thecapitol | The Crowning Of Tom Cassidy

The Crowning Of Tom Cassidy

Who| Everyone who's anyone. (Tributes, Staff, Capitolites, and anyone else in Capitol.)
What| The Crowning of Black Tom Cassidy.
Where| The New Cassidy Keep of the Capitol!
When| From noon to the late evening, Friday.
Notes| This event is mandatory for all Tributes to attend. Even if you do not tag in, your character will attend this party. Peacekeepers will be on high alert, so no funny business.
WARNINGS| Blatent irish stereotyping. Remember to put any relevant warnings in headers!

The dress code for this crowning is certainly a strange one. Greenery, burlap sacks, and "Irish" themed outfits which many a confused Capitolites has take as to simply be the color green. Among them can be found the sorts of ridiculous bright costumes as could be found in a 1970's comic book-- not that the 1970's are even a real time period. Spandex, V-necks, and popped collars are going to be a common sight tonight.

Guests are brought out to the stunning blue-green bay. There's a new feature there, a great big replica of Cassidy Keep. And it's been built upon a rock. How it stays up is a mystery, but it's no doubt a stunning site as guests are brought in on boats to a grand staircase that leads to even bigger doors.

Guests enter into a beautiful castle and garden both. Trees grow through the stones, vines climb over the stair railings, flowers bloom on the walls, and in some place the castle gives way purely to nature with small ponds set in. Like an internal rainforest (though the temperature is comfortable and cool) there's greenery everywhere soaking up the light that shines through the high windows. Statues stand tall of Black Tom Cassidy, Molotov Cocktease, and Arya Stark, sometimes all of them together. Then are more of an imposing man named Unstoppable Thuggernaut, a young girl named Theresa, the same girl older with the plaque deeming her to be "Siren", and statues of the the three of them together, both as a family and posing to fight. And of course, one can't forget that grand paintings of infamous arena scenes featuring Black Tom. Paths are set around to help guide guests, the main path leading into the biggest room of the keep.

Sponsored by Below Timberline, a temporary dining area has been set up within the castle-- high above the ground! All along the treetops that shoot up to the ceiling are the vine and wood woven nests for guests to be seated in. Waiters, waitresses, and Avoxes make their way along thick branches and rope bridges. But despite appearances, there's no chance of falling! Forcefields have been put up around the whole area to prevent such a tragedy from occurring to guests, waiters, and waitresses.

There are Avox operated lifts to help guests up to the tree tops, and though this might be an eyesore for some, they've all been dressed pleasant green, some with little hats. All the better to match the theme and blend into it!

That's not all that's gained the Irish theme. The menu consists all of foods that would be found in this mysterious off-world residence. Corned beef and cabbage, Irish stew, colcannon, black pudding, crubeens, shepherd's pie, champ, boxty, shelfish, Blaa, Goody, and Barmbrack despite it being out of season. There is even a cereal dish of what may very well be Lucky Charms. Drinks include "Irish" Whiskey, ales, porter, coffee and cream, and cider both alcoholic and not (for the kids). There is significantly more whiskey with Tom's face upon it than not and much of the drinks are served in large mug glasses.

Down below the dining area are two clear spaces for dancing, one for the professionals giving performance, and one for those seeking to try on their own. The show isn't just an entertaining watch, it's dancers bring more to the music as well, tapping out a beat. Mixed in to shake up the river dancing, Irish-styled folk songs play, generally regaling tales of Black Tom Cassidy and his exploits, but occasionally playing a song or two about other Tributes.

In between floors is a stand where cotton candy makers craft giant colorful flowers. On the far end of the room, set up high, sits Tom's throne. Torches crown the top of the wooden throne, vines woven over the arm rests, a strange metal meant to visually mirror that of vibranium, shines in elegant swirling detail over and around the whole chair. A soft black material is stretched over the back and seat of the throne, marked in red on the back with Tom's symbol. Tom's crown features flowers and shining rubies set in the wood.

Set up in another room is a shillelagh game of shooting water out of the staff at the targets and winning a prize. Prizes include real "authentic" Shillelaghs, and ones that light up and show fire at the end thanks to an internal projection mechanism. And it's perfectly harmless!

Another room winds and twists through a dark torch lit tunnel in a guided tour through a replica portion of Cassidy keep that's been filled with amazing info about Panem's new Victor! Pictures of his life, his youth, his loves, and his adventures. There are replica vibranium pieces, models featuring Tom's many outfits, a pretend prison for guests to have their picture taken inside of, and on-wall descriptions of his villainous escapades. Both those and the tour guide tend to loop back to how he's found redemption here in Panem, now a model citizen.

A third room has been cleared for allowing a giant game of cops and robbers, which Tom has exemplified in present and past respectively. Those brought in to play are dressed in villain's outfits for the "robbers" and all Peacekeeper white for the "cops".

One door leads out to a bridge, connecting the island to the chasm edge across from it. There's a section of rolling hills there where guests are encouraged to seek out four leaf clovers and have them exchanged for engraved gold and bronze rings, flower bouquets, a free meal courtesy of Below Timberline, or even Limited Edition Black Tom Cassidy memorabilia. The white bridge across is lit underneath like that of the ha'penny bridge in the exotic offworld Ireland, but unlike ha'penny, the bridge's lights form beautiful moving pictures of various arena scenes, particularly the finale.

Saddened these scenes are out of sight? Fear not! The wide bridge has a second function: bungee jumping! Overseen by an attendant, with the proper equipment fitting, you too can take a dive into a chasm. Like Black Tom did, only on purpose and absolutely injury-free! The bungee is perfectly secure and safe with more attendants waiting below to pick up those... at the end of their rope. Boats waiting along the far edges pick up the guests again to bring them back around to the Cassidy Keep party. And what a party it is.

But it's not all fun and games at this crowning. Come evening, the dance floor is cleared and a stage and podium are swiftly set up. All the guests are sat. Tributes are sat up front, Capitolites and other guests in the back. Peacekeepers line in rows on the back and sides of the stage. Those still on duty situate between the Tributes and guests. Dead-center, with the rows of Tributes on either side, are two Peacekeepers that some might recognize as being one of the more heavily afflicted Peacekeepers on the day of the Medieval Games-watching Party. Though the offworld "sickness" vanished shortly after the first arrest was made, these two still don't look so hot, one nursing what might be a headache, and the other just plain looking ill.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Ford shrugs. She has a point, but he's not interested in semantics. What he is interested is watching the bounce of her tits as she sits up, because holy fuck, he thinks he might have found Jesus in this woman's rack.

He shrugs off her posturing. "So you're, what, some kinda fuckin' double agent? Dime a dozen, way I see it. What makes you special?" Besides all of that everything she's got going on, of course.

Many a man has found Jesus there, and most of them are dead now.

"Olympic gymnast by twelve, full-fledged KGB by sixteen, freelance black ops for twenty years, and I've never been ranked lower than number four on Interpol's most wanted. I started the most successful mercenary company in the Western Hemisphere, and the only all-female one. Saved my ex from a vigilante splinter group, got tired of him and handed him over before taking out half of an Intelligence branch for treason. They keep me on payroll to work deep cover."

She sighs and takes another drag on her cigarette, exhaling sort of sullenly. "Of course, none of that's here to work with. Here... well, none of it's as fun, but I have a vodka line, a lingerie line, one of the highest single-person kill counts for my number of Arenas, and I've just been offered a permanent commentating position on Panem News Nightly. So, it's not terrible."

The only reason she wouldn't trade it all away to get back home is because of Tom. She rubs her thumb idly on the armrest of his throne.

"Oh, and my father was The Siberian Husky. Some people care about that, I suppose it depends on how old one is and who they were fighting for during the Cold War."

Ford has to try really damn hard to pretend that none of that impresses him. And that's saying something; it's fucking impossible to impress a man like Rick Ford. "Standard bullshit, then," he practically yawns, though there's still a definitely glint in his eye. He knew the KGB has something to do with this, somehow.

"No fuckin' clue who that is, darlin', sorry. But you said something about a lingerie line..."

Molotov doesn't seem to care whether he's impressed or not -- she's actually seems a bit peeved that he doesn't know her father. Come on, the lack of respect for history in American intelligence is startling.

"The Siberian Husky? The most accomplished KGB agent ever? He was killed at the Goodwill Games with a javelin through the heart. I knew they were slacking in Washington, but my god, have the agents just given up trying?" She huffs out another breath of smoke, pouty. Daddy's girl until she dies.

"Yes, I have one. Well, I didn't start the company, they just designed a collection in my honor and let me help design it. I do the ads, I did a runway show, the release party. It's interesting, very different. And I get a lot of free lingerie."

Ford inclines his head, squinting a little bit. Nope. Nothing. "Sorry, luv, doesn't ring a bell. 'Fact, none of that rings a bell." She's probably just as drunk as he is. Babbling. Yeah, that's probably it.

"Look at you," he goes on, amusement in his expression. "One-woman media machine, ain't you. Saw you on television, you fit right in there with the witty fuckin' banter and those two loons they have readin' the news."

She harrumphs again. "You should at least know what the Goodwill Games are, for christ's sake." But yes, she is very, very drunk, it's true.

Molotov drags down her cigarette and leans to stub it out on the floor, respecting Tom's throne more than she would anyone else's. "It's a lot harder to be a one-woman black ops machine here, so I had to come up with an alternative. Helena and Julian are..." There's a vague gesture, and she's not willing to say what she really thinks of them. "They're nice enough. Fitting in is how you get the hell out of the Arena and get yourself some legal protection around here. Panem Nightly works well enough for me as long as none of their stylists touch me. It's in my contract."

"Wha'ever you say, sweetheart." Meaning: whatever she says he should know, goddamnit, he will know. He smirks at her over the rim of his glass, before taking a deep quaff of whiskey.

"'Nice enough,' is an awfully polite way of saying they're both twits, but I ain't about to put words in your mouth." He shrugs. "Can't be a bad gig. Maybe I ought to do that. Host a play-by-play of all the brutal fucking murders. Got a knack for storytelling."

Yeah, good luck learning any of it here, Ford. But goddamn it all, Molotov and her father could have changed history if not for that javelin. Ted Turner and Gorbachev are lucky bastards.

She smiles in a way that's both sweet and extremely threatening, and she beckons an Avox with a new glass of whiskey for herself. "Stay away from my territory," she murmurs quietly, taking a drink and then holding her tumbler loosely. "Figure out your own niche. I have the media shit covered, honey."

Ford holds up two hands, swaying slightly, a little whiskey spilling over the rim of his glass.

"Fair enough, darling, no need to get your knickers in a twist. I'll stay far, far away from your territory, 'f that's what you want."

"Knickers?" Molotov actually has to glance down at her lap to remember that oh yes, she was wearing some. Because this dress is see-through. She's not always sure about these things.

She looks past Ford, where she can see Tom floating around the crowds. He's as drunk as she is, and that means he's showing off for Capitolites, delighting them with stories that require the gesturing of his cane and loud, rambunctious laughter. "I just happen to know someone who might try to kill you if you knock his flag over, that's all."

Ford's eyebrow hitches upward, and he glances around until his gaze falls upon Tom. The Victor.

Bastard. He should've known a guy like that would have put a woman like Molotov on lock.

"I catch your drift, swee'eart. 'F that's the case, I won't bother you none." Plenty of floozies around to get mixed up with, anyway. Though it's a damn shame.

"What, you can only make friends with people you're going to fuck?" she asks bluntly, giving him a look that is definitely some kind of challenge. Everything is a challenge with her, the whole world's one giant contest. She gestures with her glass toward the crowd.

"The number of people here who know the kinds of things we know is a small one. Gets smaller every day. But who am I to say? Maybe you like sitting with morons and twiddling your thumbs."

Ford rolls his eyes. "Oh, bloody fuck, you're twisting my fuckin' words now." He sniffs, tossing back the remainder of his whiskey. "Didn' mean it like that. Only meant, I won't be tryin' to meddle in your goods, if that's what you want, luv."

The agent scoffs. "Guess you got a point, there." A damn good point, admittedly.

"My goods thank you to stay away for the moment." There's a bit of facetiousness in her voice, simply because that's such a crass way to talk about it. What she has is certainly more than goods.

Excellents, maybe.

"Doesn't matter except for social purposes, though. Well, and the Arena, I suppose, not that I'm going back in."

Welcome to Rick Ford, Molotov. 'Crass' is just his personality. Among many other things. He shrugs. "Fair 'nough. I know how to take no for an answer, don't I?" He straightens out the sleeves of his jacket, preening. "Unlike some fuckin' wankers I know."

His brows furrow. "Not goin' back, huh? They let you out?"

She huffs out a laugh and takes another drink. "Talking about someone in particular? Gossip is sort of my trade now, I suppose. Not something I would have ever imagined, but whatever."

Molotov nods, crosses her legs at the knee and bobs her foot. "Petitioned out. I can't work as a commentator if I'm actually in the Arena, can I? Like I said, not my career of choice, but it pays well."

Ford waves a hand. "Nah. Nobody you'd know, anyway. Some wankfuck from back 'ome." Wankfucks plural, anyway. Some of the guys at Langley could be real swine. Ford is swine, but he's not that bad.

"Petitioned out," he repeats. "Huh. Dunno if I have anything useful they'd want, but it's an interesting fuckin' idea."

Shaking her head, Molotov polishes off her glass again, setting it down on the floor next to the throne. "They'll never let you out yet. I have been through four Arenas -- well, three and a Cornucopia -- and I still think the only reason I got out is because of the TV gig. Tom got out after his third Arena, and he turned in some traitors. Sigma's a Gamemaker now. It's all about how much they like you and what you have to offer them."

