thecapitol | Not where I want to be but I'm far from home

When Phil received Cocktease’s email, he wished he was surprised about the petition. The spy all but draped herself in the Victor’s throne, much happier than the last time he saw her. Whoever she was mourning back at the bar was pretty much worm food by now. The fellow District 6 Tribute didn’t question why he was part of the interview, probably a random selection of peers. It’d been a long time since he’s been on the other side of the questions but old manager habits died hard for the Phone Guy.

Gray arrived at the agreed upon location with a sharp and fitted black suit, a blue shirt, along with a good silk tie. The questions on the message seem brief and there really was no way to question the loyalty the stunning red headed spy had for the Capitol by the way she acted. This was all business and if everything went right, Molotov could live out her stint in Panem in comfort with Black Tom. Fitting.

“Hi-hello,” by now, he embraced that double-greeting tic of his, “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.” Those cookies were a nice touch.

Molotov, honestly, couldn't give two shits about the Capitol, but if she was really managing to pass herself off as a loyal kool-aid drinker, all the better. All she wants is the best standing for the big thunderstorm of hell she knows is coming sooner rather than later, and if the Capitol prevails, this gives her a better chance at safety in their arms.

But she has Thor in District Thirteen, something she's never so much as breathed about having knowledge of, let alone contact with. Not even Tom knows. But she knows that if the rebels, usurpers, whatever they were going to be called, that if they win, Thor will protect her.

She smiles at Phillip when he enters, and rises to extend her hand to him. "Not at all. Thank you for coming."

Gray gives Molotov's hand a good shake, and settled down for this, "Congratulations on Black Tom winning, and now this. I can hope my questions can help in settling down into whatever you have planned for your life in the Capitol."

If the Phone Guy ever thought this was a straightforward kumbayah to Panem, he was dead wrong. He wasn't that naive. If this Arena taught him anything, is that appearances were deceiving, especially when it came to the competition. The efficiency in which Wednesday took him out and Black Tom's speech about...well, Phil didnt' remember much of that. He was asking the nearest Avox for more alcohol. With Molotov "retiring", the pool of competition grew smaller...the odds greater.

Everyone has an agenda here but it wasn't his job to figure that out.

"Shall we get started? You probably have a busy day."

She's banking on that being a reason for the three Tribute interviewers to give their approval. Regardless of whether they actually want to win or not, Molotov is a savage, ruthless competitor with one of the highest scores in the Capitol, and only once had she not made it into the very last weeks of her four Arenas.

It's worth saying yes just to get someone so brutal out of the game.

"Three more rounds of this," she smiles, sitting back down and neatly crossing her legs. "Fire away."

All emotions aside, this was a good thing so Phil's tone is genuinely chipper and well-meaning as he settled back onto the matters at hand. Molotov's performance in the Arena made her one of the few people he knew that made her a prime candidate for citizenship.

"What do you think of the Capitol? Given the recent events, I'd figure they'd be cautious about security so I'd add in, how can you help the Capitol out with this growing problem?"

The last time he did interviews like these, it was to see if two guards could keep watch over the day and night shift. Needless to say, it ended poorly. But hey, switch out the names from Freddy's to the Capitol and it's the same.

Cocktease had a yes on Phone Guy's part, this was just padding on his approval, make her look good for the cameras.

"I think the Capitol is a very generous city, and it actually reminds me in some ways of Moscow and Leningrad before the Dissolution. As an off-worlder, I would be lying if I didn't state my initial objections to being brought here, but it's been a year, and I have found the Capitol to be a wonderful, pleasant place. And I am now glad to have come here, because there would be an important part of my life missing without Panem, and I never would have even known it."

She pauses for a sip of water, reflecting momentarily on that answer. She knows she can't straight up lie and say she wanted to be brought to Panem -- there have to be elements of the truth in her answer, or else it's an obvious lie. Molotov doesn't think the Capitol is particularly wonderful or pleasant, but there's an unexpected hint of tenderness in the last sentence, and it's maybe the most honest thing she's said to anyone who isn't Tom himself.

