If you ever get to the place where the sun is shining everyday

[cigne]

Who| Swann and maybe you???
What| Gotta shape up these Tributes. And maybe have a drink.
Where| D8 Suites and also the bar in the lobby
When| TODAY

a. District 8 Suites
Swann enters the Suite with her heels clicking on the floor, peering around for any sign of life in here. She carries in her shopping bags, each labeled with the name of her Tributes. The bags overwhelm her tiny frame, the sheer amount of them and their size. Even her sky-high stilettos can't balance it all out.

She approaches the sitting room and carefully arranges the bags on the coffee table, placing them just so, very intent on the appearance. She wants everything to look just right when the Tributes come in, wants to see their eyes light up at how pretty the bags are, with their pristine edges and rich black shine and ribbons on the handles.

They have to show up first, though.

b. Lobby bar

All she needed was a single lemon drop martini, and she has it. Sitting on the high barstool, Swann looks out over the lobby, watching people come and go, watching the crowds ebb and flow as the Tributes enter and leave the building. It's interesting enough, made nicer by the drink, and the screens replay all the best scenes from the past Arena.

She occasionally fiddles with her communicators, checking emails and messages and the tabloids, making sure everything's in order while she dares to lounge for just a few moments.

Comments

District 8

[dreadinquisitor]

Maxwell appeared from the tribute quarters, his hair still damp and cheeks still wet from his morning shower and shave. (It had taken some getting used to, and some careful instruction, but he had rather come to like those particular developments.) At the end of the hallway, he caught sight of the bags, and Swann, all waiting expectantly and paused. Eyes flicking from the woman to the table and back again warily.

Surprises here had yet to be a good thing.

[cigne]

Swann is terribly excited to see Maxwell, or as excited as two practical strangers can possibly be. She's always excited to see everyone, because people like when you're happy to see them.

She is waving him over and holding up his bag, his name in fancy, pretty script on the gift tag. She has so many presents to give him!

"Good morning, Maxwell! Come over, come over, I have treats!"

[dreadinquisitor]

He didn't know her well yet. Their interactions had been brief, and left with him vaguely dizzy, both from the whirlwind energy she fluttered about with and her sweet perfume, lingering long after she'd gone. ...But, she didn't strike him as particularly dangerous. Overly excitable, perhaps, but oddly well-intentioned.

That, brought him closer, when he might otherwise have lingered safely out of range.

"Is there some sort of occasion?" he asked, approaching slowly, but approaching.

Hope this is okay!

[whatisay]

She's checking her communicator, and with her head down Jason takes a moment to recognize her. He never made it a point to follow SWANN or Stylistic, so his memory of the girl isn't of the elegant woman with the ponytail as high as her cheekbones.

It's of a girl, a little blonde-haired brat in a dress that cost enough to feed a family for a month, tagging along with the Compsons and the Reagans and the rest. "Go play with Jenny or someone," they'd told her. "Go play with the retard," Jason had said, cutting to the point quicker. "Maybe he actually wants you around."

But even the most aristocratic children would get bored while their parents socialized, and so there were games, hide and seek, tag, Egyptian Rat Screw, Never Have I Ever, between a ribbon of children ranging from young teens to six year-olds. Jason doesn't really look back at those games with fondness - he ended up as the butt of them as often as the younger kids, mostly due to his older siblings - but he remembers them.

"Swann Honeymead. Did the Capitol fly you in as an example to the Tributes of what happens if you blurt out seditious things?" He leans against the bar, but his eyebrows are raised in an approximation of friendliness that could let her interpret the comment as some goodnatured teasing. Not friend-to-friend, but children who were raised around each other.

NO IT'S NOT lol jk

[cigne]

It takes a moment for her to recognize Jason as well -- the Compson family name is better known than its faces. But there's something that clicks after a moment, and she remembers feeling hurt and unwanted even as she chased them around, clutching her doll. Jason and Quentin and Caddy and Cyrus, they were older and therefore better, so she didn't want to stay with Jenny and Stephen and the one that they sort of hid, the one with problems.

