thecapitol | Your rhinestone eyes are like factories far away

Entry tags:

Your rhinestone eyes are like factories far away

Who| Molotov and Black Tom, A GIANT FUCKING OPEN PARTY
What| Molotov has one of those birthday things
Where| Tom's Mentor Suite, .infinity
When| August 7th
Warnings/Notes| to be updated if necessary

I. For Tom
Birthdays are honestly not something that Molotov finds very important. At most, they're an excuse to be treated specially, and she's now treated specially 24/7. It becomes almost boring after a while, and so she has mostly thrown away the gifts and bouquets that began arriving from fans about a week ago. She's kept a handful of the good ones, but really, what does she need with more roses? More candy, more clothing? She'd give them to charity if there were any, but she winds up tossing most of it in garbage bags that she gives to Avoxes to throw away.

She puts some of the bouquets, the nicer ones, in the common areas of the Suite. She thinks that's a very nice thing of her to do for the rest of them.

So when the alarm goes off in the morning, she doesn't really expect anything out of today, at least not on a personal level. She knows she has to go to her birthday party in the evening, but even that's more of a contractual obligation than anything else (it's being sponsored by the companies that make her vodka and lingerie lines). In fact, she even made it perfectly clear to Tom last night that she doesn't want to go out and do anything, and she'll be perfectly fine if he doesn't even remember. Or just pretends to forget.

Molotov isn't dumb enough to think he'll listen, because if there's a chance to show off, he'll take it. But she can say she tried.

II. Open prompt at .infinity nightclub

It is bright. It is loud. It is amazing.

It is Molotov's birthday party (brought to you by M Vodka and Consummare Apparel).

The party doesn't even begin until ten at night, and everyone of any importance in the Capitol has been invited, whether they showed up or not: Helena and Julian of Panem Nightly News are chatting up anyone who'll let them talk, and Cesar Flickerman is in the pool with roughly two dozen beautiful young people surrounding him.

All Games personnel and of-age Tributes have had an open invitation extended to them.

The music is loud, the dance floor packed, and there's a plethora of waitresses in heart-shaped eyepatches and lingerie walking around with trays of free alcohol. Vodka shots and cocktails abound -- don't get alcohol poisoning.

Molotov herself is up on the VIP balcony, which is roped off and contains few other people, though she might approve you if she likes you enough. She looks down over the party like a goddess, only coming down occasionally for the first hour or two, because she's still annoyed at wardrobe. She can't say she ever thought it would take three interns combined to pull a dress over her ass, or that she'd sit through four hours of hair on her own birthday.

But you'll be forgiven for focusing on her face, because for the first time since she arrived, Molotov is out in public without an eyepatch. Her left eye has been replaced, for the evening, with a glass one that seems to contain a whole galaxy, and the stars swirl and soar artfully between each blink of her eye.

She still can't see out of it, but at least it's pretty.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Ford has been in a lot of bars, been in a lot of strip clubs and liquor stores, and he's still not certain that he's ever seen this much booze in one place. His face lights up like a Christmas tree. There are women dressed in very little literally all around him. But perhaps unsurprisingly, he only has eyes for Molotov.

He straightens his tie, snatches up a glass of champagne, and pauses a respectable distance from her. "See? 'S'all a matter of perspective, innit." He shrugs. "'Course I fuckin' was."

Her dress makes a very quiet squeaky noise as she shifts and crosses her legs at the knee, and there's another squeaky sound when her latex boots rub against each other, her stockings peering out over the tops. She's uncomfortable and it's obvious, although she's very oblivious to how revealing the outfit is -- it's just tight and hard to move in, and that's not exactly ideal for a party.

"Ah yes, the upside to dying repeatedly and painfully, you don't age as quickly." She takes a sip of the new cocktail, decides she doesn't like it, and then throws it away. Literally. She tosses the entire glass off the side, where it hits the floor and shatters, acting as a catalyst for an Avox in all black to rush forward and begin mopping up the mess, liquid and slivers of glass. She glances over her shoulder with her good eye and yells at all the waitstaff. "I swear to god, either get a vesper martini in my hand in two minutes or I'm going to start flipping the furniture over the balcony! And learn how to make a fucking Moscow mule!"

Molotov is perfectly calm, even smiling, when she looks back at Ford, blinking as the cosmos in her fake eye swirl and sparkle, their dim light reflected on her long, glittery fake lashes. "They're idiots about alcohol here, all their favorite things are colored like children's toys and have enough candy flavoring to give you diabetes. My company literally didn't make clear vodka until I told them to stop putting in the dye." Her drink appears and she takes it with no acknowledgement of the waitress. "Better to be thrown out on your ass than not be in VIP?"

Surprisingly, Ford keeps his gaze level as Molotov shifts her legs around, despite the fact that he could very easily get a bit of a show out of it. She's made it damn clear that she's taken, and he'll respect that. Unless she tells him otherwise, of course. He's a fucking gentleman but he's not an idiot.

Predictably, he doesn't bat an eye when Molotov sends liquor and glass shattering everywhere. "They should fuckin' know how to make a real fuckin' drink around here, considering everyone who lives 'ere is in a perpetual state of drunken university raver madness. I don't think I've seen a bird who lives here who's 'air isn't cotton fucking candy pink." He shakes his head, before giving Molotov a little wink.

"That's me, darlin', all or no-fuckin-thing. Rick Ford doesn't half-ass anythin'."

He could be lying on the floor to look up her skirt, and Molotov would only be irritated that he's in the way. She's long adjusted to people drooling over her, and it only becomes a bother when they're either impeding her or getting handsy (it's a real problem in Japan).

"They used to try and get me to dye mine, when I first came here, so I threw a bunch of electric hair dressing tools in a basin of water and they've left me alone ever since." She takes a sip of her drink, and it's acceptable. "I got here between Arenas, so they had plenty of time to fuck with me about 'creating an image'. I already have one, I told them that, but they didn't want to work with me while I was still playing nice." She shrugs.

With a snort, she gestures at him. "Be careful with that shit or you'll get executed in public. Literally, I mean, they like to broadcast it. Did it with some green asshole a few months back. You going to stand there all night?"

Ford snorts mightily, pointing a thick finger at the floor in a definitive gesture. "'Like to see 'em try, wouldn't I." He's had enough assassination attempts made on him in his life to make the Archduke Franz Ferdinand look like a fucking pussy. A bunch of cunts in white suits don't scare him, even if they probably ought to.

Her question has him grinning. "Nah, darl', just didn't want to assume I was allowed." He sits beside her, draping an arm across the back of the sofa. "Posh setup this is, reminds me of one of Naomi Campbell's bashes, only sluttier."

"Don't be stupid enough to give them ideas," she says, gesturing vaguely around them. "Doesn't matter how good you are, they can take anyone in sheer numbers. There's a whole District that they cull them out of, we're talking willing soldiers here."

He sits down and she immediately shifts to swing her legs up and resting in his lap, because it's a lot easier to have them extended straight out while she's in this dress. She's still squeaking.

She huffs disdainfully, taking another deep drink of her martini. "I couldn't give a shit, I don't even want to be here. I'm under contract to show up and stay until two. None of this is my idea of fun, and I don't even like birthdays. 'Oh, congratulations on successfully being born', what bullshit. Just another year closer to death, all of us."

Molotov is really more sour about being made to do something she doesn't want to do, even if she's raking in five figures to do it.

"And don't fuck any of the models, they are all terribly unpleasant from hunger. Go after the vodka girls, if you must."

Edited 2015-09-07 16:32 (UTC)

Ford shrugs, looking grumpy at being chastised like a child, and the grump doesn't quite disappear from his face even when faced by a lapful of Molotov's perfect legs, latex-clad and all. He's definitely not going to complain about that.

"Oh, poor lamb, must be damn hard having huge parties thrown for you with fucking literally waterfalls of booze," he snipes without much venom, settling a hand--rather chastely--on her shin. Ford eyes up a gaggle of said vodka girls in the corner, sizing them up. "Well spotted. Don't need half my cock bitten off." Even if he'd still be left with a pretty functional dick if he did.

She snorts and downs the rest of her drink, though she just sets the glass aside this time, rather than tossing it at the floor or anyone else. She doesn't mind his hand on her shin, had been expecting it, really. "Look around," she mutters. "This party isn't for me. You're the only person up here that I even know, and I had to let you in. I know maybe ten people downstairs and like about two of them. This is a fucking advertisement with me as an excuse for it, that's all. No one cares that it's my birthday. No one cares about me, just the fact that it's a famous person's party."

They've already brought her another drink and she downs it in one go before pulling a tiny cigarette case and lighter out of her cleavage, lighting one up, the glow illuminating her bloodshot eye. "You know what I wanted to do tonight? I wanted to lie in bed and eat cheesecake. No one asked me if I wanted this, they just told me I had to come."

She blows out a cloud of smoke and gestures vaguely with her cigarette. "You should be careful in general with these people. All anyone cares about us is that we're famous, and that's how you get shit pinned on you. Lawsuits, paternity arguments, whatever."

Ford looks around, and he can kind of see her point. Everywhere there are images of her--but they're all selling a product. This whole party is meant to be for her, but nobody was even talking to her until he showed up. He hasn't heard a single person wish her a happy birthday since they've been talking. The people down below are too intent on dancing and drinking and fucking to even realize why they're here, probably. His mouth draws up into an almighty frown.

"That's fucked up," he has to agree. "Sorry. Matter of fact, if I were you I'd bail. Go lay in bed an' have your cheesecake. Fuck all these sorry wankers."

"You don't have to apologize. It's not your fault. I signed up for this when the first thing I did in this place was slap my signature on contracts and make sure the whole country knew my name." She exhales smoke and taps her cigarette into a nearby ashtray. "You got here right when they changed everything, but before that, hardly anyone was willing to brand themselves, I guess for fear of selling out or some bullshit. It was really just me, Tom, Dave Strider who's an Escort now, and some dead bitch whose head I crushed with a rock. Maybe they'd do the occasional ad for Sponsorship, but it wasn't like now."

She smiles wryly and gestures toward the crowd. "Given the choice to either work or sell their faces to products, the lazy fucks in that Tower are no better than anyone else in the city. Fucking hypocrites. That's what made me like Tom in the first place. He is what he is, no excuses or apologies. I can respect that."

Glancing at her phone, also pulled out of her cleavage, she shakes her head a little. "Can't. I'm on contract to stay here for another ninety minutes, give or take a few. I have to cut a cake, let them take pictures of me with it, introduce some stupid deejay and then I can finally go."

Suddenly, she looks directly at him and points to the left side of her face, the fake eye where nebulas and supernovas gently float by like she has a tiny screen in her eye socket. "How stupid does this look? Be honest. I'm dreading the photos."

Ford lets everything she's saying wash over him, taking it all in. Gathering intel, as it were. He's not, as a general rule, a talkative sort of man where there's no opening for him to talk himself up or brag about his exploits, so he mainly makes thoughtful sounds in reply to Molotov's exposition. "Rough lot, that," he says eventually, giving her shin a little pat. He's too pissed to make a good effort at comforting her right now, so that will have to do. But suddenly he's being asked a question, and he purses his lips.

"Not too stupid, if you ask me. Not exactly primed for everyday wear, but for one night? Kind of bloody cool, really."

Molotov actually looks slightly cheered to have someone just to talk to, and also being able to think more about crushing Venus Dee Milo's smug fucking face with a rock, that really has been one of the high points of her stay here. But really, she just spends so much time in the public eye, faking smiles and pretending she loves this place, it feels kind of nice to be able to actually get it all out, even if she has to be fairly drunk and speaking to someone only barely more than an acquaintance.

She also brightens when he seems to like her fake eye. "Oh. Good. I don't mind it so much except the moving. It makes me a little motion sick when I look in a mirror."

Wow, look, he just said something right. He glances away to hide the fact that he's actually rather chuffed. "Well," he goes on, "take a couple photos and you can pop that sucker out, eh?"

He totally knows how this whole thing works.

"When I get back," she says, nodding, because she doesn't have an eyepatch here and while she doesn't care, people tend to stare and be uncomfortable when your eyelids are totally slack and you can kind of just do what you want with them. Including opening them to retrieve the tranq darts you keep in your empty eye socket.

Yet another drink has made its way into her hand, and full martini glasses might as well be shots to her, at the rate she's throwing them back. She rests her head against the back of the sofa and sighs tiredly, nudging him in the stomach with her leg.

"Do you actually enjoy these things? Even at our age?"

Ford lets his head loll back, too; the conversation has pulled his energy down a little bit. Which isn't exactly a bad thing; it's good not to have to be a part of everything all at once. It's good to just relax and let the throb of the music and his buzz wash over him in unison. He grunts softly at her nudging, and shrugs.

"Ah, fuck. 'S alright, now an' then. Fun, even, dancin' and lettin' loose. Not having to be on a fucking mission." He jerks his chin. "I'm a good fuckin' dancer. I once beat Michael Jackson and Prince in a dance-off. In heels."

She laughs, because in her state of intoxication, that story just sounds funny, rather than unbelievable, and she's picturing little pop stars next to him while he wears high heels (and also lipstick because why not?), imagines a blue ribbon being distributed in this ridiculous contest.

"A dress too?" she teases, then clambers up from the sofa, still moving less than gracefully because she's practically vacuum-sucked into this outfit. She can hardly bend to grab his hands, but manages it anyway, pulling him up in the direction of the VIP-level dance floor, where most of the strange guests and lingerie girls are dancing and/or basically having sex. "Dance with me!" she cries over the music.

Tom doesn't dance, not like this, and she doesn't even know if he could with his leg. This all reminds her a better version of the discos in old Moscow and East Germany, long nights spent dancing with targets in South America and Hong Kong and Taiwan in the '90s, when she was in her twenties and still willing to take those kinds of missions.

"And what if I fuckin' was," Ford thunders, "it was the eighties, it was a different time, wasn't it." He's pleased, however, that she doesn't challenge the tall tales he's telling her. It's nice for his braggadocio to go unchallenged for once. He watches her get up, and all of a sudden he's being pulled right along with her. He lets her, not least because he's drunk enough that dancing seems like a good option right now, and because it's Molotov and you don't just tell her no.

So he goes, big hand clasped in her smaller one, and the people on the dance floor make space for the two of them--because she's Molotov and he exudes masculine presence, obviously. And Rick Ford fucking dances.

"I'm not questioning it, Boy George!"

For someone as completely trashed as she is, Molotov doesn't have any problems moving elegantly while on her feet, like she's incapable of losing her balance once she's regained it upon standing. The lights are flashing everywhere and the bass is heavy enough to reverberate through her bones as she dances. Her dancing is made up mostly of bouncing and hip swinging, because they train spies to dance at galas and not in clubs, but given the atmosphere, she doesn't look any more ridiculous than any of the other women. Her hair, long since freed from the painful and stiff creation that was styled for her, swings everywhere, strands sticking to her face and shoulders, and she's actually having fun for the first time since she set foot in this place.

"Boy--" He whirls, brow furrowed, gesturing wildly to his eyes with two fingers, and then pointing at her one good eye with his pinkie. "Look at me. Look me in the eye and tell me that Boy George could even remotely measure up to a specimen like this. If anything I was David Fuckin' Bowie." Boy George, honestly.

Still, he follows her, and he dances like there's no tomorrow, because he's got enough designer drugs in his system that he's actually loose, he can move his hips--watch out for his body rolls--and shake his ass (he actually does have an ass, it's just hidden under a layer of pure muscle, thanks) with the best of them. And her--goddamn, he ought to have known she'd look gorgeous out here, bopping her head and looking fucking happy for once. Good on her.

She laughs loudly, enthusiastically, and grabs his hand when he points at her. "You're nothing like Mr. Bowie!" she informs him, and she knows this because she's done work for David Bowie in the past -- he's good people. Plus it meant she got to hang out with a panda for a while.

Molotov is completely incapable of any real bending or flexing in the dress she's wearing, vacuum-packed in as she is, so she's nowhere near as animated as he is, but Ford's enthusiastic dancing keeps her smiling, even as she shoves off some random who tries to get too close, sending him to the floor about six feet away.

"Fuck off," Ford guffaws good-naturedly, because he's far too hammered to actually protest with any venom. He just goes along with it, letting his body do the talking, keeping a respectful distance, but at the same time keeping an eye out for any creepy fucks who might try and make a move on Molotov. But as it turns out, he needn't be concerned--she's got it handled all on her own.

Just the same, though, he turns to position himself between her and the other guy, just to solidify that his company is all kinds of not wanted right now.

Molotov either doesn't notice or doesn't mind the additional blockage of Ford's body separating her from most of the other dancers. The song changes several times before an Avox wanders onto the dance floor, jostled around but barely seeming to care as it accomplishes its task of handing Molotov a note. She pauses to read it, then shoves it back at the Avox before grabbing for Ford's wrist.

"Come on, time to cut the cake!" she calls over the music, and she starts to make her way toward the stairs. Her dress, at this point, has risen high enough that she can at least move a little better, actually walk rather than take teetering little steps because her thighs are constricted together.

He's not trying to be possessive. He really isn't. He knows he has no right, for one thing, and for another he's pretty sure it'd just piss her off if he did try. He just wants to keep all this Capitolite trash away from her if he can help it.

Still, he lets her drag her away once more when it becomes apparent that she wants him to accompany her to her cake-cutting or whatever the fuck. As long as he gets a piece. Of the cake, that is. So he comes along with minimal grumbling, shouldering people out of the way where necessary. "Better be a good fucking cake," he calls, unable to resist watching where her ass is basically hanging out the bottom of her dress.

Ordinarily, yes, but Molotov is extremely drunk and in a good mood, which is great for Ford and also everyone else in the club, because she has drunkenly set off grenades while in a bad mood before. And she likes Ford more than she likes anyone else present in the building, possibly more than she likes anyone in the whole Capitol except Tom and Arya.

It really says more about her than it does him, but she can't help that all of her other friends have all been killed. Between that and her automatic kinship for other spies, he was doomed from the start.

"All the cake here is good." Her ass really is pretty much hanging out of her dress, the scant thigh coverage rolled up the the actual curve, where her ass meets her legs. She is far too drunk to care, not that she'd care all that much while sober. She takes the stairs slowly, because her heels are pin-thin and the stairs are slick, and she clutches at both the railing and Rick's arm until she actually makes it to the bottom.

There's a small group of Peacekeepers to meet them, surrounding them (her) in a sort of circular formation to get them through the crowd and to the dais where an enormous red and gold cake is waiting, sporting several sparklers in place of candles. Molotov looks unimpressed, despite the cake being five tiers and beautiful.

Edited 2015-10-05 02:30 (UTC)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Your rhinestone eyes are like factories far away

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

no subject

no subject

no subject