Placing her bottle of water back down, she gestures vaguely. "As you know, Thomas has taken on a full-time position with the Peacekeepers, and while I won't be doing the same, I can and will offer any knowledge and skills I have in consultation with them. I have many, many skills, Mr. Gray, and even more knowledge. Possibly more than Tom, given that he has usually worked with partners in the past, and he has relied on his mutant powers for things that I have had to learn to do the old-fashioned way, as it were."

She smiles demurely.

"As a single example, he has bomb-making knowledge. But I am an expert, and can replicate forty-seven different mercenaries' bomb signatures at any given time, usually with little more than would be found in a hardware store. Of course they are mercenaries who aren't here, but it's transferrable."

The tenderness added more to Phillip's answer, his recommendation would have written, Molotov Cocktease has developed a sense of patriotism to the Capitol and to Panem as a whole. Her expertise is something to be commended, she is without a doubt an asset to the State and the Capitol would benefit.

"I was wondering what happened back there in Russia, thanks for the update." And now to the last question. The best interviews were short and sweet, no need to bring up the emotional ties though he suspected that Tom's Peacekeeper position would be another favorable point, "If this petition were to be approved," no doubt about that, "What position or employment would you take within Panem? Will you be consulting with your skills and knowledge or adding more business ventures to your repertoire?"

From what Gray has seen of Molotov, the woman probably made a few times over with her presence alone.

Edited (spelling edit!) 2015-07-19 06:31 (UTC)

"Oh, the Dissolution was still twenty years ago!" she laughs, waving her hand. "You have no idea, Volodya has made everything crazy over there. No one has balls like Putin!" The mild profanity comes out odd and stilted, and Molotov covers her mouth with a chuckle. "I apologize, I meant for that to be in Russian. That is the one thing I still have yet to get fully used to, and the one this I would change, that I cannot speak my mother tongue."

Her face lights up a little brighter when he asks about her plans. "I'll be doing several things, actually! Of course I plan to continue my endorsement contracts, and I am pleased with the lines I have now, so I won't add any for a while. But I have been offered a permanent commentating spot on Panem News Nightly, provided my petition is successful, so I'll be doing that for work!"

She places her hands on her knee and angles her head. "I know the suspicion will be there, but I want to assure everyone that I really and truly have no plans to go back into the Arena like Tom did. Even if I wanted to, he would protest, so it's out of my hands."

Well, that was a new entry into Things Phone Guy didn't know, never needed to know and now does know: the state of a Russian man's balls. Good to know and Phil gives her a slight if awkward chuckle, "Don't worry it, it's all good, and, uh, I guess that takes time. But today I learned." Moving on!

And that was the answer Phil was looking for: that Molotov was officially out of the Arena and not pulling a stunt like Black Tom. "It seems like you've really built yourself into this place and made a new life here. I can only hope my recommendation will put you on the road and I wish you luck on your citizenship." And he means those words.

"Thank you so very much." Molotov means it too, and she's pleased with how easy this whole process is turning out to be, at least so far. She rises and holds out her hand again, ready to shake his and send him on his way.

One down, three to go.

Phillip takes her hand and gives it a steady shake, "Good luck, Ms. Cocktease, and I hope this venture is successful for you." And for everyone in the long run. Phone Guy resists the urge to say the tired Capitol phrase about the odds, because there's no chance here that she would be denied. He excuses himself out of the room and retires to submit his letter to the proper authorities.

Here's hoping the other three go just as well.

Tabris shows up late to the meeting by exactly five minutes. She knows that it's exactly five minutes, because she watched her watch carefully. There's something about all of this that makes her feel a dancing bear, and she figures that practicing being flexible with flaky and late people will be good training for Molotov in the Capitol.

Also, she might have just found shoved into a schedule like some kind of employee of Molotov's rather irritating.

So she shows up late, bursting in like a tornado in the shape of an elf. At least she bothered to dress decently, the skirt probably too short to wear when meeting anyone but Molotov, but she doesn't even bother trying to put out cleavage, because it'd just make her feel like when she was 15 and Shianni got her boobs first. Not that Tabris ever really managed to catch up.