She points at him with her cigarette. "You were only in there for what, two weeks? Three? They haven't see enough of you. If you're smart, you'll get yourself plastered on every possible surface as soon as you can. That's what I did, and being a media darling helps you out in a lot of ways around here."

He shrugs. "Somethin' like that. Anyway, don't much matter, I ain't afraid to go back in. I'll die 'smany times as I have to. I don't fear death." He flexes his pecs, just subtly, puffing himself up.

"And when they're ready to let me out? The people will love me so much they'll be fuckin' clamoring to see what I do next. It'd be fuckin' stupid of these Capitol fucks not to show me off."

"Pssshhh, it's less about fearing death and more about getting really tired of the Arena," she says, drunkenly twisting until she's upside down in her seat, head hanging off the seat and her legs up and resting against the back of the throne. She crosses her legs at the ankle -- her skirt falls down with gravity, but it's so narrow that it catches at her knee. "Six weeks without food or a shower and you're being broadcast the whole time so you can't even have sex, if you want to keep your dignity."

Her face is turning slightly red.

"And the first three or four weeks are the worst, that's when everyone is hiding and cowering and there's too many to bother chasing them. All you can do is find someplace sort of comfortable and wait it out until the numbers come down. And you might have to do it with a fatal wound going septic on you."

She takes another drag off her cigarette and blows out a heart-shaped ring, though it would be upside down to him. "Going to be a lot harder to carve out your fanbase now, since everyone and their mother started actually wanting to sign to Sponsor deals. Fucking assholes, they're all too high and mighty before, flaunting their morals, but the second someone tells them they have to work for a living, they leap on the contracts like a Kardashian on any marginally famous black man."

Ford watches as Molotov turns upside-down on the throne, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "I can deal with that," he muses. "Dealt with worse in the field, ain't I, can manage without most anything." Except sex. "If someone did decide to get busy in there, what'd happen? Besides everyone an' their mum seein' it."

He huffs, jabbing a finger. "Oi. Them girls're nice, alright? An' I happen to know they're not that picky." He gives her a toothy grin. Oh, Khloe. He'll never forget you.

"Just because you can doesn't mean you'll want to keep doing without. Especially showers, once they start raining down poisonous gases and blood hurricanes and when you have a wound going septic because you can't keep it clean."

One of her feet jiggles thoughtfully. "Well, everyone would see it, you're probably going to get sick with a crotch disease because everyone and everything is filthy, you're burning up energy reserves that you probably won't have the supplies to replace... and the people here, the Capitolites? They like everything to be like a soap opera, so unless it's sex as some grand gesture of love and romance, they'll most likely look down on it. The idiots fuck more casually than bonobos, but they want us to all constantly be caught in dramatic love triangles, or on the verge of getting married. Because I suppose that's more interesting to them. So Sponsorship loss is a real possibility if you go around slutting it up on camera."

She makes a psshh noise and waves her hand dismissively. "I didn't say they aren't nice. I'm sure they're perfectly nice. They're just... well, as you yourself said, not picky. The hallmark trait of a family that got famous for a bad sex tape."

"Darlin', you can talk about all that shit all you like, but the truth of the matter is, I've spent weeks in the fuckin' forests of Borneo without so much as a moist towelette, trackin' a man-eating tiger which had swallowed the Daria-i-Noor. An' that's just the fuckin' beginning. I can handle these little Arenas jus' fine."

But he has to admit, she has some good points against Arena sex. He shrugs. "Just wonderin', I don't have any particular plans to actually do it. But fair enough."

Ford shudders a little. "Terrible fuckin' sex tape, I have to agree."

Molotov blinks a little, because even in this particularly deep state of intoxication, she knows that sounds wrong. "There are no tigers in Borneo," she says slowly, brow knit. "And how would a tiger get into a vault in Bangladesh, eat a diamond, and then make it to Borneo? And why would the CIA be involved anyway?"

She is very slowly sliding down the throne, her hair piling on the floor as her head nears it, though she doesn't seem to notice any of that.

But now they're talking diamonds, and she sighs, looking wistful. "You know what I really want? The Centenary Diamond. Not even to sell, just for myself. Think about that, a ring with that diamond on it. I even hacked into De Beers's records, but I can't find any information on where it is now."

"How about don't fuckin' worry about it," he bites. "It's a long story that I don't have time to explain in minute detail." Which is code for 'you fucking caught me in a lie and I don't feel like digging my way out of it,' in Ford speak.

He scoffs. "I could get it for you easy, if it weren't against my extensive code of honor and would also lose me my fuckin' job." Also a lie, he doesn't have any idea who the hell owns it. But it's a good enough sentiment, right?

The Crowning Of Tom Cassidy

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