Evacuate the Dancefloor

[itscalledfashion]

Who| Cassian and YOU.
What| The new D7 stylist is here putting his grubby hands all over everything,
Where| Various places in the Tower
When| The first week of the arena.
Warnings/Notes| Hamming it up?



Entrance

This was it. He didn't blame them for wanting to have him enter after the arena started--Let the old stylist go out with a bang and a last hurrah, getting to make the costumes for the current arena. But now that was over, and the old was out, and the new was most certainly here and in charge now. He took a deep breath, and pulled out his phone, pulling up an appropriate song for his entry into his new job. After all, first impressions were everything, and he intended to leave the best one that anyone had ever seen.

As soon as the song started (sounding suspiciously familiar), he threw open the doors, striking a long practiced pose, one hand leaning against the door, hip sticking out as he surveyed the lobby, then started in, hips swinging with the music, heels pounding rhythmically on the floor. It was perfect in a way that could have only been achieved with a great deal of practice--And it was. He had practiced for a week, and everyone in his household was utterly sick of him and his stupid music.

He stopped right in the middle of the lobby, hand artistically placed on his hip as he looked around, lips slightly parted, eyes lidded. This, it could be assumed, was also practiced. Right at the perfect part of the music, he would start again, sashaying off to the elevators.

It didn't matter who had seen him. It didn't matter if no one had. He knew that he had made the perfect entrance.

...Besides, they recorded everything here, right? Maybe he could bum the videos off the people in charge.

District 7 Suite

Anyone who had died early, worked in the district 7, or was just hanging out there for whatever reason would discover that Cassian was pretty much instantly making himself comfortable. And by comfortable, he was blasting even more music, and theatrically dancing around the suite, swinging around like he owned the place.

If that wasn't quite enough, in between singing the lyrics and swinging his head around, he appeared to be redecorating. Luckily, this was aided by avoxes, who seemed to be doing to bulk of any actual work, while Cassian pointed at different pieces of art and decor, moving some around, having some whisked off, and new pieces brought in. The change would be instantly obvious. For some reason, the new stylist seemed to take a liking to strange pictures of whales and dolphins flying through neon colored starry skies.

"Yes, perfect, no--NOOO." He managed in between spinning around to the music, gesturing enthusiastically to get the avoxes to get the picture just right, it has to go right under that light, or it throws off the balance. Once balance is realigned, he goes back to dancing and spinning around the suite. It's a little more chaotic, less practiced and just going with the beat than the movements in the lobby. This place is mostly empty, after all, right? Who cares about a little butt wiggling.

The Roof

Not even the roof was safe from his music, though this was a lot calmer. Here, he wasn't trying to show off. He was still perfectly poised, wearing that mask of perfection and confidence, because anyone could stumble up here, and he had a presentation to give. Being a Capitolite was like being stuck in a constant TV show, and you had to be ready to put on your acting face.

Of course, it was night, because who the fuck would play this during the day. But he still enjoyed the quiet--What passed for quiet for Cassian, at least. Despite the beating of the music, it was peaceful, at least. He spun around, humming thoughtfully as he twirled. The stars were beautiful tonight, and his hands reached up for them, as though he could touch them if he only stretched tall enough.

This was what he wanted, wasn't it? This feeling of being on top of the world. It felt almost literal here, on top of the tallest building in the city. And he belonged here. He had done it, he had worked his ass off, and it had finally paid off. And looked up at the stars, he had to remind himself, look at it. Even this building wasn't the tallest thing. Look at those stars. He hasn't peaked yet, he has so much further to go.

Not until he's eclipsed even the stars.

Comments

Entrance, and boy howdy.

[lionhearted_victor]

Well, that was certainly...something, as Leonidas' eyebrows shot up to his hairline. Harried in a simple suit and vest combo, the coach looked downright plain compared to this incoming mess, and it was better off that way. There is shit to do and Tributes to sponsor, theatrics had no place in Cora's day. What the hell is that music though? he grimaced at the blaring sounds and...well this guy. Time to put a good face and welcome the new staff member to the Tribute Center.

"I'd say welcome but I think you did that all on your own."