The first thing she does is wave, a little half salute. "Heeey. What's up? This is a fancy place. I didn't even know we have these things. What are they used for usually? Meetings on who's gonna kill who?" She glances around, and grabs a few of the cookies and a bottled water, plopping down in the other chair. "Yeah...I feel it, sitting here. I feel like planning everything. Doing negotiations. Business stuff!" She pulls out a notebook and opens to a page. If Molotov cares to look, she'll see that her interviewer has almost illegible handwriting, which isn't helped by the constant misspellings.

"But I guess we're just questions here, right?" She pauses, then slowly holds out a hand as it dawns on her that she's never been formally introduced to this woman. She's caught glimpses around the Suite and she's certainly heard her at night (though Tabris wasn't one to talk, seeing as she was just as discreet with Alistair). "Revas Tabris. District 10--Think you know that, though. You're Tom's girlfriend, right?"

She actually barely notices that Tabris is late. Well, she notices in the sense of the woman not being there, but Molotov figures that a no-show has to be an automatic yes vote, or at least an excuse to get another interviewer -- if she was lucky, it would someone friendly.

Molotov stands to smile and acknowledge Tabris when she enters, then sits back down and crosses her leg sharply at the knee. She's never met a person so interested in a conference space before, and she allows Tabris to ramble while just giving her a benign smile.

The name had been familiar to Molotov mostly because she'd spent a solid month alone in the District Ten Suite, where she technically isn't supposed to be living but pretty much is. Her own room on Six is basically empty save for the furnishings, because after the last Arena, the one she should have won, that floor was too sour to stay on. A month alone gives a woman a lot of time to explore.

She's poked through pretty much everyone's room, and stolen so many rolls of toilet paper that are currently stored under Tom's bed. Old habits die very, very hard.

"I suppose I'll have to get used to that," Molotov says genially (though not without the most minuscule note of bitterness), shaking Tabris's hand, "now that he's the Victor and all. But yes, as much as I hate the word, I am his girlfriend. Doesn't it just make me sound like I'm fifteen and getting invited to the school dance?"

"You could always get married," Tabris replies blithely, and considers just how much poking at this woman would cost her, or if it'd even be effective. But Tabris isn't a completely blithering idiot about politics. If the woman gets out of this shithole--And there's no reason why she wouldn't, honestly, if Black Tom can get people to agree to let him out--then she'll have a certain amount of power that could possibly come back to bite Tabris on the ass if she is too much of a little shit.

She's never worried about that with Tom. She figures that Tom has more than enough people who genuinely want him dead to bother with one elf that occasionally throws some little verbal jabs. But Molotov seemed like the kind of woman to hold a grudge.

Tabris would know, she's one, too.

"It'd be nice to have more married couples anyway," She continues, and studies the worn wedding ring that's seen her through battles and hordes and now two deaths. Trying to point out that as a married woman herself, she's not trying to be an asshole when she suggests it. "Or there are other words, I suppose. Lover, beau, his lady, his partner. But a wedding would be exciting."

She shrugs, leaning back, and drumming her pencil on the notebook. "Anyway, I only know you as that, because I know Tom. Kind of. I live on the same floor as him." Tabris hopes that you enjoyed her bedroom and all the pictures of Alistair and dogs and sometimes a combination of them. She's a woman of simple tastes. "And Eowyn, and Clara, so honestly, it's been pretty interesting in the suite, lately. Like there's about to be a storm inside. Maybe I should start hanging out in Alistair's suite, more. Nothing interesting happens there."

Molotov is the worst kind of grudge-holder, in that she will absolutely never let it die, even decades later and years without seeing a person. She's also frighteningly possessive of Tom, which means poking at him is just as risky as poking at her.

Her eyebrow arches, and though her face stays almost flat, it's clear that even the suggestion isn't entirely welcome. It's not that she has any opposition to marrying Tom so much as no particular interest in marriage at all, not unless she finds some kind of special benefit in it. If they were in America, taxes would be more motivation for marriage than love.

"There was one a while back, probably before you got here. They're both gone now, Gamemakers got tired of them." Molotov rolls her shoulder, as if to say what can you do?, but then she nods. "Yes, I recognized your name from the hallway, the plaque on your door."

