thecapitol | whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

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whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

Who| Molotov, Black Tom and open
What| A wedding reception for the ages
Where| A private estate
When| Between the D7 and D1 battles
Warnings/Notes| General assholery, excessive and gaudy displays of wealth, literal fountains of alcohol, two terrible people who genuinely love each other

The ceremony was small and private, as far as guests went -- you probably weren't invited. The Capitol even granted them a few moments without cameras or recorders for their vows. Tom and Molotov were married at dusk in a room of flowers, a room that's been made completely off-limits until the happy couple themselves are far from it. Once the party begins, it holds the dance floor, illuminated by thousands of tiny fairy lights that shine from inside the greenery, and even the floor is made of flowers, kept pristine and dance-friendly with a layer of plexiglass atop them.

Two bengal tigers in white flower crowns and neck wreaths are waiting to welcome you to the area designated for cocktails, and while the tigers lie mostly still on their perches placed at either side of the door, they do occasionally let out a growl or roar, just for show. The music is quieter here, to accommodate mingling, and while the bar does have practically every variety of beverage ever created, there's a sign to highlight the carefully crafted signature cocktails for the couple:

Permafrost
vodka, elderflower liqueur, white cranberry and lime juice, garnished with an orchid and edible gold flecks

The Barrington
whiskey, simple syrup, and lemon juice, garnished with a sprig of fresh mint and an emerald at the bottom of the glass

Killer Love
champagne, cognac, orange liqueur and a candied hibiscus blossom cradling a diamond

The massive dining area is indoors, though one could be forgiven for thinking they've walked outside -- a domed glass ceiling shows the sky above (which has been artificially enhanced through the glass to include gorgeous starry heavens). Trees and flowers seem to grow from the tables, glowing from the light of soft LEDs in glass orbs amongst the branches. Some of the bulbs contain butterflies instead, white and fluttering around, providing a bit of movement.

There doesn't seem to be a menu; instead, chefs man at least twenty different specialty stations, ready to make custom versions of everything from risotto to grilled cheese, pizza to lobsters. There's an entire table devoted to caviar, another just for varieties of bread and butter. One chef is happy to prepare you a hearty stack of waffles, should you wish.

Though there is one cake that is, obviously and undoubtedly, the main cake, there are several dozen other, smaller ones dotting tables around the room, each with a different look, flavor and decoration.

Towards the end of the party, well after midnight, guests are ushered outside for the send-off. As Tom and Molotov exit, fifty thousand white and gold balloons are released into the sky above them, and guests are urged to wave their sparklers for good luck and congratulations. They leave in a sleek black coupe, complete with custom plates that read CASSIDY.

The music keeps playing until dawn.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Wesker can curse Tom for the theme, as Molotov's suggestion of just not doing this part was repeatedly rejected. Tom wanted this party, wanted to spend as much money as he possibly could, wanted to preen and peacock and feel superior to as many people as could be gathered in one location. It's his nature, she supposes.

But her nature is that of a mercenary, preferring the shadows and planning and minute details that lead to effortlessly executed missions -- she can cross an active motion detector field in three minutes, fire a single shot into a man's forehead from a mile away, recreate every single one of her contemporaries' explosives signature from memory just to throw blame in the other direction. So it makes sense that, while Tom shouted out ideas and grand visions, Molotov followed behind to fill in the blanks and perfect the plan.

Albert Wesker's name on the guest list was just one more element to account for.

The Avoxes precede Molotov as if to announce her, one with a bottle of red wine and a glass, the other with a dish under a golden cover. They place their items on the table in front of him, the plate revealed to be holding what appears to be a cut of steak, cooked extremely rare. But of course, Wesker should be able to tell the difference between beef and what's been brought in for him, what was alive only an hour ago.

"Imported from Seven," Molotov says smoothly as she approaches, carrying a glass of her own, gold flakes glittering like snow in a snow globe. Her hair is coppery in the low light, pearls and crystals gently swaying against her bare back with each of her steps. "Especially for you. I didn't figure you'd need a full chef's station. The, ah, delivery men weren't even finished with it until after the ceremony, they had me worried. I hate when things don't go according to plan."

It was an unexpected offer; one that had his pupils slitting specifically on Molotov as the scent of the meat tightened the muscles of his throat. (Real and raw, nothing like the mysterious substitute the Capitol provided. The virus hummed in his veins, hungry.) He'd known Molotov was a clever, dangerous woman, but to see just what she was capable, dripping before him....

He hadn't given her enough credit.

"I would think they would know better, than to deny the bride on her wedding day," he replied with a small lean, toward the table, inhaling the scent deeply.

(Especially this bride.)

"My congratulations, and - my gratitude."

