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

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

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Oh, but I do care. I just don't care what you think." The smile she offers him makes it hard to tell if she's joking or not, but it has a disjointed and strange insincerity to it. Like she's forgotten she's smiling, in a way.

"I want to see it on. That's why I made it. To see it on. And we never talk anymore, why don't we talk anymore?" Jolie runs a hand haphazardly over Firo's face and hair when she lets him go, pushing at him a few more times before she steps back to sit on a chair on the other side of the screen.

"I'll be right here." She assures, and she may or may not slowly start to slump into a power nap. She'll be easily roused, but also easily fooled.

"Maybe 'cause we didn't really talk in the first place?" Which isn't exactly her fault. It's something of a big change to go from living with people he's known and loved for years to these people he hardly knows and the adjustment isn't going too smoothly.

Somewhat sourly, he adds, "And you might've forgotten about the whole 'stuck in a death match for three weeks' thing."

Okay, her hands are definitely still not where he'd like them--which is off--but he bites back his protest. It doesn't seem to be working anyway. He just opts for scampering behind the refuge of the screen.

"...Okay." He'll wait just a few seconds before peering out to see if she really is there. And how alert she is.

"Maybe." She says in response to just about everything, because he makes a pretty good point. She makes a note in the back of her tired mind to seek him out and talk to him more, but for the moment she's just slowly drifting off.

Her head is drooping by the time he peers out, it makes that final dip downward that alerts her to the fact that she'll fall if she stays like this. She snaps back up, wild eyed and trying to hide the fact that she'd been sleeping at all. She zeroes in on Firo and claps her hands together, unsure of how long it's been since she blacked out.

"Come out, come out! Lemme see you!" She beckons for him to come closer. "Don't be shy, come on."

His shoulders droop noticeably when she snaps back to attention and his eyes widen with surprise. "Oh." Damn. He'd been certain she was out completely.

He has a feeling he'll wind up being dragged out if he resists, so he steps out from behind the screen. Still wearing what he was before he ran into her, the suit over which she labored still untouched on its hanger.

There's probably no point in lying to her, is there? Though he does briefly consider trying to convince her that she's dreaming and he's totally been a good little Tribute and already tried on her clothes. "I thought you were asleep, so..."

He shrugs.

Briefly, Jolie lights up like she's excited to see him. Actually, it's not brief, she remains that way for a while. It's only when he talks that she realises what probably happened.

She lets out a frustrated groan, rubbing her forehead with her fingers as if that will kick start her brain somehow. "I wanna say you're full of shit, but I'm gonna give you the benefit of the doubt." She shakes her head, trying to alert herself a little more before she sets her eyes back on him.

"So what? Put the suit on, chop chop." She brings the bubble back into her voice as best she can, trying to move on from that embarrassment as seamlessly as possible. It's not working, but the spirit is there.

He at least has the decency to look a little sheepish as he shrugs once more.

"Hey, at least I was bein' honest. You should thank me." Not that there really was anything else he could have said back there, but he thinks it deserves some gratitude.

Obligingly, he slips back behind the screen. This time he does start changing, though he's going to take his sweet old time about it--just in case she does drift off again. No one ever said Firo learned from his mistakes.

"If you're fallin' asleep like that, you should probably go take a nap." Hint hint. Spare them both from this torture.

"Thank you." She says in a voice so low and so unimpressed that it could never be mistaken for sincerity. Her expression takes on a similar feeling to her tone, her lids are lowered so she's looking almost gormless at him until he steps behind the screen and gets to work.

"It's fine, it's just a slip. Just needed to rest my eyes." She starts to drawl into a yawn, covering her mouth as she does before folding her hands over her lap. "The sooner we finish here, the sooner I get a coffee. You do not want to be the one holding me back from that, son."

"You look like more than your eyes need rest." It was probably an incredibly rude thing to say to a lady, but it was true.

Since it doesn't seem like she'll be giving up any time soon, he speeds up getting into the clothes. And with only minimal cursing, too. A moment later, he steps back out, this time actually wearing what she wants him to.

"Ta-da. There you go." He fidgets uncomfortably with the sleeves, then wiggles his arms as if he's trying to escape. He's used to having a little more bagginess to work with--none of his clothes back home were actually made to fit.

He's managed to flip up half of the collar and mis-button the jacket while wrestling himself into it.

Very rude indeed, Firo. Jolie scoffs at the brazenness of it, looking mildly offended as well as terribly, terribly tired. She has no intention of bailing on this, though, so she doesn't retort until he finishes doing what she asks him to.

"PERFECT!" She declares, clapping her hands together and yelling just a little too loud. It warrants this kind of volume, alright? It's an important day.