[itscalledfashion]

At the sound of a voice, Cassian couldn't help but feel a little buoyed. Someone had seen, and clearly been deeply impressed. At least shocked, or something like that. Whatever! He was being given attention, and that was good.

Cassian turns to look at the person in question, eyes passing over him. No one instantly recognizable, which was something to say, for someone who was interested in the games and the people who made them work. Not any of the escorts, he was pretty sure. But certainly not a tribute. Well, they'd just pulled a bunch of the new people in. He could be one of them. Best to exercise cautious, rather than risk burning a bridge.

So, Leo gets a dazzling smile, as he's looked over, Cass' hip thrust out, and hand placed daintily on it. "Babe," He starts out, tilting his head just so. Got to make sure you get the perfect face angle. "I'm welcome everywhere I go. I just make sure that I'm prepared for that welcome."

[lionhearted_victor]

As the strange young man sashayed around and made his presence well known, Leo's mind was already checking off a list of just who this person was in relevance to the Games. It hasn't failed

Capitolite? [ X ]
Over the top? [ X ]
Dressed like billboard that screams "LOOK AT ME" [ XXXXXX ]
Conclusion?

"You must be a new stylist," he said out loud and nodded toward the new staffer. The greeting just cemented it. "I don't remember any new assignments this time around. I am Leonidas Cora, and you are?"

[itscalledfashion]

"I am!" He all but purred to Leonidas, a pleased grin lighting up his face. Even if he couldn't tell who Cassian was, at least he seemed to be able to tell--no doubt through Cassian's impeccable taste--that he was one of the new stylists. That was a step in the right direction. Soon, he'd become famous enough that people would recognize him on sight. It was just a matter of time, and hard work. Once he got his clothes on his tributes, and let the world see them--Why, there was the crowning to look forward to, after all. It would be incredible.

Cassian held out his hand, less like a handshake, and more like he expected it to be kissed--though it was still perfectly possible to shake it like a normal person.

"Cassian Bouchard. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm so pleased to get to meet a member of my fellow staff. What District are you assigned to...?" An escort, Cassian would guess, though he didn't recognize the name. He was pretty sure he knew all the staffers, maybe he was new, like Cass?

[lionhearted_victor]

Leo shook his head, "I'm the coach for District 2, and currently helping out the Escort there." Why that is, the Districter would rather not discuss lest Cassian wishes to see him murder the punching bag. With a spear. It wasn't an easy transition, okay? All Calendius' eloping and Cyrus' offworlder legislation did was further cement in Cora's mind that, in 80% of the time, Capitolites were bastard-coated bastards with bastard filling.

Not like he was a saint either.

"I'm a District transfer, by the by." Surprise, Bouchard, that hand you're currently holding out to, and Leo's pecking (hey he was used to the likes of Holly and Lady Cerise) isn't from the Capitol.

D7 suite

[conifer]

Emily had been at a lunchtime meeting with a potential sponsor, and had made her way back to the Suite with a stack of the morning's newspapers under her arm, ready to spend her afternoon going through them for mention of her Tributes. This was a task she preferred to do somewhere quieter, such as the roof or one of the parks she frequented, but the suite should be pretty quiet at the moment with the Arena having just begun, and besides she'd probably better have the Arena footage on in the background, as it had been a couple of hours since she'd seen anything but the highlights, and she knew she couldn't avoid it forever, as much as she wanted to. She's looking forward to having the suite to herself, calling ahead to have an avox ready with tea, and debating whether to slip into her pyjamas before starting working again, as she didn't expect to go out again today.

As soon as she exits the elevator she hears the music, muffled through the wall, and she frowns, thinking that she may have got off at the wrong floor, certain that Jason wouldn't allow such a racket with his migraines. She opens the door to find Cassian dancing around the suite and freezes in the doorway, staring at him unsure whether all of this is a hallucination.

[itscalledfashion]

It was not, for better or worse, a hallucination. The dancing idiot didn't even seem to notice Emily at first, spinning around as he oversaw the avoxes replacing the fruit in the bowls with what looked suspiciously like glowsticks. Finally, he bothered to look up, and stopped in mid-twirl, stumbling slightly as physics gently reminded him of its existence. He quickly straightened up, though, puffing up his chest and leaning against a counter, fluttering his (very long, and very fake) eyelashes at Emily.

