I get dizzy when I think of all the ways we try to hide our maladies [OPEN]

[capitolprivilege]

Who| Stephen and anyone who isn't actively participating in the break-in!
What| A big, big party to celebrate the soccer match, and also to celebrate Stephen being much less of a disgrace than he was. This is the party that made it into Celebrus, people. The Capitol elite is invited, and so is anyone involved with the Games! ...except for the people Cyrus crossed off the guest list behind Stephen's back.
Where| An event hall in the Capitol
When| Backdated to the Binding plot, the night of the break-in.
Warnings/Notes| Capitol gilding-over of atrocious things. Disney-ified portrayals of the Districts. Avoxes being used as furniture. And what you bring with you.

For having such a short time to plan it, Stephen and Porrim have really outdone themselves. The event hall is round, with a hallway leading to a large, circular, central room and smaller rooms ringing the outside. The main area is half ballroom, half dining area: the dance floor is off to one side, large enough to accommodate anyone who wants to dance, but with the lights low enough to make it feel intimate and un-intimidating even if only a few feel like dancing. The translucent mist that whirls around the area helps with the intimate atmosphere without impeding visibility badly enough to make dancing difficult. The other half of the room is round tables, kept clean and refreshed with food by wait staff who will bring the guests just about anything they ask for. The wait staff are all perfectly groomed, polite, and in possession of their tongues.

The decor is soccer-themed, but soccer as it would have been imagined by the ancient Greeks. Marble statues of athletes (clothed or half-clothed or with strategically carved folds of cloth) are tastefully placed around the low-lit room. The Greco-Roman aesthetic characterizes the whole room: carved pillars hold up the sound system and the tables, embossed vases whose figures are animated adorn the tables as centerpieces, and the wait staff is dressed in sporty chitons and peploses. It's Classically classy, but the sports imagery and the popular dance music that's muted enough in the dining area to allow people to talk make it informal enough to be comfortable.

At even intervals around the center room are twelve doors. Each one has a Roman numeral on it. Step through any one of them and it will take you to a recreation of the corresponding District that's both full of real props and holographic images. The technology isn't as good as Gamemaker illusions and certainly doesn't feel as real as the dream tech, but it can be interacted with, even if it doesn't "feel" real. You can "pick up" a dandelion in District 12 and blow its seeds away. You can run a hand through the water of a District 4 beach and pier and watch the ripples spread. Each District room has comfortable seating, themed food, and appropriately-dressed wait staff; there are even cast members re-enacting District life around the dining areas, giving each room a sense of authenticity. It looks, sounds, smells, and tastes like the District it's imitating, just -- better. Cleaner.

Oh, also, those who participated in the soccer game and won will be given laurel crowns made of solid gold.

District One is a balcony of a manor house, overlooking a perfect view of manicured gardens. You're not outdoors, but it sure feels like it. The tableware is sparkling gold, the chairs made of silky fabric that is a joy to touch but doesn't seem to stain, and being there will make you feel like a prince or princess.

District Two is clearly built into the inside of a mountain. There are broad, open windows, of course, letting in plenty of fresh air, and the walls and floor and ceiling are impeccably carved, but it's all made of natural stone. Outside, down in the valley, you can see Careers and Peacekeepers training.

District Three is a charred husk no, not at all, that would be tasteless. Three looks like Tron: Legacy. Glowing LED lines run through the walls and furniture, and it all looks so clean and spotless it can't be entirely real. The tables are angular, unnatural, and around the dining area are color-changing glow pools.

District Four is a broad pier that juts out from a beach into the ocean. The sand is real, but the water is not -- don't worry, you won't ruin your clothes if you fall in! The sun is setting, painting the sky beautiful colors, and there's no mistaking that sea-salt smell. Off to the side, attractive fishermen and fisherwomen work to bring in the seafood the Capitol enjoys so much. Rough-hewn but splinterless wooden tables and comfortable canvas chairs are on the pier, with an awning above to keep the sun off. Part of the pier is made of glass, so you can look down and watch the tiny fish as they swim around.

District Five is a power plant, but an elegant one. Lightning crackles across the walls and ceiling, leaping between metal rods in a dazzling display. But don't worry: it's not real. You can touch it if you want. It'll cling to your fingers for a few seconds before sparking out. The hum it makes is quiet and unobtrusive white noise.