"You're so cute. All dressed up. Everyone is gonna wanna buy you things." This is definitely what he wants to hear, she thinks as she glides over. She circles him, looking a little uncertain before she grabs his collar and fusses it down. "Hold on." She murmurs, grabbing him by the shoulders and turning him toward her again. "Have you ever actually worn a jacket before? It's not couture to have the buttons all screwed up like that." She flits a hand at him, wanting him to readjust the buttons.

Should Firo be surprised that she's having a bizarrely enthusiastic response to this? No. Is he going to take a hesitant half-step backwards anyway? Yes.

As she approaches, he grumbles, "Can't we go for somethin' not cute..?"

Frowning the frown of someone who has been outsmarted by clothing, Firo stands stiffly as he's manhandled. He only goes to undo the incorrect buttons reluctantly. "Of course I have!" He's a man, okay. Suit jackets are his thing. Totally. "They just don't have buttons like this. Nobody needs two rows a' buttons."

"And I don't even know what couture means." He says it with a dismissive shake of his head, clearly implying that this couture thing thus must be stupid and pointless. Really, it probably just tells her of his lacking relationship with fashion, if that weren't already obvious enough.

The hesitation is basically being ignored as over-dramatics at this point, so sayeth the Queen of over-dramatics. She clucks at him and steps back once the buttons are aligned better, raising her hand to her chin to stroke contemplatively.

"But you are cute." She argues, spreading her hands to the side as if there's absolutely nothing she can do in this situation. Clearly she's tried nothing and she's all out of ideas.

"Everybody needs two. Be glad I don't give you four and let you make a sad attempt at that." She rolls her eyes. "It's fashion, honestly. High fashion. We need to make a statement, it's crucial." She raises a finger, as if taking it upon herself to be stern. "Every time you leave the tower, you need to look amazing."

Arguing that gangsters can't be cute seems to be a losing battle, so he scowls and doesn't argue that point. For now. He'll need to try and recover his dignity some day. He also refrains from pointing out that he doesn't see space for four buttons, for fear that she'll make space. Somehow.

"Hate to break it to you, but that ain't gonna happen." He shrugs, not meaning it as a threat or to be deliberately difficult. It's a simple inevitability.

"Anyway, can't you make a statement by, like, not makin' a statement? My bosses say stuff like that." He waves his hands around aimlessly as he clarifies, "Like if a guy tries to take you out and instead of takin' him out like he'd expect, you do somethin' else." He nods firmly. Stabbing people, fashion--there's definitely a connection here.

"I mean, I've never tried it before, but he says it really catches people off guard."

"See, you say you aren't cute but then you go tell me stuff like that and act like I care." She's joking, mostly, but she folds her arms over her chest and shakes her head at him.

"You want food? Knives? You'll look good. If you're not making a statement, you'll get overlooked, and you're already short." She says that matter-of-factly, breezing on with the conversation easily. "So unless you're going out in some boring trench coat and shedding it off to reveal something incredible, you aren't really making much of anything. It's all about the look when you're out of the Arena."

He opens his mouth to protest--particularly the short comment, because rude--but the train that is Jolie's mouth just runs right over him. "And you say that like I care," he mimics, because he has too many things he wants to say to that and also because wit isn't Firo's strong point.

He sighs and gives an exaggerated shrug. "You've already gone over that, remember? Or is your memory fallin' asleep on the job too?"

If Sena were here, she'd probably be tempted to smack him for being so impolite, but he's starting to wonder if that's the best way to deal with someone like Jolie. If someone hits you, you hit back. Somebody sasses you, you cook up some mild sass in return.

But the knives reminds him that he's been meaning to tell her something for a while, so with barely a pause he goes through an abrupt shift of gears. Ducking his head to avoid eye contact, he adds, "...Thanks for that, by the way. The... uh, help in the Arena. Not the lecture." He won't say he's grateful for the note, because that would imply being sentimental, which he is definitely not.

There's a long moment of surprise when Firo comes back around with her own words. She seems to veer on offended and amused before a laugh escapes her lips and she goes entirely in that direction. Offended she is not, just further endeared to Firo and his weird humor.

"Have I?" She asks, uncertain and suspicious. She reflects, then there's a visible second of realistion that she inelegantly tries to hard. "Oh, shut up. I did not." She waves him off, sticking her nose in the air until he starts to talk again.

Surprise lights her features once again and she takes a long moment to stare at him, as if waiting for him to be an ass about it. "That's the kind of thing that happens when you get sponsors." She points out, flicking at her wig primly while she soaks up the smug moment. "But you're welcome, doll. It's the least I could do."

Please, Firo can be not an ass about things. Sometimes.

A transient smile of amusement flickers onto his face at her posturing. "...Sure. I guess if there's any way I can pay you back..." He shrugs.

It's her job; that's another thing she's told him more than once. But he still doesn't like the idea of unpaid debts.

He can't help but wrinkle his nose at 'doll,' his mind jumping back all too easily to his first day at Alcatraz and a certain slightly unnerving and very enraging encounter with a fellow inmate.