"Well! I'd hoped to have this place put together before you guys came in! Get a real before and after in your head, you know...? It's just not the same when you watch it happ--No! I want the dolphins on that wall!--anyway, I guess it's my fault for not having this better prepped." While he spoke, he pulled out his phone, scrolling through it. "Aaaand you must be Emily Finch! 69th Hunger Games victor." He looked up from the screen, a smirk playing across his lips. "Has anyone ever said anything about that? Winning the 69th game? I mean. 69. You know?" He wiggled his eyebrows, then stowed his phone in the pocket of strangely iridescent leopard-print shorts.

Then he stopped away from the counter, and walked over to Emily. He didn't have to impress her too much, at least. She was just a mentor. But mentors were the hottest accessory right now, and Cassian would be remiss in being an asshole to the one that he'd be spending the most time with. He offered his hand (his nails were painted to match his shorts), and gave her an easy smile. "I'm your new stylist. Stig is enjoying a much deserved retirement," Hopefully in an actual retirement home, or just stuck in a pasture. "My name's Cassian--Oh! I made bracelets for us."

He shuffled away, grabbing a bag, and digging through it, then brought a bracelet over to Emily. It was a dazzling embroidered bracelet, with little blocks with letters worked into the strings, spelling out 'District 7!'

[conifer]

Emily rolls her eyes, having heard jokes about the number of her Games more times than she can count. Mostly from Capitolites wanting her to perform that act on them, in the years immediately following her Games that she wishes she could erase from her memory entirely. She finds that she can't stay irritated at him though, not when she had to make a good first impression herself, and not when he's presenting her with a friendship bracelet. She sticks out her arm so that he can tie it around her wrist, glancing around at the changes he's making to the Suite, which are far too bright for her own tastes, and which she's sure Jason will thoroughly detest. "...Are those dolphins?"

[itscalledfashion]

He quickly ties it around her wrist, in a knot that can be adjusted for her own comfort. He looks pleased as punch that she's willing to wear it, grinning widely. Once done, he stepped back and admired it, nodding to himself, before turning and looking around. "I guess dolphins are kind of District 4, but, like. I don't know, I like the whimsy. Do you think that it's a bit too...fishy?" He frowned, tapping his chin.

"I'll see if I can find anything with the color scheme that's more...foresty. But honestly, anything was better than the flannel. If I see anything it again, I might scream. Plaid is so out, honestly, and I've got all these ideas about how to make people look thematic, and not totally snoozeville." He glanced over at Emily, eyes wide and innocent. He wasn't trying to insult her, nor her district, really. "You've lived in that district, right? You can tell me about it!"

He reached into his shorts and pulled out a small notepad and pen, flipping it open. "I'm sure there's more to District 7 than flannel, right? Defaulting to it as our theme is so over! We're going to dig deep. You saw what Cinna did with 12, right? The miners before then were soooo boring, and he made such an impression! That's what I'm going to do. Except, you know, not copy him." He looked up at Emily. "What kind of decorations and stuff does District 7 have?"

[conifer]

She's not used to anyone talking so much, especially asking her so many questions, and she's not sure which she's supposed to answer and which are simply a part of the way he naturally speaks, and ends up stopping and starting interruptions a couple of times before realising that he hasn't finished talking yet.

"Anything but plaid," she says very insistently. It's something that had become sort of a running joke in her District, the amount of it in the Capitol's image of them - take a drink every time you see a flannel shirt in the opening ceremonies - although she had to admit there were far worse things to be dressed in. She shrugs as she tries to think about the culture of Seven, unsure what to tell him. "We have trees. That's about it, really. Although having been dressed in nothing but pine needles for my own Games, I'm not sure that's something you want to go for either."

Roof!!!

[ransoms]

What with so many fresh faces arriving in the Tower at once, it's taking Ransom some time to get used to so many flamboyant characters getting all up in her space. Of course, it's only right that people recognize her, but she'd also prefer that they fear her and give her a corresponding amount of personal space.