District Six is lovely, if Stephen does say so himself. It's a series of luxuriously-furnished train cars, with realistic-looking, picturesque scenery rushing past that reflects the geography of all twelve Districts. The floor hums gently; it feels like you're really moving. In one of the train cars can be found one District 6 Mentor, Linden Lockhearst -- usually. He's been part of the party's marketing: he has promised to, at this party, disprove fortune-telling completely. Come talk to him! You'll be surprised at what he can tell you about you. ♥

District Seven is a tree house! It's about a hundred feet up in the crisp, pine-fresh air, affording a gorgeous view of the surrounding forest. Birds sing, deer frolic below, and stunningly attractive lumberjacks can be seen going past, hard at work. They're also very attractive. Look, Stephen and Porrim planned this party -- what did you expect? Go watch the lumberjacks. It's worth it.

District Eight is artistic. It's divided into sections, almost mazelike, with walls made of cloth, but it's kept from feeling claustrophobic by the fact that the ceiling -- also made of cloth -- looks like the sky. No, really. Clouds are scudding across it, blown in the same direction as the light breeze that flows through the room, keeping it from feeling stuffy. The cloth walls are similarly illusory: touch them and they feel real, but projected onto them are broad plains with great lakes not too far distant. The chairs and tables are all cloth and wooden frames.

District Nine is grain. It's hard to make grain interesting, but Stephen's given it his best shot. This is the room with the most open-air feel. Grain, amber waves of it, as far as the eye can see. There's a trick to this room: walk out into the grain, and you won't hit a wall. You're on a moving sidewalk that responds to you, and the holograms will bend to give the illusion of distance between you and the tables in the crop circle in the center of the room. D9's bigger on the inside.

District Ten doesn't have real farm animals. Goodness, no. Too unpredictable, and the smell would detract from the Old West charm of this room. The door leads out onto the expansive porch of a ranch house, where the tables are. It overlooks paddocks of horses and fields of gentle cows. Two or three playful but impeccably trained herding dogs are the only real animals here: they are impeccably clean and will only approach if you call them over. Their handlers in cowboy hats and jeans aren't far away, keeping a watchful eye. Somewhere, Wyatt Earp wants to die.

District Eleven is an idyllic orchard. The apples can be picked and eaten. You won't be punished for stealing food, because you're from the Capitol! Ha, ha. The wait staff is dressed as sexy farmers, with straw hats and coverall-shorts and plaid shirts artistically tied up, talking in easygoing drawls. It's all very charming, like it's right out of Song of the Goddamn South. This is some unfortunate fucking shit.

District Twelve is probably the most ordinary out of all the rooms. The feel is of small-town Appalachia. Coal miners with impressive arms can be seen going to and from work along dirt tracks that wind between the little houses, a man plays a banjo and sings a little ways off, and pine-covered mountains rise in the distance. The food is rustic but delicious: warm baked bread, goat cheese and strawberries, roast goose with herbs -- you wish you lived in this dystopia.

Oh, and one more thing... In the main room, there are statues that are dressed more classically. Togas, chitons, flowy robes, bangles, sandals -- they're holding trays of food, trays of drinks, baskets of bread and fruit, all classically beautiful, all with -- very realistic-looking hair and eyes, now that you're thinking about it -- oh god they're moving. Cyrus Reagan has been involved in the planning of this party from the start, and he's BUTTED IN put a few of his own touches on it without talking it over with Stephen. Hand-picking Avoxes for their looks, dressing them up, and commanding them to stand perfectly still so they can be the tables, he felt, fit the theme perfectly.

Comments

Stephen | Open

[capitolprivilege]

Anyone who's known Stephen Reagan for more than a year will expect to see him dressed neck-deep in the party theme. It's what he does. He enjoys it. So of course he's going to be in a purple toga or something with laurels on his head, right?

Right?

Nope. Not this time. He's in an impeccably tailored suit with a very flattering cut, squaring his shoulders and hugging his waist. A ruby sparkles in each cuff link and in the buttons of his shirt, and the only real nod to the theme is a gold ring around his forefinger in a laurel shape, large enough to catch the eye but still understated. The pattern inside the lining of his jacket is distinctly Roman, too. Other than that, though, the effect is one of caring about the theme but also too aloof, too classy, to be defined by it: an organizer, not an attraction.

