And if I'm dead to the world, what you gon' do? [open]

[reallynow]

Who| Jolie and OPEN, prompt for D8ers specifically.
What| Jolie tries a multitude of failed coping mechanisms such as sleep deprivation, over working and hitting on people in a dead to the world daze.
Where| District 8, primarily. The Lobby Bar and around the tower as well.
When| After the arena, before Crowning.
Warnings/Notes| Unhealthy coping mechanisms, not dealing with feelings. Probably NSFW because lbr, it's Jolie.

Jolie could say it's been a bad week. She could say it's been a bad month. It wouldn't be a lie, but it's more and more obvious that this is the pacing she can expect in her life. You make friends, you lose them. Forever. It's hard to even accept the fact that losing people is a near weekly thing now. It used to be once a year. But she never used to know Tributes like that either. It's the sort of thing that warrants a sick day, a bottle of Kahlua and a long cry on the couch while ripping furiously at pictures in magazines. With Crowning around the corner? Jolie can't afford it. Hell, it isn't even about monetary value anymore. It's that she has an obligation to her Tributes, and she always has, but with two of them disappearing and the execution of another, her District's reputation needs to be resurrected from a bitter death. She doesn't doubt Swann will do her part, but she needs to do something big.

Maybe. Anyway. Maybe she's just looking for distractions. She gets about midway through that day off before she's slinking back into her workroom in the District Eight Suites so she can get to work. Her assistants and avoxes are flurrying around getting bolts of fabric and taking orders. Every so often, someone might have the misfortune of being barked at and kicked out of the room so they can go shit someone else's bed. This goes on for a few days at least, fueled by Capitol brand energy drink and inspiration and a whole lot of self denial.

Jolie has had about 3 hours sleep in 3 days. Beware.

[Open for D8 people.]
Periodically through the last few days of her spree, Jolie will shuffle out into the Commons and the Kitchens in search of people. When she finds you, she'll take you by the hand and mutter all the while about messy brow lines, spot remover and how suits are going to be all everyone is wearing. How wrong, how sad.

Once she leads you in, she'll sit you down and hover her hands over you for a moment and wobble off. It seems like she's in search of things she's made, but she seems to just bounce back abruptly with tweezers or a tissue to fuss with your face. THEN and then only she'll shuffle backward to drag a rolley-rack of garments forward. This is the part where she haphazardly tries to uncover it in the least dramatic fashion while the sheet gets stuck in almost every hanger. But she gets there.

"Come look, come look." She beckons toward herself, stroking a hand over a nearby jacket and whispering in a soft, awe filled voice. "It's hand-beaded. I hand-beaded it. With my hands." A wobbly, lopsided smile crosses her lips and she very briefly looks like she might cry out of pride. Or exhaustion. Or a lot of things.

[Out and About.]
In order to escape the allure of sleep, Jolie decides she's going to free herself from the little self-imposed prison she's put herself in. She doesn't spare a glance at the mirror, but her eyelash is so lopsided it's fuzing her eye part of the way down, her wig is lopsided and so is one of her tits. It's about 6pm and she's venturing into the commons, placing her hands on her hips. "What's for breakfast?" She glances to the side, to the window, realising it's dark outside and clamping a hand over her mouth in an attempt to fend off a wave of giggles. "Fuck. It's dark outside. How fucking early is it?" She has no idea, don't break the illusion.

When she peels herself away from her District, her walking lacks the power and elegance she usually moves with. It's punctuated by wobbles and teeters to the side, followed by the occasional snort. She doesn't realise she's wearing one purple, glittery shoe and one cheetah print one. They're similar heights, that's all that matters right?

She, somehow, makes her way down to the Lobby Bar and almost slams into the bar before she pulls herself up onto the stool. Anyone would think she's had a drink already, but this will be her first. She peruses the menu before ordering a few fruity cocktails in rapid succession, like she's about to chow down on a mcd's meal. Now she's free to turn to the person to her side, trying to prop her chin on her hand and missing the first few times before she finally manages to do it.