Tabris's room was almost as boring as Eowyn's. At least Molotov could entertain herself in Clara's room.

"Hopefully things lighten up soon. I don't see any real reason for it to be so oppressive in a place where we're supposed to be living."

Well Molotov maybe you shouldn't date a meanieface!!!

"Hmm. That's a shame. Or maybe it's for the best that more people don't have their spouses here? It can be pretty stressful. Still, you wouldn't have to worry about that, since you're both on the way out." She shrugged, leaning against her chair. "And Maker, can you imagine what kind of wedding the Capitol would throw for you? It'd be the event of the year. It'd smoke the next crowning right out of the water."

But she had to nod at the next part. Andraste's ass, the air was tense there. "Yeah. Kinda sucks for me, I don't have any real stake in all of this. Black Tom's never done me any wrong turns, but neither has anyone else in the suite. Makes me miss Jane, really. She was neutral, too. And she was a riot." A little sigh, as she tapped her pencil on her chair, before looking at her paper, blinking at it, like she'd forgotten it was there.

"This questionnaire is a joke. I'd vote you out just so I didn't have to fight you." Especially if Molotov's outfits were as...distracting in the arena. The last thing Tabris needed to do was die because she got preoccupied with oogling. "But whatever. So, Miss Cocktease--" She tries to keep a straight face, she really, really does. "--What are you planning on doing if you successfully petition out?"

Wow, Tabris. Tom is a lot of things, but a meanieface is not one of them.

"The wedding is part of the reason I have hesitations, if I'm truthful." Molotov can't help but chuckle a little. "Not that I've ever thought much about one at all, but I can't imagine I would enjoy the kind of wedding they'd try to put on, particularly given that Tom and I both have ethnic backgrounds they can slap up as decoration. Fun for a Crowning, but not how I'd want to remember my wedding."

Molotov sighs and wraps her hands casually around her knee where it crosses over the other. "Tom and Clara have history dating back to his first Arena -- mine too, actually -- and it's just been dragged out since then. Clara, for the record, shouldn't have won. Even with Tom defeated, another Tribute committed suicide so she could win. Hardly in the spirit of the Games."

The whole Arena had been a joke, although it was nice that they'd at least had reliable food and bathrooms.

Smiling, Molotov cocks her head a little. "Honestly, I'm hoping the other two Tributes think the same," she says, laughing again. "As long as my petition is approved, I have accepted a permanent position as a commentator for Panem Nightly News. The producers think I manage to diffuse some of the... uh, tension between Helena and Julian." Who are both insane but nice enough, and it's not like Molotov will ever have to actually hang out with them. "That's in addition to keeping my branded product lines going, of course."

Are you sure about that, Molotov? Really sure???

"Yeah, that's true enough--I was at his Crowning. Maybe if you just had all the flowers and greenery, that'd actually be pretty. Not sure about the rest, but." She shrugs. Besides, surely Molotov would get to have some say in her own wedding, right? ...Oh wait, this was the Capitol they were talking about. "Well, it's a suggestion."

For a single, horrifying moment, all Tabris hears is that Tom and Clara have history dating, and that picture is stuck in her mind until Molotov finishes the rest of her statement, and she realizes what the other woman actually meant. The elf suppresses a shudder. "I guess I'm lucky. I try to keep that stuff out of the Capitol. The only guy I really had a grudge against was kind enough to die quick last arena and not come back." Fucking Nick. She does pause, though. "Suicide so someone else can win...That's frowned upon, huh? I thought it'd add...heartbreak, or something. Some emotional jazz."

Something good to remember, because there have been people that Tabris would probably eat a bullet to make sure won. Luckily, it's never come up.

She writes down what Molotov says, nodding, then looks at the next question. "Hmm. Well, hey. It's a strategy. With you and Tom out, most of the kill-happy people will be gone. Wonder what they're gonna do about that." Probably something awful. "Anyway. Why don't you want to be in the arena anymore? I fucking wonder."

"Honestly, I never understood the fuss. Give me a ring and a pen to sign the paperwork, that's how it used to happen. If you were really excited, someone made you a pretty dress and maybe you carried some flowers." She shrugs, not caring that Tabris is a fucking elf and therefore would have no clue as to how things were done in Soviet Russia, nor would she care.

