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

Entry tags:

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

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.

Threaded | Flat

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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?

Threaded | Flat

District 8

Hope this is okay!

District 8

suite life of zack and cody