"How you doin'?" She asks, looking anything but demure as she tries to flutter her eyelashes. And fails. Because they're stuck together. Whatever, she's already decided whoever is across from her is the new love of her life, so they'll probably die. But this is destiny, and she just seems really happy to see you.

[Later, in the workroom.]
Somehow. Miraculously. Jolie brings herself back up to the District Eight suites. It's not worth going home, nah. She'll just keep working, that sounds good. She can sleep when she's done. Or after Crowning, probably. There's so much left to do and so little time. She picks up a vest and starts to try something of a hand embroidery on it. She fucks it up, cusses it out and keeps trying, but eventually her head starts drooping and she sets it down. Just a few minutes. She'll just close her eyes and get some focus back.

Within a minute, she's snoring into her arms and hunched over the desk. It isn't the most comfortable place to be sleeping and the door is wide open for the world to see that she is precariously close to falling off her chair.

Comments

[last prompt]

[fuckingcool]

Let's be clear, here: Oceana has her own shit to be doing. She's got Tributes to dress, assistants to bark orders at, costumes to finalize. But she's also heard that her drag mother, practically the only person she considers family at this point, is a hot mess lately, and that's so wrong in and of itself that it justifies stepping away from her work for an hour or two to check in on Jolie. And, shit, that's what assistants are for, right? Give them a chance to work for their paycheck.

Oceana marches down to Eight, shimmery mermaid heels stomping out a quick staccato across the glossy marble floor as she barks at an Avox for Jolie's whereabouts. Predictably, she points at the ppen workroom door, and Oceana sets her mouth into a grim line. Of course.

She's expecting chaos; she's expecting a similar scene to her own workroom. What she's not expecting is to see her mommy dearest, passed out at her work table. Immediately, Oceana's heart melts a little, because the scene is surprisingly sweet. It's almost like Jolie has a vulnerable side.

She crosses the room, not bothering to make her steps quiet, and takes one of Jolie's shoulders in hand, shaking her just enough to get her to rouse.

"Wake up, bitch. Don't you know that it's me that's supposed to be the hot mess in this joint?"

[reallynow]

Despite being high on Jolie's list of priorities, the Queen hasn't been too overbearing as of late. It's almost as if she truly believes Oceana is ready to take her training heels off, but it's mostly because she hates letting her see her like this. She's aware that she's been a better role model and guardian to her than her genetic relations, so it sickens her to be a bad influence of this variety.

Besides, she's a big girl. She's in a committed relationship, in a good and well-paying career and she practically doesn't need Jolie to pick her up off the floor and tuck her in anymore. Jolie is incredibly proud and simultaneously ashamed, but she's a little too out of it to really think about that at the moment.

She squawks in surprise at the jostle, lurching upward and grabbing defensively at her vest. "IT'S NOT SPIDERS." She screeches in delirious confusion, gripping the fabric protectively as she slowly realises she isn't actually being critiqued by some blind bitch. "It's not spiders..." She repeats in a more mild tone, turning bleary eyed to look confusedly at Oceana. "Since when are you up so early, slag?"

[fuckingcool]

Oceana's not expecting such a violent reaction to being woken up, and she jumps back from Jolie's squawking in mingled fear and worry. What the fuck is happening, what is she going on about--oh, god. Her eyelash. Her fucking eyelash is wonky and normally Oceana would be pissing herself laughing but there's something so very tragic about the sight that she can't even muster a giggle.

"It's okay, mama, it's just me." She purses her lips at the interrogation. Really? Really? The younger queen arches an eyebrow. "It's like...10:30, girl. At night." She sniffs, picking up the singular and very familiar scent of vodka. "Have you been drinking?" Oh, god, Oceana's going to have to stage an intervention. The bitch that thinks that eight olives in a glass of vodka constitutes a meal is going to have to stage an intervention. They're all screwed.

