[OPEN] ain't no party like a D̴̡̀R̶̵̶A̷̵̡̛͜G̷͟ ̀҉̸̀͢Q͝҉͟͏U҉͘͟͜͡Ȩ͜҉͞E̷͢Ņ ̷̷̕Ṕ̷̧̛͞A̷͟R̸̛̕Ţ̀́Y̵̴

[fuckingcool]

Who| Oceana Gunn and all you party people
What| Oceana's throwing the craziest party of the year to celebrate the end of the Arena, and you're invited. Feel free to mingle, post open starters, and tag around to your heart's content!
Where| Her bachelor(ette) pad in the Capitol
When| Post-Arena, pre-Crowning
Warnings/Notes| Uhhh. Drugs, alcohol, sex, language, etc are all possibilities within!



It's high time that someone threw a really great party in this town.

Oceana's been laying low, working on costumes for the upcoming Crowning and watching her babies kick ass in the Arena, but after a while she gets an itch. An itch to invite hundreds of strangers to her penthouse apartment, dress up in her most sickening clothes, and let the booze pour. So that's exactly what she does. Invitations are sent out, crates of liquor are ordered, food is catered in, and the lights are dimmed way down low.

Her apartment is spacious, minimally decorated because it looks fucking cool and she's barely around anyway, and full of dark corners. The living room has a huge table full of finger foods along one wall, a champagne fountain, and a full bar with virtually endless liquor. The music is loud as hell, and the drag queen has even gone to the trouble of paying people to come early and dance, so that the dance floor is never empty.

The hostess herself will be mingling all evening; the glass of vodka in her hand is never empty, and always garnished with at least six olives. She may not be the classiest bitch in the capitol, but it's apparent by looking around that she knows how to throw a killer soirée.

Comments

[capitolprivilege]

"Not having the best time, are you?"

Stephen glides up, no longer blacklisted and determined to enjoy the party as much as possible. After all, if tomorrow you die, it's best to eat, drink, and be merry, right? His eyes narrow at Jason playfully.

"You're here to work, aren't you."

lemme know if this is okay!

[whatisay]

The last time Jason saw Stephen in person, Stephen was a pre-teen and Jason's life was a train on a railroad towards comfort and luxury. The idea that he would be sharing a workplace in the Tribute Center with the spritely, wide-eyed, high-voiced twelve-year-old would have been ludicrous. Maybe Stephen would have shot high and ended up in a cabinet with his brother, and they would have worked together, but in the Tribute Center? Never.

The dissonance is enough to crash through his head like the note of a gong, enough to throw him off.

"What gave it away?" Jason doesn't expect an actual answer to that. He turns to Stephen with a smile that seems cramped at the corners. "So. Do you still go by Stevie or has that been left in the past?"

totally fine!

[capitolprivilege]

"I only get called that by the more gooey girlfriends," Stephen says with an easy laugh. He's drinking, yes, but he'd have to be a whole lot drunker to miss the tension in Jason's face and body. "God, it's been forever. And I mean forever -- more than ten years, right? Closer to fifteen. It's a shame we missed each other the last time you worked in the Games. You left before I began." It's casual, cheerful small talk, just about the only kind of talk you can safely have with an acquaintance you'd been out of touch with for that long.

[alwaysshielded]

"Such selfish desires."

She stood from the rail, giving a small nod to signify it time for her to depart. While the familiar back and forth was something of a balm for the soul, there were few places, even in this wretched excuse for a world, she would rather not be than at this event.

"Be careful, Dorian."

[sergius]

"Party," Sergius laughs, watching her sway. He can almost feel himself being judged all the way from Val's home in the District One Victor's Village. But that's not gonna stop him, even if he literally has negative game. Who needs game when you've got a body like his? "Me? Sergius Romulus. I'm District One's new escort. Duh."

[whatisay]

"Right? The last time I saw you, you were at least five inches shorter and would have blushed saying the word 'girlfriend' about anyone. And probably giggled at the word 'gooey'."

It's not as if he actively avoided the Reagans, but the party invitations stopped coming after Caddy's affair came into public eye. Jason never bothered to try and ingratiate himself with people who were afraid that the disreputatability was contagious.

And then Jason had seen an escape hatch in his dead-end Escort job and left, and here they are, over ten years later. One only slightly hampered by a now-removed cuff, the other all but shoved back into this field by circumstance.

"You're working with Six, aren't you?"

[fuckingcool]

Oceana rolls her eyes. "Please, mama, your hips were always that wide."

She goes quiet, though, when Jolie banishes her assumptions, sucking her teeth and trying to think of a way to apologize for being an asshole without even knowing she was being an asshole. But she can't think of anything, so she just mutters, "Shit. Sorry."

But then Jolie drops that next truth nugget, and Oceana's eyebrows rise almost up to her lace front. "What? For real? McDreamy's back? Shit." She leans forward excitedly. "You gonna tap that or nah?"

[whatisay]

Jason laughs again, but despite the fact that he barely opens his mouth for it he seems to bare a lot of teeth when he does.

"How sad is that, that it's lucky for us if we only have one treasonous foreigner in our care? I've got a few already talking like they want to burn the whole place down - believe you me, I'm putting an end to that kind of talk fast. Just because they don't have any self-preservation instinct doesn't mean that I don't."

It's not as if shop talk is inherently a more pessimistic route of conversation for Jason, it's that pessimism is something of his lot in life, something he believes assigned to himself as he dresses himself in it willingly. Still, he's not entirely clueless about a good conversation. He can feel the disease with his complaining, and so he attempts to reroute.

"So far most of mine are good-looking, so that's a start. It's not like you can't market an ugly brute but it's always better to have a little beauty working for you."

[whatisay]

"I did already know that. Your reputation precedes you." That's how compliments from Jason come, either ambiguous or recited as if from a travel magazine. If there's a way to say something truly kind to someone, he hasn't found it yet. "You're fairly new, aren't you?"

He shakes well, he shakes professionally. His hands have a certain roughness to them that don't seem to fit a trade of greasing palms and petting egos.

"Like I say, if I can even get mine to the interview I consider it a good day."

[tevintage]

He bowed his head graciously. "I will endeavor to be as careful as possible," He said, while both of them knew that wasn't particularly careful at all.

"Enjoy your evening," he added, more than a little ironically.

[tevintage]

"I would infinitely prefer if my current hobby was critiquing Tevinter literature," He said with a raised eyebrow over his glass. "Sampling the generous array of Panem's alcoholic beverages is less a hobby and more a survival mechanism."

[dreadinquisitor]

He'd meant the bite about masochism, in general, but he paused, lips curling in a small, distant sort of smile. "Though as I recall, it did occasionally have similar results. Cursing, threats of fire, books flying through the air..."

[tevintage]

"Yes, but then it was fun." And, also, a survival mechanism. Woops.

He really was a masochist.

"I think we may just be able to slip out of this party, however," he realised after a moment, glancing over at Jason. "If you feel like attempting an escape."

[capitolprivilege]

"That's right," Stephen says with a nod. "And I'd appreciate it if you kept the baby stories to a minimum around my Tributes. It's hard enough getting actual respect from them as it is. If Bro Strider hears the word Stevie, I guarantee you I'll never hear the end of it."

It's all very, very good-natured.

[dreadinquisitor]

There was a pang, so sudden and sharp, all he could do was laugh - the ache too deep to do anything else with. His wine glass bumped against his lip before he could pull his head back and he set it down. Mopping up the dark bead as he glanced sidelong at Jason.

"And when the rumors start flying, how mad will your nanny-goat go?" he asked.

[whatisay]

"If that's the worst your Tributes do to you, you're doing fine. I'm having to sleep with one eye open and update the alarms on the house with the way mine act. You'd think we were the enemy here." He shakes his head, nodding a bit when an Avox finally brings him water (finally). "You shoot for actual respect, I'll keep my sights lowered to just basic decency."

Jason seems entirely unaware of how he feeds into this antagonism, as if he's completely blameless for how his charges react to him.

[fuckingcool]

"Party," Oceana echoes, a little dumbfounded. Did he just steal her catchphrase? Is she in bizarro world all of a sudden? She shakes her head.

"Sergius. Right. Duh." Jesus, it's like she's forgotten how to talk. "District One, that's sort of a mixed bag, huh? You've got the little fish girl, the sexy elf guy with the best fucking lacefront I've ever seen in my life...how's that going for you?"

[sergius]

He rolls his eyes, recalling the horrible shitshow that was his first encounter with the so-called Elf King. "Thranduil. Yeah. That guy's a total buzzkill. But it's whatever. We've got some badasses. And we're mad overdue for a win, so."

Fuck, but talking shop at a party is totally boring. What the hell are they doing? Sergius wrinkles his nose a little. "But yeah. Great party, though. Is there like, a special occasion you're celebrating or what?"

[fuckingcool]

Oceana cackles as she's handed the marker, and immediately she goes to twist off the cap and take a deep breath. "Shit," she breathes, "That shit's good." And strong. Whoever manufactured these wasn't messing around; one good huff and she's a bit woozy. She caps the marker again and sticks it down her faux-cleavage.

"Thanks, girlfriend."

[fuckingcool]

"Good to know." The queen smirks, wiping a bit of lipstick away from the corner of her mouth, her fingertip coming up purple. "New-ish. I was Nine's assistant Stylist for three years before. Well. You know." Her predecessor had made a very bad PR move, it was widely known. "And now here I am, soaking up the fucking limelight." She pauses for effect. "Also known as locking myself away in the dark for days on end, hand-beading gowns."

His handshake is rough, certainly, but Oceana isn't deterred, and her own shake is surprisingly strong. "Well, you couldn't pay me enough to Escort, so kudos to you for doing the fucking job competently."

[fuckingcool]

"Well, as it happens, so are we," Oceana counters, her little smirk widening. "Maybe we should make a wager. Whoever wins first..." She lets that hang in the air, because by normal standards she'd be betting sexual favors, but she's a taken woman now, and she can't be doing that shit. "Well, we'll see."

His compliment is well-received, and the queen shrugs her bony shoulders. "End of the Arena. But mostly I needed an excuse to invite a zillion strangers into my apartment and grind up on some sweaty bodies." She waves her half-empty glass of vodka. "Liquor company should pay me for all the free advertising they're getting."

[whatisay]

Jason remembers District Nine's Stylist's blunder. He remembers watching the news on it with a sort of grim - not satisfaction, but understanding. He simultaneously saw too much of himself in the disgraced professional and wished for more people to drop like flies from the echelons.

"Sometimes I envy you Stylists locking yourselves away, but then you mention hand-beading gowns and my hands hurt." Jason's never had the eye or inclination for it, and if Escort seems a strange position for his temperament, Stylist would be an absolute disaster.

"I try. Wish we had more resources at our disposal, given that we're dealing with nine Tributes at a time. It's like herding cats, but the cats all want to kill you."

[perfectus]

Cal laughs at that. It's a short, barking sort of sound that's only saving grace is that it blends into the untz-untz of the dance music pulsing around them. Whether it's about Oceana talking a bigger game than she's got, or the truth of the general malaise stubbornly maintained in the District 2 suites, well, he leaves that up to interpretation.

"You're new, right? They'll come around and be better for it." He moves the champagne glass to his lips casually, but it's debatable whether or not he takes a sip. "Crito, my father," he clarifies quickly, as if it was an absolute necessity he simply forgets on occasion, "used to talk about how hard it was to work with Tributes. I never knew what he was getting at until now. It takes intensity, I think. Patience, and intensity. At the same time, every Hunger Games is a new challenge and a new opportunity for them to improve."

[fuckingcool]

Oceana snorts. "Exactly. Not to mention the look in some of the Tributes' eyes when you come at them with a pair of scissors." She scoffs. "They obviously don't realize that I'm as graceful and deadly as a fucking giraffe on stilts."

He has a point, it occurs to her, as she chomps on another olive. "That's not a bad idea," she muses. "You'd think they'd at least give you a--a support staff. I'd die without my assistants, but you kinda get thrown to the wolves."

[revvinguptheharley]

The look on Harley's face could be directly compared to that of a puppy who has just been told she was good. If she had a tail it would be wagging wildly behind her but instead she just beams with pride.

"What can I say? I'm a huge fan. You always strut around with so much confidence you know? Like you could gut someone with just your words and look perfect while doing it! Kinda reminds me of someone back home now that I say it out loud."

Idly in the back of Harley's mind she wondered if Oceana was a cat person.