Maybe some unsolicited advice can be her payment. "I know you don't like takin' advice, but you really shouldn't call a guy 'doll,' by the way. It makes you sound creepy."

"You can pay me back by wearing what I tell you to wear and doing what I tell you to do." Simple enough, right? The only movement in her expression is an arch of her eyebrow, daring him to disagree with the sentiment. She holds the look for a while, but it shifts some when he offers her advice.

She crinkles her nose in turn, shaking her head to make her feelings on the matter clear. "It's not creepy. You're creepy for thinking it's creepy." Ah, yes. Flawless logic. "Besides, guys can be dolls. Literally and figuratively. But if it means that much to you, I can call you sweetie or darling or honey."

He thinks it over for a moment, then shrugs. "I'll pay you back by considerin' it."

That reasoning is more than a little dizzying. All thoughts of debts and payment fall right out of Firo's head as he holds up his hands, as if warding off an attack. "Hang on, what?" Should he even ask about any of that? Probably not.

He sighs, posture slipping into a slouch. "I have a name. You know what it is."

"Wow, I'm so grateful. I pay good money to help you and you pay me with consideration. What are you, a raffle?" She rolls her eyes rather pointedly, and if she keeps doing that she's going to make herself extremely dizzy. Worth it, though.

"You heard me." She says with a smug air, because he's not the only one who knows how to be a little shit here. "Of course I know your name, it's adorable." A hand reaches out to poke his cheek and she's damn close to poking him in the eye instead, a bizarre smile spread on her face when she holds her stare.

He doesn't have a comeback of any sort, so he just grins like the jerk he is.

That is, until she comes right back with the insults; 'adorable' is definitely an insult.

"Yeah, okay, before you blind me--" he backs away to try and dodge the poking. "How about you go get that coffee now? Or, better yet, go back to your room and sleep for a week?" And he's genuinely not just saying that because he wants to get out of this! ...He also wants to not have his eye poked out. And maybe he can admit that it would do her some good.

"Whatever you've gotta finish up can't be that important." Firo'd die before he left his work undone, but he's pretty sure casino management is much more critical than clothing management.

When Firo backs up, Jolie folds her arms over her chest like she's petulant over him enjoying his eyes unscathed.

"I don't need to go anywhere to get coffee, that's what Avoxes are for." She points out, brow furrowed before she cranes her neck to glance around for one. It isn't worth it to her to prove the point, though, so she waves him off.

"It can be important. Very important. I'm not gonna explain why again, dunderhead." She's not sure if he's sincerely concerned or if he just likes finding reasons to tell her off, but either way she's pretty set on staying where she is. The idea of going to bed right now is wholly unappealing, so here she stayrs.

As he watches, Firo almost thinks she is going to have an Avox get that coffee and that'll be the end of that. But, no, she stands firm.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Please don't explain it again." He shrugs, finally about ready to give up the argument. She can make her bed and lie in it (or not) and that's her business. Besides, it's not like talking to her is unpleasant, so why bother trying to drive her off?

He is curious about why she's so determined, though. He picks absently at one of the buttons on the suit jacket. "Anyway, not that I really care, but aren't you gonna mess up your clothes if you work on 'em while you have the coordination of a drunk?"

"Good." She says curtly, feeling a little childish for how smug she feels. Clearly he understands, that's a start. Maybe she won't have to trot that rant out yet again.

She swats the air in front of his hand when he picks at the button. "You can get changed, if you want. The fit is good, it's fine." That's clearly what matters here, the next part is secondary. "Nope. Trust me. I have sewing while drunk down to a fine art. It's just part of the job description, honestly. If you can't embroider while you're wasted out of your gourd then you're in the wrong line of work or you need some good assistants."

Firo may not care too much for fit, but it's still good news to him. He nods and darts behind the curtain again.

"Is that how they pick people for this job? Get you fried to the hat and see what you can do?" It would explain so, so much, he thinks. Not about Jolie, specifically, but all the outfits he's seen.

In a way, he is a bit curious about what a Capitol job interview is like, as he imagines it's pretty damn different from the way the Camorra does things. To be expected when comparing an illegal enterprise to something that's insane but still legitimate.

"Not exactly like that, but I was so drunk from the night before I don't think I slept it all off. I think I was like. Fifty percent wasted. Maybe more like sixty. And I still showed up and nailed it, somehow. Then I came home and threw up." She smiles dreamily as she walks herself down memory lane, then realises she probably shouldn't have told him as much so she clears her throat.

"Usually if you land an interview they know they like you anyway. It's practically a formality at that point, they'll have seen your portfolio and shit." She twirls her hand through the air, even if he's getting changed and can't see it. "People who can't sew like they're breathing don't make it long around here, let me tell you. I know people who tried to get by relying on assistants, it doesn't last."

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

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