[reallynow]

"Oh god it's you." She rolls her eyes, practically lolling her head dramatically to accentuate the movement. That's when her brain catches up with her and she realises shit it is her. She's looking a mess in front of her daughter and that's a very sobering thought. She straightens up as best she can, as if good posture makes up for everything else.

"Right. Of course. Isn't that early for you?" She deflects, waving her off airily and then waving at herself as if that will fan away the smell of alcohol somehow. Wait- why is she ashamed of that? Of course she's been drinking. OF COURSE SHE'S BEEN DRINKING.

"YES." She barks, pointing a finger defensively at Oceana. "I've been a lot. Drinking. I have drunk today. It's healthy. I had fruit and I am ready to go." She declares, trying to pick up her needle again but struggling with the small task.

[fuckingcool]

"Jesus. Love you too," Oceana bites back, no real venom behind her voice. She knows--how could she not know?--that Jolie's having a tough time of it. Losing two of her Tributes? Plus the whole Bro thing. That would fuck anybody up. So she ignores the jibe against her sleep habits, eyes narrowing as Jolie owns up to her drinking.

"Honey. Mama. Come here--no, you don't need that needle. You are not ready to go. You can't even pick that shit up." Gently, Oceana goes for the wrists, tugging her away without trying to seem like she's being commandeering. "Are you gonna tell me what's up?"

[Out and about]

[broken_gospel]

"I'm doing better than you, by the look of things."

Sam is sitting on a bar stool, avoiding sleep himself because it really doesn't do him much good anyway what with all the nightmares he's been having lately.

"Since you're trying to make bedroom eyes at me I can only assume that you didn't even see that it was me, which means you really shouldn't be here."

And if she won't get her ass in bed willingly, he is going to throw her over his shoulder and carry her there.

[reallynow]

There's a lot of shade in that comment, Sam. It's enough to make her mouth hang open in surprise, partly because he's right and she wasn't paying attention and partly because it's so unlike her to be ill prepared for a come back that she's gone into a mild state of shock.

"For your information, my eyelashes are glued together." She sniffs, tilting her chin up and reaching hopelessly for what she hopes is a drink. What she winds up with is a salt shaker, so she'll just point that menacingly at Sam and accidentally scatter salt on him when she does. "Other than that, I'm fine. Peachy. This ain't a pissing contest about who copes better because we're both at a bar at dawn." It's actually 7pm, but she seems to think it's 7am.

[broken_gospel]

"Okay babe," he brushes the salt off himself and gets to his feet, remaining his frustratingly calm and unflappable self.

"Here's what we'll do. I am going to take you to your room, and either you walk next to me or you hang over my shoulder. It's not dawn, it's evening and that means bedtime."

[reallynow]

"Don't babe me." It's definitely frustrating how chill he is about everything, especially when she's clearly spoiling for a fight here. One of her drinks finally arrives and she eagerly raises it to her lips to take a swig before setting it down and folding her arms challengingly over her chest.

"It was a joke. I was joking. It was funny." She tilts her chin up again. "Sit down, fool. I'm here to drink, I'll go for a nap when I damn well feel like it! And I don't feel like it now, so I'm not going." And the Oscar for redundancy goes toooooo... Jolie!

D8

[foundafamily]

Firo'll be quietly messing around in the kitchen when he's cornered found. He's been doing his best to keep to himself these past few days, not looking forward to a lecture or some rah-rah win for 8 encouragement.

He's not displeased to see Jolie, though--there's something he's been meaning to mention anyway--but he soon wonders if he should be. Because she seems to have gone freaking insane.

He weathers the weird fussing and muttering with, admittedly, a lot of grumbling and complaining and waving of hands, but eventually he'll resign himself to sitting back and watching the show.

When she unveils the cart, the first thing in his head is that he is never going not be caught dead wearing that stuff. The second thing is that, as he listens to her speak, she's definitely gone off the deep end. And probably done a couple backflips on the way.

"...I can't tell if you really need a drink or if you've had way too much."