Molotov nods and gestures. "Oh, I think it should be totally separate, what happens in the Arena is business, and people should let it go outside. But yes, the Gamemakers dislike suicide, they'll try to stop it if they can, especially if it determines the winner. But..." She shrugs again. Carlos is dead now anyway.

She smirks to think that she and Tom are the only kill-happy ones. Everyone has a monster inside them. "As badly as I want a crown, I want to be a Citizen more. I think the legal protections are worth it. And I also do get very tired of six weeks of no showers and scarce food."

Molotov was quite right, Tabris had never heard of Soviet Russia, let alone fathomed enough to care. There were some similarities enough, but for the alienage that Tabris had grown up in, marriages were a fuss. A huge party that involved the entire alienage. At least, when asshole shems didn't get involved, kidnap you and your bridal party, and you had to kill your way to their rescue. Rather than get into that, the elf just shrugs. "Well, either way."

She knew a guy who had been suicidal. Thorongil, that was his name. She was never sure what happened to him in the end, but he'd stopped at Tabris and Cullen's camp in her first arena, and gave them his supplies. Now she wondered how that had gone for him. She'd have to look that up some time. "Hmm. I would think that'd make some drama. But then, that's taking your life into your own hands. Making your own decisions about your death. Andraste above forbid." She made a symbol with her hand, much like a person might cross themselves, though there was a definite mocking air to it.

She nods as Molotov continues on, writing down her words. "You're not kidding. Am I supposed to act surprised someone doesn't like the idea? Well, anyway. Last question. How well are you going to adjust into Capitolite culture." Tabris doesn't look particularly impressed with any of these questions. They were all pretty obvious to her, and made her suspect that the point wasn't the questions. The point was just how well the tribute could sing and dance to the Capitol's tune, state that they loved the Capitol, it was a pity they had to leave the arena, whatever else bullshit they could spew. What a joke.

At least Molotov didn't have to worry about Tabris nixing her petition, if it wasn't already clear enough.

"It shows contempt for the Capitol, to kill yourself in the Arena," Molotov says, and she sounds serious enough, but her face carries just a hint of mockery at the idea. As far as she's concerned, let people off themselves -- it only slims the competition.

Molotov shrugs, leaning back in her seat, one foot bobbing a bit. "I like to think I've already adjusted as well as any off-worlder possibly can. It's not that much different than any other posh city, really. Like they took all the richest bits of the richest places and combined them into one very brightly colored place. So it's been easy to adjust, given the consideration the Capitol has given us."

It's not surprising to Nick that after interviewing Black Tom and being at his Crowning that his girlfriend would follow. He's tempted to not show up, feeling like his voice in the matter wouldn't make a difference anyway...but he knows better than to ignore something like this and not expect any negative consequences from this. It could come back at hurt him or anyone associated with him. The latter is always on his mind - it's why he manages to power through these things when he otherwise wouldn't.

He arrives at the scheduled time in casual wear sans his red hat that seems to be a trademark of sorts for him now. He's cleaned up enough to show that he isn't some slob.

"Hey," he says after a brief pause from noticing her smile. He remembers her also for being the one to snap Clementine's neck in the previous arena and the memory of seeing that footage still haunts him today. It doesn't help his mood much knowing now that Clem is gone for good, but he keeps it contained and his face neutral as he holds his hand out for her to shake.

"Name's Nick. I'm one of the guys that's supposed to interview you, but I guess you know that already."

His was the one name that Molotov had never so much as seen before, but she didn't have a choice, so she'd sent out the email all the same. It doesn't come as a shock to her that he hasn't dressed seriously, because so many people in this tower don't take any of this seriously, and it drives her crazy.

It's such a rookie mistake.

Molotov shakes his hand and gestures toward the seat across from herself before she sits back down. "Molotov Cocktease. It's nice to meet you, Nick."

"You too." Nick can't tell if her name is made up or real, and hearing it said out loud by her confuses him more so. He wonders if she gets weird comments a lot, but even if he was in the mood for that kind of small talk, he's not the sort to pick at someone just because.

