Trey [Très Jolie] Pierce (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
reallynow) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-03-24 07:45 pm
reallynow) wrote in thecapitol2015-03-24 07:45 pm
Entry tags:
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.
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.
no subject
"You're telling me. There's no room for slacking with the workload we get." And she knows it doesn't remotely compare to what the Tributes have to go through, but she wonders if they really know how much goes into dressing them and celebrating them and promoting them so they have a chance.
"Hell no." She crinkles her nose. "It's not that morbid. It's your reputation you're burying, though. You'll always be that asshole fired from a reputable position."
no subject
He shrugs, almost laughing. "And I suppose that's just as good, huh? Life can be a livin' hell if nobody's willin' to be seen with you and your sorry reputation." It happens sometimes. A guy too connected will just be killed, but a tangential associate might merely be tainted for life and forced to walk alone. He doesn't get the charity of a quick death.
He wonders if there are other ways for them to get fired, though; what if their Tributes don't do well? Does that mean anything?
He hopes not. He doesn't want that pressure, even if he feels conflicted about that thought.