[reallynow]

Frankly, Firo dear, Jolie doesn't care what you'd be caught dead in. Besides, he was already caught dead in an ugly parka, so clearly adjustments must be made. It's alright to have terrible taste, that's why she's here to dress him. So well. He'll be so pretty. Beaded. Pretty and beaded.

She laughs to herself, seemingly forgetting that he's both watching her and speaking to her. Eventually she comes back into consciousness enough to splay a hand over her chest defensively.

"Excuse me? I am a professional. I am one hundred percent sober." She declares, pulling a hanger off the rail and thrusting the suit at him. "Put it on. Putitonputitonputiton." There's a dressing screen in the corner of the room and she's already herding him toward it.

[foundafamily]

If Jolie cut a more imposing figure, Firo'd be extremely concerned about that laughing. All the people he's met who laughed like that were psychos who, surprise, wanted him dead.

As it is, he's only really concerned.

"If you're sober, then what's wrong with you?"

The outfit doesn't look all that bad compared to what he's sure the alternative could be, but he's reluctant in taking it nonetheless. He considers digging his heels into the floor and trying to fight being shoved around too, but it's less trouble to not resist.

And maybe he can use this to his advantage. As in, hope she's so off her rocker that he can just hide behind the screen and not change at all. It's not like she's going to check or anything, right?

[reallynow]

If Firo doesn't think Jolie is imposing, there's a high chance he hasn't had a heel thrown at his head. Though it is true that she has no intention of hurting him, weird spell or not. He's too cute, like a puppy or a really nice mahogany coffee table with artsy handles. That is, clearly, his aesthetic.

"Me?" Her voice reaches a pitch that nonchalant people's voices don't tend to reach, it also doesn't come down much as she continues. "Nothing, nothing. I'm great. I'm just excited." She spreads her hands and waggles them, because that's what excited people do. Jazz hands.

It's quite possible she won't notice, but she's focused on getting him over there so she's grabbing at the crook of his arm like an over eager school girl. "C'mon you, I slaved over this the least you could do is put it on and let me pretend I care what you think." She says that, gasps and puts a hand over her mouth. "Did I say that outloud? Yes? Good." She's used that joke before, but nobody is here to point it out so the cameras can keep rolling.

[aintyourdad]

Joel is watching Jolie far more than he's bothering to look at the clothes on the rack. He knows her by now, knows that she'll find some way to embarrass him at the Crowning, as she always does, but that's really the least of his problems. (As long as she doesn't shave his beard, his body hair has suffered enough indignity lately.)

No, what he's doing is checking the dark circles under her eyes, and the manic way she keeps moving about the room.

"You should take it easy on the caffeine," is all he says.

[reallynow]

It breaks Jolie's heart to be in a District full of men who don't know what chartreuse is or care about an asymmetrical cut and what it could do for them. She could cry, and probably legitimately would at this rate.

"A week before crowning?" She snorts, teetering back toward him to rest casually against the table behind her. "You're cute. That's funny." It's said with immense sarcasm, but Jolie sincerely laughs and falls into silence when she realises it wasn't that funny. "C'mere, you've got schmutz on your face." She reaches out to try rub at his cheek with his thumb, managing to miss and clip his ear instead.

[aintyourdad]

"You've got way more schmutz than me," Joel answers coolly, taking her wrist and holding her hand gently but firmly away from his face. Please don't touch the face, Jolie.

"What's up?"

Because this is way more than just pre-Crowning stress. He knows what that looks like.

[reallynow]

Jolie's first reaction to all of this is to suck in an offended breath as if she's taken aback by this hostility. It fades fast and she pulls her hand back, very lightly grazing her fingers over her own cheek.

"It's not schmutz, it's make-up. Look it up!" She puts her hands defiantly on her hips, frowning at him for his trouble. "What's up is a crowning in a week and a bunch of no-hopers who won't pretend to be excited over beads. I dunno if you noticed, but we're down two and that means you're all going to have to look flawless if we want to keep sponsors even remotely interested." Her frown deepens, just barely forming lines on her face that no amount of botox can hide. "It's not looking good for us. That's all."

