Not enough velour and zippers for Molotov's tastes, huh. But no, Brock doesn't even bother trying to disguise himself when he goes out; he's so huge that he's always going to stand out unless he goes all out and gets a prosthetic face or a hump or something. People look at him and they whisper and take pictures, but he doesn't get approached too much unless he's at a bar or something. And then it's fine, because those are usually slightly tipsy Capitol girls all starstruck.

But for all his espionage skills, Brock is stupidly susceptible to disguises himself -- possibly due to the emphasis that Hunter put on them during his training, like a learned mental block -- and he doesn't even notice Molotov right away, all bundled up like Thelma and/or Louise like she is. He walks past, eying her surreptitiously, and he's still appreciating her legs before he stops in his tracks a little ways away, squinting, and then turns back around.

"Is that your new look?" he calls, hands on his hips.