It's a nasty flashback, a flood of remembering how bad it felt. And Jason was always the worst one, always the meanest, and she never knew why.

Swann looks up and smiles at him, not sinking to the low that many people would. "I never said anything seditious, Jason. My guest was declared mentally insane. You know that. How are you?"

[whatisay]

"Well, a mental case wouldn't be out of place in the Capitol. Hell, wouldn't even be out of place in my family." He can joke about that, even though it comes out as hateful as it is humorous, because Swann did her share on the gossip scene. She came onto it too late to destroy the Compsons, but she's part of the same machine his family so willingly fed themselves too. She knows the stories.

There's a comfort in knowing how useless pretending would be. He taps on the bar and asks the tender for a glass of water.

"I'm as good as I can be for having an Escort job. What are you doing around these parts?"

District 8

[foundafamily]

Firo had just been poking around the kitchen when he heard the sound of someone entering the suites. They're not footsteps he recognizes, but he hasn't acquainted himself with all the other District 8 representatives.

He slips out and leans into the sitting room, studying this new person.

"Who're you?" He asks it with more wariness than rudeness; back home he'd easily assume that a face he didn't recognize was an interloper, but here he's far too recent to do that.

[cigne]

Still busy touching up the exact placement of the tissue paper in the gift bags, Swann looks up, her high ponytail bouncing around as she does. A wide smile crosses her face, and she beckons Firo into the room more fully.

If he doesn't comply, she'll just trot over and pull him.

"I'm the Escort for this District!" She's got a chirrup-y voice, matching her stature and demeanor. "My name is Swann Honeymead. You're Firo, right? You must be, you're the newest, I think!"

[foundafamily]

Firo's determined to not relent so easily to the pettier matters of this place, so he doesn't immediately move to join her. (He has to try and salvage his pride somehow).

He's not expecting her to actually make him come over, so once she grabs him he's startled enough to follow. Though he does try shaking off her hand. "...Um, yeah, that'd be me."

So many questions. Number one being why she's so peppy about this whole thing. He'll settle for what is surprisingly one of the less rudely-worded queries he has--though he's still guarded, she does seem kind of nice. "What do you want?"

suite life of zack and cody

[samson]

The past week has been pretty rough on Brock. Not that he will ever admit it, but dying messed him up in the worst way -- not that he'll really have to admit it, because the haggard look on his face should make it pretty clear to anybody who takes a look at him. Then again, his perpetually pissed-off expression helps with nobody bugging him about it. So, all in all, it works out, really.

But to the point, dying. Dying was not fun. Dying is not a thing Brock would like to repeat. Dying is not a thing Brock really wants to think about too much, so he spent most of his time over the week in the gym. It's a good way to work out your aggression without punching people in the face for snapping pictures when you're on the street, and it also has the bonus of tiring Brock out to the point where he's too exhausted to think.

When he comes into the suite to change out of his gym clothes, though, he wishes that maybe he would have left just a tiny bit of energy to use for thinking. Because as it is, he can't really parse the... goody bags...? spread out on the table like a 12-year-old's birthday party. He gives the display a confused, withering glance, his pace slowing just a little.

suite life on deck

[cigne]

"Brock!"

The voice is high and oh so very perky, and Swann is tiny next to him even in her sky-high heels. She happily presents him with his bag, marked on the tag with his name in elegant, girly script. It is filled with a variety of engraved objects and clothing, all as useless as they are expensive. The personalization says Eight is Great!, and some of the objects, like a very fancy platinum lighter, have his name on them.

"We're a team here in Eight, and we're going to start acting like it."

the suite life movie

[samson]

Brock's nonplussed expression continues throughout as he automatically holds his hands out for the bag, cradling it like some kind of mystical idol. But really, he's just having a difficult time processing all of this. What... who... why...