D8 prompt!

[drinkupmehearties]

Jack had draped himself over on the couch in the Suite Commons, half-asleep and barely paying attention to whatever inane nonsense was playing on the screen, when Jolie totters in to interrupt and abruptly haul the pirate away to another room. It comes as somewhat of a surprise to him, as the two of them had spent the better part of the last week or so skirting around each other's presence with not much more than a few passing acknowledgements whenever they happened to cross paths.

But obviously something is off about her right now, with all the muttering and fluttering about that she's doing, as if she's far far off in her own little world and suddenly in full-blown Capitol Stylist Mode. Jack is honestly content to merely drape himself over the chair and watch the mess of a show unfold before him with lifted eyebrows until Jolie fusses at his face, and then the pirate attempts to wave her off with both hands. "Oi oi, no need for that."

Eventually the invitation to come over prompts Jack to drag himself up from the chair and leisurely wander over to the rack of clothes that Jolie so gracefully presents to him. He gives the clothes a once over without much real care for it, then lets his gaze slip over to her with a what looks like a smidgen of actual concern.

"As amazing as it is, truly, hand-beaded and all -- what's amiss, luv? You're not actin' much like yourself."

[reallynow]

There was a good reason for distancing from Jack, Jolie is sure of it. In the mess of things, a kiss mishap seems like much less of a big deal than it might have been at the time. Is she still attracted to him? Yes. Is it awkward? Of course. But it won't stand in her way, she knows that much.

Beyond that, she has no idea that she's acting strangely. This is mostly because she can't hear herself muttering out loud and she doesn't realize she's humming in a disjointed manner either. She seems offended when he won't let her near his face, which is incredibly hypocritical of her.

Finally, Jack is approaching the clothing and Jolie kooks prouder than a mother sending her children off to school. Her smile falters a little when he turns his attention to her and she waves him off. "Why does everyone keep turning it all on me? I'm fine! It's all peachy." She throws her hands up, bangles jingling as she does. "I'm so me it hurts, and I'll be more-me when you put that on." She presses forward to give him a helpful nudge, expression full of eager interest.

[drinkupmehearties]

Similarly, Jack has dealt with dismissals or rejections enough times to smoothly brush off the incident and continue onward. He could -- and wanted to -- chalk it up to a moment of damned weakness and lapse in judgement caused by his death in the Arena. Because that was definitely the reason for it.

Her insistence that she's totally fine, however, earns a unbelieving squint from him and a summarily furrowed brow. "Is that how it is, eh. I'd beg to differ on the matter." As flippant as Jack sometimes acted, the pirate had a keen knack for reading even the most difficult people. It was a useful skill that helped the pirate maneuver people, most times, in the direction he wanted them to go.

But at this point, honestly, Jolie was practically shouting not okay.

"Because, as it is, from what I can tell, you look like you haven't had a wink of sleep in days. And p'rhaps climbed your way into the bottom o' a few bottle in the meanwhile. Not that I'd be one to judge." She nudges him to try the jacket, but Jack doesn't exactly move.

[reallynow]

The way Jack pokes holes in her very thin facade is making her more frantic, because she really doesn't like being fussed over the way she fusses over people. This means she's being obvious, this means her careful attempt to look preoccupied isn't working. It's a travesty and she won't stand for it, so she just keeps pretending.

"Whaaaat? Drinking? No. I'm a professional." Clearly. She gives him a pointed look, daring him to try and debate that given the past events that they've been ignoring. "I'd be better if you assholes would just try your damn clothes like the good apes you are." There's vitriol in her voice, but it isn't necessarily directed at him and it shows. She turns to take the jacket off the hanger and steps forward to drape it over Jack's shoulders if she can catch him.

[Out and About]

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden shouldn't be here, but he's backsliding, hitting the bottle harder than ever now that Morphling has left a gaping, empty hole in his life. With a doctor's blessing to not quit all of his vices cold turkey, he's having a hard time with phrases like "tapering off" and words like "moderation," and after recently having his first drink in several weeks, he's remembering that it's a fantastic way to drown out an increasingly more frustrating existence.