It's true that the Capitol tends to indulge Molotov, citing her service and the importance of her loyalty; in other words, the Capitol's higher-ups are very clear on the fact that her allegiance has to be bought, and it's cheaper to buy her than fight her. If she wants flesh from a torture victim, it's worth it just to keep her happy, and after all, it would have just been wasted anyway.

She smiles, and in that look is some of whatever it is that makes the Capitol cater to her, that keeps Tom obsessed with her. That exudes confident danger and the fact that she can destroy you before you can blink. That whether or not she does, you're subject to her whims.

"Thank you, and you're welcome." She takes a seat across from him, apparently not bothered at all by the idea of a cannibal dining in front of her. She crosses her legs, ivory silk clinging to her thighs and hips, then takes a sip of her drink before placing her hand on the table.

"I want to thank you. Not just for coming, but for being as... patient as you are with Thomas and his quirks." She's not stupid or oblivious, she knows that her husband is a pompous ass at his best. She knows that he takes all sorts of liberties with his position, that he can be damn near intolerable for those with a low tolerance. And she has no doubt that, if he so desired, Wesker is capable of making their lives extremely annoying. "You and the other Peacekeepers have my greatest appreciation for it."

The female of the species...

Wesker had never put much stock in the old poem, but watching Molotov, feeling the familiarity of that smile (too white, too sharp), he decided firmly that it applied in this case. Of the pair of them, he would need to watch Molotov far more carefully than Tom.

The man could be a problem, if crossed, but she might actually be a challenge.

"For his - proclivities, Thomas isn't the worst associate I've ever had." Better than many, actually, but he didn't offer that. He reached easily for the gleaming silverware, and turned the bloodied plate around. "I can trust him alone with the sharp instruments."

Molotov has always been more dangerous than Tom, more dangerous than any supervillain, because she doesn't telegraph her true intentions. She doesn't give monologues and she doesn't have grand, detailed plans -- she's just morally ambiguous, quick to attack, and completely willing to switch sides with no warning.

'Evil' people are easy. Molotov is never easy.

"What a flatterer," she jokes, smirking as she takes a sip from her drink. "Keep up that sweet talk and he'll leave me for you. But I am glad that, at the very least, he has a peer within the Peacekeepers. Your presence... keeps him in check. Somewhat."

"Does it?" He raised a pale eyebrow. How interesting. "I'm pleased I can be of service."

He sliced into the steak, and blood ran onto the gleaming china, the flowered pattern drowning in red. Wesker cut himself a neat cube, and dabbed it lightly into the puddle before bringing it to his lips.

The effect was immediate.

The Capitol's substitute kept the worst of his hunger in check, kept the virus brimming just under the threshold of control, but this... He felt it like a cooling balm, sliding down his throat.

His eyelids fluttered slightly. His nostrils flared.

"Thomas does better when there's someone around he can't run roughshod over." She says it casually enough, but she's come to believe that Tom's previous failures have been due to his unchecked ego and complete control over his plans in the past. He's too grandiose, he needs someone more practical nearby to challenge and push him in the right direction.

Men. Always eager to prove how much less intelligent they are than women.

Molotov watches Wesker cut into his meat, which looks more like wagyu than anything that used to live under human skin. Her glass hides her smirk, though her eyebrow does arch high to see his reaction. "That good?" she asks, glancing away, tone like she's asking about caviar or lobster.

"It's a need, not a pleasure; and the Capitol provides a functional substitute," Wesker replied after swallowing, leaning his knife against the plate to reach for the linen napkin. "But as with any denial, the reward is all the sweeter for it."

And it was one of the few flavors he could still determine, the rest muddled and muffled by the changes in his physiology. By his lack of need otherwise.

There's a single chuckle, and Molotov beckons an Avox with a tray over, one that turns out to be assigned just to carry around her cigarettes. When her cherry's lit, the Avox wanders away again, and Molotov breathes out smoke before turning back to Wesker.

"You and I both know that's an oversimplification," she tells him airily, though there's something sharp in her eye. "The two aren't mutually exclusive. Shelter is a need, but I live in a fucking castle, not a shack. Nourishment is a need, but I bet the Capitol's frankensteined concoction doesn't put that expression on your face. Like there's a Bangkok streetwalker under the table."

She takes another drag, looking around the room for a moment, then waves her hand at him. "It's fine, eat, eat."

"How descriptive," Wesker mused, in tone that might have been amusement. It was so often hard to tell with him. "But yes, of course there is always something to be said for taste."

He was sitting there, eating of a gold-patterned plate, in a full leather ensemble, with a pair of sunglasses that costed the same as some luxury vehicles.

He cut, and chewed, and swallowed again, muscles in his throat rolling strangely even after he'd finished with the bite.

"I must say, you're far more blasé about it than most," he murmured. The Capitol only indulged him when it suited them, and even then none of his fellow peacekeepers ever had the gut to watch. "Even here, some lines remain uncrossed."