"Uh," he says, tilting his head to briefly glance inside at the contents. He's curious, but he doesn't want to root around like he's actually touched or excited by the gift or anything. Because he isn't! He doesn't need presents. Not like the last one he got was a coffee mug with 'World's Best Bodyguard' written on it in Sharpie and he's starved for material recognition or anything, no.

He looks back up, brow knit maybe a little suspiciously. "How..."

d8

[reallynow]

It isn't that Jolie doesn't like spoiling their tributes, it's just that she can't help but think they're liable to become too spoiled at this rate. Sure, now that Brainy was gone most of them were actually pretty good and easy to get along with, but it's the principle of the thing.

The principle being that Jolie wants a present, god damn it.

She swans into the suits, looks at the bags, looks at Swann and looks back at the bags before narrowing her eyes suspiciously at them and back to her. If she had more drinks, she'd be dizzy.

"What are you buttering them up for, Honeymead?" She sidles closer, peering curiously at the gifts.

[cigne]

"I thought," she starts, picking up one of the black bags (pink tissue paper, because that's the kind of girl Swann is), and click-clacks her way over to Jolie, "that I would make us a little more united in this District, given the way that Cal and Sergius have gone all gung-ho downstairs. After all, we want a winner, right?"

She places the bag in front of Jolie, and then opens it herself anyway, presenting objects with obvious pride, starting with a black box containing a gold unisex bracelet. Everything is engraved with Eight is Great!.

"See? We have these bracelets, and... oh, and these water bottles, look at it! I even got people's names on these. And here's a poster of all the current Tributes, I figure I can just update it every so often, and there's a nice shirt so everyone can see their pride at mandatory events -- yes, you got both a man's and a woman's version -- and this watch, look it has two little diamonds to make an 8!"

Swann is obviously terribly proud of herself, and there are still more useless, engraved objects in the bag. She beams at Jolie, looking very much like a proud little puppy who's brought her master a toy.

[reallynow]

"That's new." Jolie quips before Swann can finish her sentence, but she falls silent when she starts to make her point. She nods agreeably, but there's still some level of skepticism in her expression.

"Sure we do. Most of 'em don't need whip cracking like the lazy schmucks down there, though." For the most part, District Eight was alright. Not great, but there were at least a few people she could clock as a potential winner without much guidance. Of course, that part was Samuel's and Swann's problem. Jolie's problems stop after the first week of the Arena when they start looking shabby.

"For all of us?" Even Jolie can't look a gift.. gift in the mouth. Her manicured fingers start to ghost over the objects curiously, a small smile on her lips as she looks back to Swann. "You know most of our tributes are grumpy, scruffy men. Right?"

d8

[aintyourdad]

It doesn't take long for Joel to appear - he spends a fair amount of time in the kitchen, at least. He likes to cook, it's soothing, it takes his mind off the bad things, even temporarily.

Then again, at the sight of a new person, clearly a Capitolite, pristinely dressed, it's enough to make him turn on his heel and prepare to leave immediately. Because this can mean nothing good. No, thank you.

[cigne]

Since she's already made her presentation on the coffee table perfect, Swann is pouring herself a cup of coffee when she hears the telltale sounds of shoes on the tile. When she spins, her ponytail flies, and she is happier to see Joel than probably anyone else has been in the history of forever.

"No, Joel, come back!" she calls, flittering after him as fast as her high heels will take her. "Come back, we have to talk!"

[aintyourdad]

"No, I'm pretty sure we got nothin' to talk about," Joel says flatly, making a beeline for the door. "I'm not wearin' whatever you want to put me in, I'm not gonna diet or shave or anything else."

[drinkupmehearties]

Jack truly loves to spend time in the District 8 common area; it's his main source of endless booze, without the bother of Capitol fops and their equally as flashy women. Not that the latter was entirely unwelcome, oddly peculiar manner of dress or not.