District 6 is on the rocks, and now, so is his whiskey. Yay, consistency.

Someone staggers up beside him, and for a moment, he tries to pay them no mind, bracing the left side of his face against his hand and staring straight ahead at the bar back. He hears the extravagant order, and though the world is fuzzier and warmer now, the voice sounds familiar enough that he's turning toward it just as Jolie seems to be looking through him rather than at him. She does not look her typical poised and sassy self; a far cry from it, and he's recoiling slightly, trying to think of a delicate way to ask what the hell is wrong. Coming from a notorious media magnet trainwreck like Linden, it means a lot, no matter how he phrases it.

"Jolie, what happened? Are...you OK?"

[reallynow]

Rumors about Linden haven't escaped Jolie's ears, but none of them have been terribly surprising. Why would he do good in a place like this? Why would anyone? Even the most privileged people in the tower seem to endure precarious hurdles of bullshit. It's been her intention to reach out for Stephen through his awkward patch, but she's not particularly sure how to help Linden. All she knows is that she doesn't fault him for smacking Compson, but she can't say how smug that makes her.

Not that any of that particularly matters at this moment, Jason and Stephen are far, far removed from her mind. All she can think about is the fact that she really, really needs a buzz and it needs to be so much more satisfying than sleep.

It's probably telling that it takes her a long moment to realise she's being spoken to. She smiles for an awkward amount of time, then blinks, then tilts her head to the side as if desperately confused about what he's talking about.

"Wha? I'm fine!" Clearly this is true because she's throwing a hand up to illustrate her point. "Fine and busy. You know how it is, right? It's busy-time. This time and basically every other time." She circles her hand in the air before shrugging and dropping it. "Anyway. I asked how you were." Nice deflection.

[dead_black_eyes]

Helping Linden is something that seems like a good idea in theory but in practice is a lot trickier. Even when he wants help, is actively grasping for it and expressing a desire to get clean, he's lived his life in the thrall of certain vices for so long that they get votes too, overwhelming him and dragging him under even if he goes down fighting. So far he's managed to stay away from Morphling since the staff retreat. That's a hell of an achievement for the man, even if drinking is a crutch he still needs to lean on.

He looks uncertainly at Jolie's clumpy eyelashes, eyes trailing down over lopsided breasts to her mismatched shoes, and then back again to the enthusiastic gesture. "I know how it is," he confirms slowly in measured tones; like most seasoned alcoholics, he knows how to sound less drunk than he is. "And you did, but the thing is these days that everyone seems to know more about it than I do. You could tell me," he offers dryly.

He shakes his head, reflecting on her drink order after briefly considering buying her one. She hardly needs it, does she? "Are things all right in 8?" he presses. "I only ask because..." he cups a hand at his own bony chest, pantomiming a breast out of place.

[reallynow]

As meddlesome as Jolie is, even she knows when something needs a considerable amount of dedication. It doesn't seem fair to get so heavily involved when she can't even get her ducks in a row, but she can't fight the urge to try overbearingly mother and help when she thinks it's necessary. Even when it probably isn't necessary.

And yet, she's both endeared and annoyed by Linden within this very conversation. He's coming off sweeter than she's expected of him so far, but she can't help but raise her hackles when he seems to turn the helpful tables on her.

"Nothing new. Nothing I can't.. Ah. Uhh..." She trails off, slowly tilting her head to the side as he gestures before she glances down at herself. "Oh.. shit." She seems surprised, then a little sheepish, but then she's snorting the unattractive snort of someone who is far too amused over something stupid. "If my tits are a sign of the time we're already well into end of days, Lockhearst." And she'll just shove a hand down her shirt to adjust the stuffing she has stuffed down there. "We lost a few Tributes. Good ones." She sighs, moving back to lean against the bar as one of many drinks is set down. "Kind of get used to not losing people."