual. "If you have no objections, I'm ready to order. I recommend the shark fin soup, personally, but whatever you feel like. It's on me."

Per her instructions, it's not an act. This is exactly where this evening was going. If there's a little more on the table, figuratively, than there was before, well-- he was going to be friendly anyway. He can be friendly under the shadow of obligation, as well.

She drinks and takes a look over the menu, easily falling back into the air of two people just having dinner together.

"Shark fin soup is interesting. Not as good as bird's nest soup, but interesting. We'll start with that. I've heard the restaurants in this city are magnificent, I want to try a good variety."

When she smiles at him, it's genuine, conversational, and very obvious that Cyrus is now locked into this.

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[that's a fine-looking high horse]

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cool to wrap up around here?

NOT COOL j/k yes