He takes the seat across from her and rests his arm on the table that separates them. He's slightly hunched over by default - not being one to have the greatest posture in the world.

"So, why leaves the Games? You plan on followin' Tom?" And by that, he means if she also intends to participate in arenas whenever she wants to.

For the record, her name is real, and yes, she gets a lot of weird comments. She's managed to get used to it over the course of her life, though it retains a certain level of annoyance for her.

Molotov, in contrast, sits straight, her spine trained by decades of gymnastics to not relax, not let her slump or hunch unless she actually puts her mind to it. "There are a few reasons. Honestly, I've gotten a bit tired of the Games, at least the parts where I don't get to shower for six weeks." She smiles a little, joking. "But particularly with Tom off the scoreboard, I simply have no more desire to go back into the Arena. I've also received a job offer that I cannot accept without being available during the Arena coverage. So no, I absolutely will not be going back in."

"Can't blame you for that. Try goin' without one for a year." Or nearly two, in Nick's case. He's nearly gone accustomed to eating roadkill variety of animals from living on the road for so long, but if there's one good thing he could say about his first arrival here, it's that he got to have a hot shower. That is one perk he has since taken advantage of.

"I think I saw you on Panem Nightly." He tries not to pay attention to the media outside of live arena broadcasts, and even with the latter he has to force himself to. "Is it for that, I'm guessin'?"

That saves having to ask the next question, probably.

"I always say that everyone enjoys at least two things about the Capitol: the showers and the food." She's joking again, but she's heard it over and over, people who came from shitty worlds or centuries past, they were always excited over those two things.

She nods. "Yes, it is. It's no 60 Minutes, but it's fun and easy." And extremely well-paying, which pleases her. "I'll also be keeping up with my branded products, as the companies have only seemed pleased by this step. After all, I can't drink vodka in the Arena, and they never send in the good brands as Sponsor gifts."

The idea of just voting someone to stay in the arena as a tribute just to suffer just doesn't sit right with him, no matter how much he'd like to say that they deserve it. Sometimes it's hard for him to tell whether he's doing the right thing or just being soft (sometimes he gets told of the latter no matter what, which doesn't help his case one bit). Bottom line: pulling shit like that won't bring Clementine back. And he can't look at her in the eye should she ever will. He's not Kenny.

He directs his attention back to Molotov, (unintentionally) timed just right when the woman mentions vodka. He lets out a quietly apology while not exactly specifying what for.

"It's too bad you gotta go through with these interviews because it like you're already well-acquainted with Capitol society." He wonders just how much does she know about him outside possible gossip. Outside of exaggerated reports though, the truth will likely just stay with him and those involved.

"Just one more question and I'll go." He drums his fingers on the table as he feels the interview is just about over, not wanting to start anything but also not wanting to just walk away and pretend that everything is fine. Looking at Molotov in the eye with a pair of steely blue ones of his own, he asks in a tone that sounds more mournful than angry.

"You know Clementine? She never came back."

Molotov looks curious about the apology, her brow knit, but she doesn't ask. Honestly, she just wants to get these interviews done with as quickly as possible, get the stamps of approval and get it over with. "Well enough," she answers, and it's only true in the sense that Molotov has been trained to adapt and blend in, make herself as ingratiated with a group as she needs to be.

She's been trained to survive, and that's what this whole game is.

Cocking her head slowly, just a few degrees, Molotov doesn't look away from him, holding his gaze with a single, brilliantly green eye. "I know," she says, and her voice is delicate. "I had to commentate on it. I think I'll miss her, we shared a Suite for the better part of the year, even if we weren't close."

"Right..." The fake politeness from earlier gone now, replaced by a rough tone that tells a story of many losses.

"Think I got everythin' I need to give my say," he says as he sits up, giving Molotov a glance before making his way to the door. "Good luck with the rest of the interviews."

There are so many things he could say. So many retorts that come to his mind as fast as anger can get him to. But he knows she isn't at fault for why Clementine is gone for good. The comment after his last question was just to see her reaction - just to let her know that it's not something he'll forget. He looks back at Molotov again before closing the door behind him.