Early in the night, you might catch him off to the side, not looking at the Avoxes, with a face that's nothing but thoughtful but a stance that's agitated. He's ticked.

Throughout the night, of course, he's making the rounds, ducking in and out of the District rooms, speaking with everyone, suggesting things they haven't seen yet, recommending food, congratulating them on recent achievements: he doesn't put his foot in his mouth once. He's playfully flirtatious with single Capitolites, but he never seems to have time to talk to any one of them long enough to strike up more than a casual conversation before he's whisked off to talk to someone else. It's very safe to say Stephen has approached you at least once, and it's also safe to say that, if you know him, his understated party-clothes are out of character.

[fusshionable]

Helping to organize this little affair with Stephen has been an adventure, to say the least. In a way, it's been nice--it's a good way to get her mind off of the other things going on, it's a good cover for her own covert operations, and it's good to spend some more time with Stephen again, too. She hadn't been lying when she'd said that he'd been missed--his time in party exile had been rather lackluster for the rest of their circle--and it's a good way to pull him out of that downward spiral of his.

Still, the hovering spectre of his older brother has been a particular challenge, because he has a lot of Ideas that Porrim simply doesn't agree with--the Avoxes-come-furniture being the main one. Not to mention, she's probably already on his shit list thanks to fucking nosy Celebrus reporters who can't mind their own damn business. They don't pick up on the Tribute that Porrim had actually been messing around with, but still find a way to sully her name. Classic.

She's dressed simply, herself, in a flowing white gown that's definitely on-theme, her hair braided in shining black coils atop her head with a crown of laurels wound along the nape of her neck. She towers over most of the other women in the room, already tall without the golden leather gladiator heels on her feet. Massive, heavy solid gold bracelets at her wrists complete the look, and most surprisingly, there's not a hint of black in her ensemble.

Cradling a glass of something sweet and golden in one hand, she catches up with Stephen in the District Eight-themed room once she's made the rounds a few times herself, the party in full swing. "Hey, you," she says over his shoulder, coming around to face him properly. "How's the life of the party?"

[capitolprivilege]

She looks stunning. It makes Stephen regret, for the umpteenth time that night, that he'd been asked to be aloof of the theme. Well, maybe asked was the wrong word. Instructed was more accurate.

"Being worked to death," he answers wryly. "Don't tell Cyrus I'm in here. I've only just escaped." His manner is playful; he's not quite as tired as he's pretending to be for effect. It's true, though; he's had hardly a moment's peace since Cyrus arrived -- late, he might add.

hey bro hey

[currupted]

The party has already been underway for a few hours before Cyrus arrives. That's not a big deal, of course - it's expected to go most of the night, and who arrives on time to a party? - but it's uncharacteristic for him, and not his original plan.

He doesn't appear unhappy, however. Far from it. There's a quiet energy to him this evening, a smile he can't entirely shake, a restlessness that, for once, doesn't come from stress. He's thinking of his earlier visit from Tom Cassidy, and the carrying out of his new legislation that he knows (and has no intention of saying) is going on-- at this moment? Maybe? (He hopes so.)

He's pleased also by the look of the party, how tasteful and well-coordinated it is, and how well his own (not inconsiderable) additions fit the theme. It's a far cry from the seedy, gaudy gatherings Stephen's been seen at most in recent weeks.

He's dressed not unlike Stephen, albeit in different colors and with even more removal from the theme. The drape of his shirt is reminiscent in a vague way of the Roman aesthetic, in the way it hangs looser across one shoulder. But his only overt nod to the décor is a crown of laurels on his head, silver-green and minimalist, so as not to be confused with the gold crowns of the victors.

He catches Stephen about to step into the District One room, and puts up a hand to get his attention among the crowd. He plucks a small dish off one of the Avox-tables as he approaches - the Avox doesn't move, doesn't respond, doesn't even look at him. Its face is blank without even being fearful. Impeccably conditioned. Worth every Assi.

"Hey," he says, stepping up beside his brother with a grin and giving him a pointed once-over. If he notices Stephen's obvious annoyance at a first glance, he doesn't bother showing it. "You look good tonight."