Sadly, that isn't the case at all; her return to the Capitol has caused a bit of a stir, especially among those of her fans who still worship the ground she walks on after almost twenty years. It takes a lot to get used to, and by the end of the third day she needs a reprieve. The roof has always been a comforting place, she remembers that much from her time here so very long ago, so after nightfall she takes the lift up to the top, stepping out and expecting blissful silence.

Of course that should have been too much to expect. The Mentor pauses, wrinkling her nose at the sound of music. Stupid music. And there's a stupid-looking person to go along with it.

"I might have known there'd be someone mucking up the perfectly good silence up here," she grumbles aloud, crossing her arms and fixing the blue-haired someone with an icy stare.

[itscalledfashion]

There was a small pause in the raucous singing, though he still danced around to the music, as he tilted his head, glancing over the woman who'd interrupted him. This was, of course, to ascertain her status as whether or not she was his social equal. She was no Capitolite that he recognized, none of the escorts or stylists that he knew. But there was a surge of new blood in the Tower, so maybe she was some shrimp--No, the way she held herself, she was no small time name.

A mentor, then. He stopped dancing, but didn't turn off the music, grinning widely at her. Shit, that face wasn't unfamiliar, now that he wasn't twirling around. But no name connected with the face. None of these offworlders, he was sure of that much. Well, a name would come soon enough.

"Music was invented to make the silence prettier." He replied blasely, hands on his hips. "Besides, sometimes you just got to dance, you know? There's so much stuff happening! You just gotta let it out! And what kind of tool dances without music? You'd have no groove! I have to protect my groove." He explained, with a reverence as if he were unraveling the ancient mysteries of the universe for her. It might be condescending if he weren't so serious about it.

Welcome back to the Capitol, where the risk of dancing without a beat is a serious consideration.

[ransoms]

If she knew that her name didn't immediately spring to mind, she'd be in an even worse mood, but as it is, Ransom can only assume that he knows just who she is. Why wouldn't he? Or is it--she? The Mentor isn't exactly sure as to the gender of the interloper, she just wants to not be annoyed right now and it's not going so well, truth be told.

"No, I don't know," she replies obtusely, and bluntly. "I'm not a dancer, I'm a Mentor. I don't have time for ridiculous bullshit and theatrics." Or for groove. Good lord.

[itscalledfashion]

"Dancing is an important skill, you know. Especially when it comes to clubbing. A lot of important contacts can be made while you're shaking it out," He replied reasonably. And it was reasonable, to him. Meeting and greeting was an important part of getting anywhere--And you had to go where the other people went. Naturally, if you were trying to rub elbows with someone and you couldn't dance worth a damn, no one was going to talk to you.

"And as a Mentor, you'll be wanting to talk to people with deep pockets. And trust me, the people at clubs have money to burn, and clearly like doing it on entertainment," He went on, then gave a shrug, and pulled out his phone, from which he spent what seemed like a few moments futzing around with it to get the music turned off, while he was hurriedly trying to look up what new mentors had recently rolled into town.

Celebrus saved his skin, naturally, as it always had. The list of returning mentors--and stylists, there he was!!!--was short enough that it was easy for him to run though. Out of the girls, Shilo was nothing like this firm, blunt woman before him, and he knew Temple. No, this was definitely Ransom. A Career, and he wasn't surprised.

"But if you want peace and quiet, I shall provide it," He replied, as the music finally died off. "There we go, no harm done. So, how does District 1 look so far? Anyone made a sterling impression?"

The Roof

[crabmunicator]

Karkat is back already after the arena, and as pissed as he is about his lame death and as worried as his nerves leave him about his friends, it is actually better than it could be. He's not in pain, his leg having been restored from certain injuries pre-arena, and he doesn't have to deal with the days and weeks of scrounging around, fighting, hunting, and trying to survive that comes with the arena. Also, he's off tower arrest, and it is such a relief to get out and go places again.

It also, conversely, has made being in the tower not quite as awful as it was. It's easier to bear when he doesn't have to stay here; and even while he was stuck, the roof was probably the best place. It's got a good view, the stars are visible, and there's fresh air. It's no nighttime on Alternia, but it's good enough.

It's just that there's some douchebag dancing around to crap music, and it's not the first time today that he's seen him.

"Uuuuuugggghhhh," he groans out, or maybe it's more of a dying moose noise, hard to tell. "You're that tool from the lobby, aren't you? Do you have to bring that music everywhere? Is this an addiction? Are your legs diseased?"

He avoided him before, because honestly, he wants nothing to do with someone that things dancing his way into the building is an appropriate entrance. But this is the roof, maybe not his roof but a favored place just the same, and he doesn't want it taken over by some blue-haired eyesore with crap taste.

[itscalledfashion]

"GASP."

That was literally, completely seriously, Cassian saying 'gasp' out loud, instead of. Actually gasping. Because, you know. Why the fuck not.

And suddenly, Karkat had managed to get him to stop dancing, but that was because Cassian had glided right up to Karkat, hands clasped together, staring at Karkat like he was the prized cake at a buffet. At this closeness, Karkat could see that he was quite literally making heart eyes at him--He was wearing some kind of contacts that light up in the dark night, and were shaped like bright pink hearts.

"You're a tribute! Oh, I haven't actually gotten to speak to any of you yet! This is so exciting! You're not from my district--What a shame! You're one of those trolls! I wish I had a troll..." Getting to see what went on beyond what he could see regarding the trolls....beside able to answer some of the more saucy fanfiction! Oh, that would've made some prime gossip. He could throw a party just to reveal the succulent details.

Well, there's time.

"You saw my entrance? You should've said hi! Well, I guess you're saying it now." He batted his eyelashes at Karkat, like Karkat hadn't just been grousing at him. "An addiction? Maybe!" And he giggled. Real, live giggle, putting his hand over his mouth. "That would be a silly thing to go to rehab over. It'd be a pretty neat disease, though. Then I could dance whenever I wanted, and no one could say anything! It's a disease."

[crabmunicator]

From the moment that singular word leaves his mouth, Karkat knows he has made a mistake. Everything else - the sudden approach, the clasped hands, the fucking heart eyes - is the soul-deep feeling of a cheese grater across the surface of his existence.

"Hell is other people." - renowned philosopher, Barack Obama

Karkat is almost certain he's the human who said that.

Karkat is also backing up until he hits the wall by the elevator.

"Oh god," he croaks out. "I made a mistake. Let--let me just go, I'm leaving, you have clearly taken the span of the roof for yourself, and who the fuck is some idiot tribute to come intrude on that? There's other places. There is absolutely some other rooftop for me to go stand on if I have to. You go do your whatever it is, alright?"

His hand fishes along the wall, looking for the elevator call button, but he's not finding it.

[itscalledfashion]

Cassian stared at him with a wide-eyed, innocent look, no idea what could have possibly happened to agitate the troll thus. He thought they were getting along quite well! He hadn't tried to be mean about the other being nothing more than an offworlder tribute. After all, few people really liked it when you pointed out how they were socially inferior. It was just bad manners to rub it in, really.

"Are you sure? You can dance with me, if you want...! I've got all the latest music, you won't find anything fresher in even the clubs. It'll help you if you want to go out and make a good impression!" He paused, frowning and rubbing his chin. "Although I'm not sure if I should be helping another district...Do you think that's bad? Well, if it's just dancing, no one will probably care."

He shrugged, and moved his hand to his earring, a hoop big enough to wear as a bracelet, fidgeting with it as he looked Karkat over. "I mean, if you want to go, you can, but I'm willing to share! We're all a part of a team here, you know?" He gave Karkat his best, most charming smile, because you need to be nice to the people who are less fortunate than you are, and especially the people like these offworlders, who didn't even have the luxury of living in a civilized place like Panem.

[whatisay]

Jason would be prepared to start screaming at people for the noise even if he weren't a few hours out from a debilitating headache. When he storms out of the room of the Tribute he's counseling (strategizing, working with them on choosing a way to represent a brand of Sponsors they're with without compromising their wardrobe or morals - in sort, actually doing his job, which he's certain most of the other Escorts are absconding from), he's got a tic in his jaw and an expression on his face that could melt steel.

He's not expecting to find a teal-haired...boy, girl, muppet, who the hell knows, tearing down the tacky plaid and flannel decor and replacing it with even tackier images of pastel-colored sea life. Jason's hand balls into a fist; the other finds his trusty cigarette, which he needs right now to stave off the headache from accelerating its advance.

"Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing?"

[itscalledfashion]

Well, that voice was cutting enough to get even Cassian to pause, turning to look over at the source of the angry voice (hips still pivoting, because his poofy shorts were so cute when they twirled around). However, at the sight of the angry escort, his eyebrows went up, and for the first time he actually reached down to his phone and paused the music. This was a fellow Capitolite he was talking to after all, he might as well try to leave a good impression. Even if that person was...

"As I live and breathe, Jason Compson. The fourth, right?"

He was going to be polite if it killed him, but it was tempting to whip out his phone again to take more pictures. After all, he hadn't been this close to a real train wreck before.

He waved at the avoxes (did they look more nervous with Jason there? Can avoxes even look nervous) to continue on installing some fiberoptic trees onto the walls, just in case anyone forgot what the fuck this district did, then turned his full attention to Jason, giving him his very best fetching grin, making sure to angle his face just right, to highlight his beautiful bone structure, resting both hands on his hips, which have been kind enough to stop gyrating for the conversation.

"Well! Look at you. Forget the tributes, you need to let me dress you up some time--Oh! Where are my manners, run straight off to the funny farm, I swear." He gingerly lifted one hand off his hip and held it out to Jason (it's worth noting that his fingernails are manicured with leopard print polish). "Cassian Bouchard. You might know my uncle Otho?" Name droppings came naturally--And for good reason. You had to compare pedigrees and famous relatives, to make sure you knew who was the top dog.

...Which was kind of hard to tell in this situation. On one hand, Cassian was doing good for his social circle, but they were still young, and this was the best he'd done for himself yet. He had yet to have any real pull, and Jason had been doing this shit for years.

But.

It was also a Compson.

[whatisay]

Jason doesn't shake Cassian's hand. Instead, he almost stubbornly jams his hands deeper into his pockets, looking the pixie-ish youngster in front of him up and down with something very close to a sneer on his face. The cigarette dips in his lips, and he sucks it back between his teeth to reposition it.

"Otho Bouchard? No, I don't dabble much with the new money. I wouldn't know him." There's a venomous drip to the way Jason says that, because even though money is money, assi are assi, there's something about a family name that was carved into the history of Panem like a Commandment. The Compsons are chiseled stone and the Bouchards are spray-painted graffiti on top of them.

Bouchard's a Capitolite, at least, although Jason's getting a sinking feeling in his stomach less because he suspects Cassian's going to be here for a while and certainly not from missing Stig, but because he's been embezzling money from Stig for months and isn't happy to have his extra income dry up like that.

"You do know this is District Seven, right?" Jason says, hoping against reason that Cassian just got lost on his way to some other District he's bound to terrorize. "The dolphin paintings probably belong on District Four. You're an interior decorator, aren't you?"

Not a Stylist, Jason hopes. Not a new Stylist.

[itscalledfashion]

Cassian's face doesn't falter an inch, a testament to his experience in the cutting world of Capitolite socialization. Never let them see that they bothered you. Instead, he slides his hand smoothly back to his waist, like that's where he wanted it the entire time. He tilts his head to examine Jason a little closer, really taking him all in this time.

"Oh, well, I suppose we haven't quite made a...splash yet." He replied, voice as breezily a spring day. Hadn't quite gotten a reputation, like when someone got an avox baby in them, or hung themself, had they. But he left it open to interpretation. Subtle shade was far more classy than just being an ass. He quickly followed it up with a charming smile. "But that's what I'm here for. But I suppose you're right, maybe I shouldn't be focused on splashing! These dolphins really more of District 4's thing, aren't they?"

Then, like Jason had never said a negative thing, he whirled around, gesturing at the avoxes. "Maybe Kurloz would appreciate them more? I love this artist, he is the hottest new thing right now, but he hasn't made anything...foresty. I'll see if I can commission something from him, maybe. In the meantime--You, drop that by district 4, would you? Send Cassian Bouch--Here, let me write a note." He pulled out his notepad and pen from a deep pocket, and started writing, turning to talk to Jason while he did so.

"Have you seen Kurloz? District 4, fascinating stylist, I wonder if he'll carry his little gothic theme to his tributes? I'm itching to see it, really." He paused as he thought on Jason's question, ripping the note to Kurloz off his pad, and handing it to one of the avoxes, who promptly whisked it, and the pictures, away. "Interior? No, I'll mostly be decorating exteriors around here--People's exteriors, at least. But if my tributes spend their days surrounded by all of this hoo-hum, they're going to look it! You have to decorate your space, as well as your body." He turned to Jason, a warm smile on his face.

"I'm your new stylist! I've been told that Stig, bless his heart, has taken a much deserved retirement. Went off to a nice, big farm, or something else relaxing, I've been told." He paused, then hustled over to the table, grabbed his bag, and pulled out an embroidered bracelet, with little letter beads that spelled out 'District 7!' and held it up. "I made friendship bracelets! Emily already has hers."

Entrance

[quiethumerus]

He's trying not to forget to eat this time. It was all well and fine with boutique work and personal lines, but a stylist's job was twenty four seven and he couldn't be passing out for something as ridiculous as a lack of food. He even made sure to grab one of his wilder curly straws for the task. But his smoothie dinner comes with an unexpected show.

The music starts, catching his attention with its antiquated sound. The doors swing wide, only refraining from knocking into the walls by the measures put in place. With a raised brow, he beholds the figuring gracing the tower people's collective presence. He thinks, motherfucker should've got a smoke machine.

Cassian's hips sway in time with the tune. Rehearsed. A little too rehearsed he'd say, needs more natural in it for proper motherfucker performance, but he supposes one must start somewhere. He laments his own chance to make such an entry, but unfortunately he had bigger matters to attend to that required different address.

He know without doubt, this was another stylist. Competition. He has two seconds to plan his move, and does so in one. Keep your enemies closer. He sets down his smoothie at the bar, uncrosses his legs to stand upon heels of his own, and bursts into applause, a wide smile upon his face.

[itscalledfashion]

Well, that wasn't quite the reaction that he had expected. Cassian turns around, eyes locking onto his audience, and while his face immediately dissolves into a pleased smile, his mind quickly works to see if this is serious, or an attempt to mock. The face is almost instantaneously placed--Or, more accurately, the mouth. Fashions come and go, but stitching your own mouth shut is not something that's catching on anytime soon.

Cassian's lips hurt just thinking about it.

His eyes sweep over Kurloz, picking up body language, and of course, clothing. Cassian favored brighter colors, but he couldn't deny that Kurloz deserved his place here. And as his social equal, it wouldn't do to be rude, so Cassian waved his hand around sheepishly, as if embarrassed by the attention. Not that it was a convincing act, but it didn't have to be--That was just a part of the game.

"Oh, please. You're embarrassing me! Aren't you just the sweetest?" He took just a moment to primp, straightening his outfit just so, as if it weren't already perfectly on point. "If everyone got such a warm welcome, I think no one would ever leave the tower...!" He giggled, then offered a hand, his smile warm, inviting, and hard to tell whether it was bullshit or not.

"Surely you're one of my new coworkers? My name is Cassian Bouchard--Stylist for District 7." While it was usually an ego rub to let someone know they'd already heard of them, in this situation, Cassian wasn't sure--Not with the strange rumors that swirled around. Better to play it safe.

[quiethumerus]

He is terribly fond of this game they play, he cannot even begin to lie. It's like a whole other language, a secret code. And he does so love secrets.

It's no surprise to him when Cassian notices his mouth first. Everyone does. While he never thought there'd be anything to top that, he thinks, at least it's not recognition of his face matching the traitor's.

Equals. He likes being regarded equal. It's just a step under being superior. He gestures out again at Cassian, an oh but it was astounding, in response to Cassian's false modesty.

He takes Cassian's hand and bows just that little bit, before gesturing out to the room around. Welcome to the Tribute Tower, where the greatest of greats get to work.

It's a wise move made there. Kurloz notes it as a well played card. He lets go of the hand and reaches for a the paper and pen he'd left upon the bar table. He's quick to write and turn back to Cassian.

KURLOZ MAKARA, STYLIST OF THE FOURTH DISTRICT. A MOTHER FUCKIN PLEASURE TRULY.