Cyrus doesn't trust the show of professionalism. Not because he thinks Molotov isn't capable of being professional. But because at this point, he simply assumes an ulterior motive behind any outward concession of propriety she makes.

It isn't-- complicated, exactly, that he's among her interviewers. Officially, this is quite straightforward. It's only when he takes into account their own history, and Tom's recent petition (and the very different ways in which he is close to both of them), and the increasingly tangled politics of any interaction between Tributes and citizens, that the process becomes one Cyrus finds himself thinking about says before he's required to go and be an official part of it.

He steps in without visible nervousness, though, and without knocking. He's wearing a suit of a more sober color than usual, and the only visible jewels on him are at his cuffs and collar. A statement - This is about you, not me. He crosses the small room and stands beside the chair provided for him, and acknowledges her with a deep, polite nod.

"Ms. Cocktease," he says, before he sits. Even. Neutral. Polite. Allowing her to set a tone for her own interview.

Cyrus was the one name on the list that elicited any reaction from Molotov at all. She'd groaned and put her head in her hands, frustrated enough to kick over a lamp before she could manage to pull herself back together.

She doesn't think he's as professional as he tries to be at all. She thinks he's petty and small, as most politicians are, that he'll want to punish her for something that happened a year ago, that she's kept her distance from since then. She wouldn't put it past him to outright lie if it'll hurt her.

Her trust in the world of Panem is low. Her trust in Cyrus Reagan is lower.

"Minister Reagan." She smiles warmly and nods in return, gesturing toward the side table. "Water?"

"Thank you." He reaches for a bottle, but only keeps it between his hands for the moment without opening it. He regards her a second, allowing her to wait while he gathers his thoughts. This is a truth of citizenship as much as denizenship: You wait on the Capitol to deal with you.

"Well," he says. "I see no reason to waste time. Why don't we begin, Ms. Cocktease, with a brief explanation of why you've chosen to petition the Capitol for citizenship. I'd like to know what, exactly, the Capitol means to you."

She's made her distaste for the Capitol clear enough in private. He remembers their last conversation, so many Crownings ago - the not-so-veiled threat, the smashed glass between their feet, everything she has said aloud about the smallness of Panem. She's intelligent. She will understand the skepticism underlying the question, though it does not come through in his voice.

Molotov takes the pause in stride as well as any native-born Capitolite, because the Party wasn't so different from this part of Panem -- they dealt with things in their own sweet time. It didn't matter if you were rich or powerful or famous, the Party will do what the Party will do.

Her opinion of Panem hasn't really changed all that much; she thinks they're small, short-sighted, and impotent in the grand scheme of things. Not just the Capitol, not just the Rebels, but the entirety of this silly world that purports to not even have been around for a millennium. Her vocality has changed, though, now that her priorities have shifted and now that she can feel storm clouds brewing on the horizon. She doesn't know what they'll bring, but there's something in the air, the amplified focus on Peacekeepers and giving up neighbors for treason. Something is coming.

"Those are two different questions, really, aren't they?" she says, and it's not disrespectful or snide so much as a start to her answer. "I've chosen to petition for several reasons. I was offered employment that would require me to be out of the Arena, for one, and I won't deny that my wish to accept the position is a large part of my reasoning. But I've lived as a Tribute for a year now, and I find more and more that I feel uncomfortable with the tenuousness of it. I don't want to be... retired." She has to search for the right word, her eye rolling upward for a second with thought. "I have too much at stake to constantly be rolling the dice on whether or not I'll return from an Arena. I've lost people to that myself, and I now have come to be in a situation where it's not acceptable for me to meet whatever fate is on the other side of that."

Molotov doesn't know, exactly. She doesn't know if Cyrus knows. Whether it's death or being thrown back into their own worlds, it doesn't matter. Both would separate her from Tom.

"As for what the Capitol means to me, I think I would say that security is the best description. Security for me, for those I care about, for Panem. For this whole world. I want to know that security is truly mine, and citizenship is what brings it. You know my background, Minister, so you must understand my need for such reassurance."

Not where I want to be but I'm far from home

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Sorry for the wait!

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Thanks for waiting!

no subject

Sorry for the wait ; w ; I figure it's ok to end it here?

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject