[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

Re: Calendius; OTA

[whatisay]

By contrast, Jason's own color palette is subdued, not because he doesn't know that Stylist parties tend to call for bright colors, big hair and bigger statements but because he's currently rotating through a wardrobe of only three suits, all of which are kept as pristine as possible and mended regularly to try and avoid the appearance of shabbiness. He can't help that tonight's is somewhat out of season, but the family Avoxes did their best to tailor the fit to be something a bit more of the times, and the cufflinks and silk shirt underneath add a pop of color that fit the night's aesthetic. His glasses are tucked into his breastpocket in a way that cleverly hides the only indication that they're a knock-off brand.

He doesn't have anything against Calendius except a bit of envy about him getting such a desirable District to Escort, but at the very least the Reys are an influential enough family that it makes some degree of sense rather than seeming a cosmic injustice. Though Calendius looks as old as Jason is, Jason had already entered his "early retirement" before Calendius became an Escort, and Jason knows his name and face and reputation but nothing else.

"Calendius Rey." It's not that Calendius is conspicuous about nursing his single glass of champagne; it's just that, as the perpetually sober person at any social gathering, Jason's developed something of a sixth sense for people who're having a rather dry evening. He's sucking on his wedge of lemon without so much as a pucker as much as he's drinking from a tall glass of water. "Looks like I'm the only one here drinking even less than you. Kind of a shame that people here are so eager to poison themselves stupid."

It's not an entirely judgmental quip, but there is a disdainful edge to it.

[perfectus]

Cal recognizes the suit immediately as out of season. Not sufficiently enough out of season to be vintage chic, but rather the kind of thing someone in one of the more affluent Districts might be tossed. The tailoring would probably disguise it from the untrained eye, and someone with enough bravado could carry it off, but it's something someone like him can't help but note silently, with no small amount of judgement. The sad thing is, without the tailoring, Jason might have just pretended as if he's busy to give a damn. Some men can pull that one off. Not a Rey, of course, but some. As it is, though, he just looks desperate.

Whatever, from everything he's heard, Jason's the only person in his family who actually works. Cal can respect that. It's not even like he's got a District worth working for, but there's dignity in that struggle as well. He smiles. It's a pointedly inviting, vapid expression which does everything to deny anything, let alone the classist suppositions presently running through his head. It's also dazzling. The white of his teeth even pick up the black lights of the party around them.

"Jason Compson," He offers a tanned hand in greeting. "I like to be up and moving early. It's never made sense to me how some people can waste half a day in bed. Unless they have a good enough reason, right?"

[whatisay]

Jason shakes, that same smooth politician's shake of a kid who was raised in a three-piece suit more often than not. It's like a shibboleth between the old families here, and Jason can't help but think of the way animals sniff each other to make sure they're part of the same pack. Nor can he help himself from thinking of himself a little bit as a dog on its back, belly exposed.

He makes a sound that's amused but sounds almost disgruntled. "God knows half the people here talks about having those good enough reasons more than they actually have them." He tips his head over at Oceana, relaying a story that requires her to place her hands out as if she were measuring a fish (or something else).

"I wish my charges had your work ethic. I'm laying down ground rules, but with their attitudes it's going to be miraculous if I ever see them all up before noon."

[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."

[whatisay]

Jason's gaze closes off slightly, as if he's wrestling a rude comment that could be trying to make a break for it out of his throat. Mentors aren't untouchable the way Avoxes or even Tributes are, and different circles of the Capitol see them either as quaint lovers or perfect genetic donors. The idea of ever having a relationship with someone who had been in an Arena, from a District, makes Jason's skin crawl, but he also understands he doesn't share the majority Capitol view on that; nor can he truly differentiate between whether it's the idea of having children by a Mentor in general or being a father in general that so disgusts him.

"Can't say patience was ever my strong suit, so I'll have to ride on intensity. You have a better outlook than I do." He brings a hand up and absentmindedly rubs the leg of the spectacles poking out of his pocket, stopping himself short of pulling them out and fiddling with them - Cal would certainly recognize them to be off-brand. "I keep thinking every Hunger Games is a chance for me to get a better roster. It's like playing dice."

[perfectus]

That was actually funny. Cal waits the requisite moment before laughing loudly, all stupid grin and perfectly gleaming white teeth. The pause is short enough that it might seem like he didn't catch the implication at first. It's carefully affected so as to minimize any intelligence he might be seen to have.

"Good one!" he croons approvingly, once the horse guffaws have subsided. The champagne has sloshed around over the rim of his glass, and Cal licks at his knuckles as he recovers. The taste is bitter and now he knows he'll smell like the damn stuff. It's annoying, but also probably not terrible for solidifying an image.

"I try to be positive about it-- I mean, what I have to work with now. But I guess there's always room for culling the herd, too." There's nothing sinister at all about Calendius' tone in spite of the implication. It's perfectly matter of fact. Not everyone can be a winner, that's just how it is.

[whatisay]

His eyes dart down to the sloshing glass. "Careful. Wouldn't want to ruin your clothes." It's not something the average Citizen would worry about and yet it occurs to Jason, and immediately he regrets saying it. He might as well be showing up in a barrel for all the skill he's having hiding his financial status. He's out of practice, having become a borderline recluse during his too-short retirement, his truncated idleness.

"Must be quite the blow for you, switching from the Careers to the same rabble as the rest of us have to manage. You'd think they'd even sort the good ones into One and Two, but it's so random as to look calculated, if you know what I mean."