Speaking of, the pirate is part of the way into the room when he catches sight of Swann. A pause is given, curiosity framing his expression, and then the pirate wanders closer to her and her neatly done set-up. He's spotted the bag with his name on it already, and spares her an inquisitive look.

"What's this, eh?" He should be wary that this women practically screams Capitolite, sure. But Captain Jack Sparrow has always been nothing but reluctant to ignore a pretty face.

[cigne]

"Oh!"

Swann starts when Jack approaches -- his demeanor is foreign to her, the way he saunters and flails around, his odd hair and the fact that he doesn't wear cologne to mask the smell of alcohol, like every other man in the Capitol does.

"Well, I got things for you. For everyone. You know, for morale and team unity." She smiles at him anyway, nervously, and offers his gift bag to him. "I even put your name on the flask!"

[drinkupmehearties]

He's definitely a sight to take in.

"Morale an' team unity," The pirate idly parrots the words back, distracted as he takes the bag and starts to dig into it. He tosses aside a couple items on the coffee table immediately, uninterested, then comes across the flask, lifting it up to inspect it.

"Hell and furies, look at that." There it was -- his name, engraved neatly on the smooth surface. Huh. Jack offers the woman a warm smile, then adds: "Much obliged. It's a lovely flask."

He lowers it, then. He's pretty sure he hasn't seen her yet before. "Seems you have a clue about who I am, but it doesn't 'appen to be mutual. What should I call you, luv?"

District 8.

[helpmeguideit]

Charles looks a little worse for wear. Despite this, he was dressed cleanly - a vest, perfectly fitting pants, and a collared shirt. He was going to head out to pick up some drinks for himself, and he passed the lobby on the way out. Instead of continuing onward, he stopped, seeing someone unfamiliar carefully getting organized on one of the coffee tables.

He turned. He didn't know her, but that could have meant many things. "Are you looking for someone?"

Seemed a natural question to ask someone who may be new.

[cigne]

The end of her ponytail bounces when she turns her head to look at him.

"Oh, no, just waiting for all of you to be out and about!" she chirrups, hands clasped in front of her chest, excited. "Charles, right? I'm Swann Honeymead, I'm your new Escort!"

She grabs his bag from her display and trots over to him, offering it by the handle with both hands.

"I brought some gifts, and I have a lot of ideas to go over! Would you like breakfast, or a coffee?"

[currupted]

"Whiskey sour." Leg up on the stool, briefcase on the stool beside him, elbows on the counter. He's a busy man, Minister Reagan, and the less time between ordering and leaving the better.

He looks around as he waits, tapping his fingers on the countertop with absent impatience-- and he has to look at Swann once, twice, three times, before it clicks. First glance: I've seen you before because you work here. Second glance: ...I've seen you before, but not because you work here. Third glance: I've seen you before, but damn it's been a while. The tapping stops.

God. All the old crowd's coming out of the woodwork these days. Soon he's going to start hallucinating childhood acquaintances and once-relevant TV stars where none exist. It makes sense - everyone who was around back when the Games were simpler are adapting to their brave new world, the same as he has. Just like old times!, except so completely not.

He waits until he's got his drink in his hand before he moves over one bar stool, putting a respectable but more familiar distance between them. It's awkward, public personalities meeting in public; will she recognize him for his position, or will she remember that they knew each other before either of them had position? It hardly matters. He's only being polite, after all.

He'll catch her eye, and lift his glass, and raise his eyebrows briefly-- an inquiry. Do we still know each other?

[cigne]

Swann's busy on her communicator, answering emails as she sips at her drink. She doesn't notice the man until he moves over, and when she glances up and he looks at her, there's a moment before realization washes over her face.

"Cyrus!" She beams, gets off her stool and trots the few paces to hug him, not really asking whether he wants to be hugged. It's quick, though, and she moves her purse and drink over to be closer to him.

"I knew Stephen was here, but not you! How are you? How is your family?"