Because, of course, it was Cyrus who chose Stephen's clothes. Had them tailored to his measurements. Chose the colors. Had them delivered to him. Instructed him to wear them. He's pleased to see that he's been obeyed. The effect, he thinks, is just what he was going for - involved, but not too involved. A look befitting one who's promised to hang back from the wilder parts of the party.

YOUUUUUUUU

[capitolprivilege]

"And you," Stephen replies with a smile that could cut, "are very, very late." He's not decided, yet, if he should mention the Avoxes. Stephen has been thinking about this very, very hard. If he has them removed, it'll draw attention. He doesn't know if his instructions will trump Cyrus's: it's completely possible that if he spoke to someone about their removal, they wouldn't even listen. And even if they did, it would draw Cyrus's attention to the fact that Stephen was concerned about them, and Cyrus would no doubt remember the fight Stephen had had with Jason over Avox treatment.

Stephen's goal at the moment is to create a party as lavish, distracting, and reassuringly Capitol that no one, especially Cyrus, would suspect Stephen of rebellious leanings. Removing the Avoxes runs counter to that. But forcing them to act this way -- it's terrible. He's been trying to think of a way to get them out without attracting attention and been terribly, terribly stuck.

"What kept you?"

[reallynow]

It would be incredibly uncharacteristic of Jolie to miss a party like this, particularly when it happens to be hosted by Stephen of all people. Friends don't bail on friends parties, especially not when they're a convenient cover for seditious behavior.

Once she's sent her freshly disgusted tributes off into the world, she touches up her own appearance and arrives fashionably late. She spares a moment to mingle as casually as possible, indulging in drinks and smiling around the party. When she catches sight of Stephen, she makes a beeline for him, poking the small of his back affectionately.

"'Scuse me? I'd like to speak to the host." She puts on her most offended voice, waiting for him to turn around. She's wig to heel in gold glitter and cheetah print, looking very much like her usual self.

[capitolprivilege]

Stephen whirls around, taking in her displeasure and raising an eyebrow in return, putting on the most imperious, serious-business, five-star maître-d' frown he can muster.

"What seems to be the trouble?"

[talltaleteller]

It's late enough in the evening that it's threatening to become early, and Felicity's feeling hungry. Really hungry. In a day spent mostly doing, there had been little time to snack, much less sit down and have a proper meal. But there's time now, lots of time. Her new-found Capitolite friends have dispersed here and there, leaving her with a few moments to shove something in her face so she does not pass out and wake up the next morning to find that the tabloids have published unflattering pictures of her.

It could happen. It could totally happen.

She doesn't notice that anything's odd, at first, when she reaches in to one of the statue-held trays for a cream puff. But then it blinks, and then she realizes it's a person, and then she realizes it's not a person, and then she's gasping and jolting backwards. As much as she's admired the Capitol and wanted to fit in, some things are still new. Like exposure to actual Avoxes. And she is creeped right out.

And also jolting right back into the host of the party. Oops.

[capitolprivilege]

"Hey there, easy, easy!" He catches her by the shoulders and steadies her, then backs up enough to let her turn around, his hands up -- they're both placating and ready to lend her another hand if she looks wobbly. "Are you all right, there?"

District 6- Linden Lockhearst and Open!

[dead_black_eyes]

The District 6 setup is lovely, even if Linden lives up to the stereotype enough to dislike the way the train car he's in feels like it's actually moving. Travel means are agreeable to him; travel itself, on the other hand, he could really do without, but he's putting aside his personal tastes to contribute to Stephen's very important party. He's "in" on the reason for it, and maybe it's because of this that he's so willing and accommodating, participating amiably in a parlor trick that Linden would ordinarily consider beneath him.

The placard outside his train car introduces him as Linden Lockhearst, NOT a Psychic! Approach if you dare, provided you can make your way around the stunned and shocked Capitolite leaving the car and raving about the fact that they have just seen proof of true supernatural perception... essentially missing the entire point of Linden's demonstration.

[whydoyoushine]

Zed seems a bit amused by the apparent disconnect between the sign outside the train car and the way that Capitolite is raving on and on about Linden's amazing precognitive abilities. And...oh, hey,it's the guy from the victory party thing! How about that.

He's covered in a fine layer of silver body glitter and wearing a sparkly purple suit and top hat combo when he strolls on up to Linden's booth? "So, which is it? You are or aren't psychic?" He sort of absently gestures to the rest of the party. "I'm getting mixed messages over here."

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden's doing this for the sake of helping Stephen and the rebellion; that means that ultimately, he can benefit the most from Capitolites who are anxious and self-centered, who will tell him all of what he needs to know to tell them about their own frivolous lives while gleaning what he needs to from their hints and admissions.

When he sees Zed, his teeth involuntarily grind against each other. He decides that the faster he can get the obnoxious Tribute out of here to make room for more fruitful targets, the better.

"Not a psychic. That's what the sign says," he explains, though he feels it's tedious and he really shouldn't have to. "The whole point of me being here is to demonstrate that you can tell enough about a person through simple observation and deductive reasoning to tell a 'fortune' about them in a way they'll find satisfying. No psychic powers required."

[theflyingone]

When Altaïr (reluctantly) let his stylist know he wanted to blend in at a particular party, he did not expect to end up in sandals, short cape, and a knee-length one-shoulder chiton, which showed off his musculature (his stylist was eager to point out). The Greek-ness of his costume was explained when he arrived, though he still didn't know what the light dusting of body glitter was supposed to accomplish.

Altaïr was initially shocked at the moving pictures. They were not the real thing, his observational skills assured him that, but he had never seen such a good imitation. It was akin to what people back home would superstitiously call magic, though the reactions of the natives (ranging from amused to blasé) told him that illusions like this were commonplace. It was merely artistry to them.

He smoothly dodged a few stunned Capitolites as he wandered hesitantly in, aware that the ground was vibrating and not liking it. But his curiosity got him here, so he may as well investigate. Whether or not the man inside the display was "psychic" had no bearing. Altaïr knew there was no such thing.

"The floor is.... supposed to shake like this?" He gingerly took another step, a fighter preparing to dodge or jump if the floor came crashing down. He leaped off towers and scaled buildings, and all his experience told him that moving platforms were things to be gotten off of quickly.

[dead_black_eyes]

Occasionally, requesting specific things from stylists works out OK as long as the message gets through. More often, it backfires spectacularly, as in this case. Linden's decked out in his traditional, simple black that contrasts starkly with his cool-toned, pale skin, and he only stares at what the newer Tribute is wearing because he seems so out of place and uncomfortable in it. He might look like a Capitolite, but a Districter can tell at a glance that he's far from it, moreso than most offworlders.

"Yes, that's correct," Linden answers, tilting his head and taking careful note of the stranger's skittishness as he moves across the floor. "Between us, I don't like it either, but 6 is the transportation District, and this was the most obvious and appropriate gimmick for this attraction. I didn't choose it," he adds. "I'm from 6, and there's a lot more to my home than what comes out of it."

inflicts this trainwreck on you

[inrestlessdreams]

James was still reeling from the whole Avoxes as furniture or centerpieces, for reasons that were of his own, but mostly because they were so unnatural in their stillness. This was the first time he'd stepped out of his D3 suite and, if he were to think about it, had either the best or the worst timing to explore. "Awfully specific title for a performer, don't you think?" he asked, taking a sip from his water bottle. His mind was already repressing Mary's death...Maybe this could ease his mind a little about his loss.

What's a not-psychic going to tell about him that he doesn't know on a subconscious manner?

WE LIKE TRAINWRECKS IN 6

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden's staring absentmindedly at the flickering changes in scenery when James comes in, and he swings his large-eyed gaze to the door at the other man's entrance and approach. He glances him up and down, a furrow appearing in his pale brow; already, something about James has him uneasy. For a Victor of the Hunger Games, that's actually saying something.

"It's the truth," he responds. "There's no such thing as a psychic, at least... not in this world, so I'm here to debunk it by demonstrating that it's possible for even a perfectly ordinary individual to tell a lot about someone just be using their powers of observation. Sit down," he invites, nodding toward the chair across from where he's sitting, though he seems just a touch reluctant about it. Capitolites are easy to be viciously honest to; he's not sure he wants to be with this man.

Maxwell Trevelyan| OTA

[dreadinquisitor]

History was written by the victors. Maxwell knew that, so made a note take everything he saw inside the District room with a grain, or more, of salt, but he couldn't entirely pass up the chance to see them.

To know something about them.

He picked Eight, first, feeling it almost required given his appointment to them, but after that, he went at random. Coming and going, lingering in some far longer than others.

Like Six, in whom he loitered for a great deal of the night.

It had been a bit disorienting at first, the room seeming to move around him even though he knew it wasn't possible. But the dizziness had passed and there something a little thrilling about it.

He seated himself in one of the lavish booths and watched the scenery roll by: sweeping hills melting into colored plains, washing into shimmering coasts.

True or not, it was more than little breath-taking, and he couldn't seem to take his eyes off it.

Emily | Open

[conifer]

Parties certainly aren't Emily's thing, and Capitolite gatherings even more so, but she figures she should put in an appearance, to try to shake off a little of the antisocial picture the magazines like to paint of her, knowing that her District need all the good publicity they can get at the moment. She's pretty appalled by the idyllic image of District Seven given in the room dedicated to it, and wonders how many of the party goers believe this is what it's really like there, biting her tongue as they coo over the deer and eye up the lumberjacks, keeping her responses to any questions she's asked as concise as possible, focusing on trivial details such as the smell of the trees and the quality of the lumber they exported. After a while it becomes all too much for her, she finds herself at once repulsed by the display and feeling incredibly homesick even at the Capitol's ridiculous imitation of Seven, and wanders back out to see what else is on offer.

She has to pass through the central area as quickly as she can, as soon as she realises that there are Avoxes everywhere, serving as nothing more than human furniture. Emily's grown accustomed to the ones serving in the District Seven suite, but they always serve to creep her out, especially in large numbers, and she feels uncomfortable and guilty that that's her default reaction rather than pity for them. She makes a line for one of the other doors, picking one seemingly at random, hoping for something a little quieter, but knowing that at a party thrown by Stephen Reagan, quiet is unlikely.

She's absolutely taken aback, then, when she goes through the District Nine door and finds herself surrounded by fields of grain as far as the eye can see, gently waving in the breeze. It feels like they stretch on forever, as though the horizon is something intangible and the Capitol is worlds away. The irony of feeling as though she's a bird without a cage for once in the middle of a Capitol holographic projection is not lost on her, but she'll take what little she can get. She also finds that she doesn't particularly care that District Nine is probably being misrepresented as badly as District Seven was, something that also sits very uncomfortably within her. She's learning a lot about the sort of person she really is since she came back to the Capitol, and none of it is pleasant to her.

[lex_paciferat]

He encounters her in the District Seven room, having to smile at the look on her face as he takes a sip from the fruity cocktail he'd snagged--too sweet for his tastes, but this sort of thing is easier to deal with with a drink in hand.

"Sure isn't how I remember it, either."

[contrarianlibrarian]

The holographs are the most appealing part of the party for someone like China. For one, it's simply technology she will never tire of. For another, it keeps most of the people she doesn't want to talk to distracted so she can pick and choose conversation.

Spotting Emily in the District Nine room, China doesn't consider that others may want to avoid people as well. She glides over to the young woman, who has, for better or for worse, been deemed suitable company in China's mind.

She inhales and beams. "It's beautiful, isn't it? I'm finding myself more impressed with Stephen."

Zed | Open

[whydoyoushine]

The less pleasant aspects of this party--the glossing over of any real unpleasantness, the Avoxes serving as furniture--are all lost on Zed. He is enjoying himself without a single thought as to what exactly makes Capitol society tick like this.

Though he does stick his head into the rooms for the other Districts, he ends up spending the bulk of his time in the District 1 room. Why shouldn't he? That's his District, after all, and, most importantly, it is the most luxurious room of them all. Therefore, it shines. While some of the other Tributes might have been gawking at awe in all the finery everywhere, he seems entirely at ease in that sort of environment.

He's still enamored with this thing the Capitolites call body glitter, and he's coated in a silver layer of it that's creating a minor visual assault alongside the equally glittery purple suit and top hat he's wearing. And if he bumps into someone, like he's doing right now, he is quite likely going to leave a large glitter print on them. "Hey, watch it!" Because clearly this impact wasn't his fault, even if he wasn't watching where he was going, instead choosing to focus on a tray of drinks he saw across the room.

Quintus | Open

[lex_paciferat]

He hadn't wanted to go out tonight--he'd been coerced into it by one of his colleagues, who'd insisted that he needed a chance to unwind. The network breach has had him uneasy for the past few days, frustrated at the lack of answers and the endless bureaucratic finger-pointing, and by all accounts he'd rather be in his office filling out paperwork, if only to feel that he's accomplishing something.

But he's here, chatting with his colleague and the man's date, nodding to some people he knows and doing his best to disregard a few that he'd met his first year in the Capitol, back when he'd punctuated his days with raucous parties and the haze of alcohol. For once, he's out of uniform, dressed simply in a gray suit and black tie, with his gun holster hidden beneath the jacket. He double-takes at the avox he takes a drink from, then forces his gaze away, unsettled by her statue-like stiffness. He's never been terribly comfortable around avoxes to begin with--not with the nagging thought that someday he might spot those men he tortured five years ago, loose-hanging threads from his former career--and the furniture-like quality these have doesn't help.

Eventually he pokes into the rooms, curious as to how the districts are being represented. Two isn't too far from the truth, though the air is certainly cleaner than he remembers, and he stands and watches the holographic figures for longer than sheer curiosity might warrant, his mind distant. He also can't help but take a look at Seven and Eleven, the districts he served longest in, even though he ends up being a tad snippy to the overly attractive staff. Seven in particular makes him want to cringe, thinking of weathered men with a wildness in their eyes, and he has to force back the memories with another drink.

He'll be around to mingle until about eleven o' clock, when he'll head back to his apartment. He has to go to work in the morning, after all.

[president_evil]

A perhaps unexpected sight Quintus would find in Eleven was one Albert Wesker, looking startlingly like he belonged. His usual dark attire - those blacks and blood reds and midnight blues - had been replaced by a simple, all white assemble. A button-down and slacks that appeared breezy and relaxed as he sat in elegantly carved seat in the orchard.

Like a image out of old history. A wealthy plantation owner in the heyday of the grand old South.

Holding court with a pair of sponsors until their mayfly attention spans had them fluttering off to see what else the party had to offer. ("I hear ten has actual dogs.")

"Take care not to overdo it," he told them as they left. Voice dropping low and dry as they moved out of earshot. "I don't know how I'd ever manage."

Felicity | Open

[talltaleteller]

Rolling in late with a gaggle of young, laughing Capitolites is Felicity Yoshida, breathless and beaming and awestruck. Or tired. Probably just tired. Really tired. Her day had started before sunrise and hadn't actually stopped, and a large portion of that day had been taken up with pulling off a party in support of District 2. A party that had gone so surprisingly well, at least on her part, that the aforementioned pack of partygoers had praised her, chatted her up, and then gently spirited her away when things had begun to wind down. Because why should she stop now? When things were going so well? When there was so much more that she needed to see?

There had been a brief detour to someone's apartment first, to change and freshen up, and they'd fit her into a borrowed dress and heels and touched up her makeup in a flash. You'd never be able to tell that an hour ago she was in a jazzed-up garden gnome costume. She's mostly adrift in a sea of celebration, never far from the people that brought her here, though the stop by the District 7 room is about where her attention starts to wander.

"Look! Oh, look! Lumberjacks!" Her brand new friend (Tina? Tiffany? Tamara? Something like that) beckons and points and leans a little over the treehouse's railing, eager to get a bigger eyeful of the very, very attractive lumberjacks.

"Aah... they're okay." More than okay, honestly, but she is feeling too overwhelmed to really react. When you've been dialed up to 11 all day, things at 5 or 6 just aren't going to have much of an impact. The others start to crowd around to have a better look and laugh about which one is the most handsome, and Felicity takes this as her chance to step away and breathe and think a little about what has taken place.

....mom is going to kill her if she doesn't get home soon.

Well, that's enough thinking! Maybe she has time to go take a look at what they've done with District 2. She's a little unsteady as she makes her way back out and across the party, between tiredness and slightly ill-fitting shoes, but hey, who isn't a little worn down by this point?

[whydoyoushine]

Zed has, by this point in the evening, sampled all sorts of crazy new liquor and has a definite buzz going. He's loud, he's pointing at random people and making comments on how much or how little their outfits shine, and he's shedding body glitter everywhere. He's a small spectacle lost in a much, much larger one.

The too-sparkly Tribute is not at all watching where he's going. Between that and his own drunken unsteadiness, this could very well be a dangerous combination for Felicity and her ill-fitting shoes if she's not careful. A glitter impact may be imminent.