Molotov, if anything, seems interested when she appears to actually be paying attention (she's always paying attention, looking everywhere at once without doing much more than occasionally flicking her gaze toward passerby), and she eyes his throat with vague fascination as she smokes. She exhales slightly to the side, a show of politeness, her smoke rings hitting Avoxes and people she doesn't know instead of Wesker.

"About what, you eating that?" She shrugs. "It's just meat. No matter what anyone wants to pretend, everything dead is the same, just another meal for strongest being to come along behind it. It's not my meal of choice, but then not everyone is a fan of cabbage soup, either." Which, as a Russian, is mystifying to her.

Her foot bobs and she blows another smoke ring while gesturing at him. "Besides, my world is full of things more strange than this. Experiments that most people can't even imagine."

He sliced and cut and dabbed; his gaze narrowed in preparation as she inhaled, but relaxed again as the pale smoke drifted away. He could just smell it, over the perfume of the flowers and the rawness of the meat, but it was far less offense than it would have otherwise been.

Chewing, he listened, slitted pupils fixing on her pale face as an eyebrow rose.

"Is it?" he asked, his curiosity one of the things about him that were entirely honest. "Such as? ...On perhaps a scale of - myself to your dear husband, turning himself into a rapid tree?"

Her cigarettes are far from as bad as they could be anyway -- since most people in the Capitol smoke from electronic cigarettes, hers are custom made in black paper with an embossed crimson heart above the filter, and they smell of cinnamon and ginger as much as they do of tobacco.

The sole eye that mets his red ones is nearly as unique. Molotov had been told once that green is the rarest eye color, that only two percent of humans are born with it, but her eyes (she did have two, at one point) go beyond that, her irises a rich, emerald green untouched by any streaks of brown or blue. The one eye she still has catches some of the light off the centerpiece, broken only when she blinks with long, fake lashes that someone had informed her were made of mink.

"Speed like yours, strength, agility... those are some of the first fields that the superscientists cracked. Regeneration and revival, too. If any of those experiments are eating people though, it's more for fun than out of need." She pushes a lock of hair behind her ear, looking up towards Tom for a moment. "I don't know that anyone has pursued the botanical category of powers to the extent that Thomas has them, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time."

She stubs her cigarette out on the hand of the Avox that fails to promptly offer an ashtray, turning her gaze back to Wesker. "For instance, I assume a talking, villainous gorilla didn't eviscerate and sodomize any washed up 80s singers on reality television in your world. That gorilla, by the way, then died of lung cancer, and three ghosts or something -- I was never very clear on that part -- took his giant heart and had it transplanted into my giant ex. Literal giant, his heart was giving out from being overworked."

A very, very normal world.

"It sounds exhausting," Wesker summarily replied, in his typically dry murmur. However... "And this common knowledge? Or were you privy to the information as a matter of your occupation?"

In his world, everything needed to be done behind turned backs and in the dark, under the shadow of cold hard cash. A part of him always admired the Capitol for at making its people see experimentation - with all its failures and growths - as the necessity it was.

Molotov has to think about it for a moment, the answer to his question. In truth, she's been involved with the weird, shady side of the world for long enough that she's become detached from the average joe.

"I can't say to what extent these things are common knowledge. But you have to understand, in my world, these are career paths, becoming a superhero or supervillain or superscientist. Everyone knows that becoming... mutated in this way, with powers or something, it's not exactly rare. There are unions, of sorts, for all of them, job fairs for henchmen and sidekicks, everything."

She takes another sip of her drink, and it's like she's explaining that her world has doctors and teachers.

"Fascinating."

He leaned back for a moment, fork and knife hovering over the plate as he tried to envision what a world like that would have been like for him. How much simpler it would have been to get where he'd desired.

If not any less messy, by Molotov's description.

"You, however... you were more born to it? Were you not?"

Details. Needless, perhaps, but one never knew. So he remembered them all.

"In a way. My life only peripherally crosses over into the extremes of the superscience racket, and even dealing with the OSI and the Guild, I don't really hit the heaviest things. My ex was a high ranking Guild member, but he was just... big. Totally normal otherwise." She thinks about other weirdos she's met. "Let's see, the Sovereign is a shapeshifter, usually looks like David Bowie. There's an old man with two heads, they sewed the second one on to save him. Truckules is partially a truck. On the heroes side, the big name is Captain Sunshine, of course. He can fly, solar-powered. Also a pedophile."

She polishes off her drink, then shakes her head a little. "But yes, sort of. My father was KGB, and so was I, he was my original handler. I work for the OSI now, but I did freelance work for, god, more than twenty years."

Wesker had seen, created (become) wildly unnatural things, and believed himself to be fairly unflappable as far as strange went. But even he had to admit that was a downright bizarre list.

"I was born to Umbrella," he said, returning to the steak. "But for all the time and effort I spent, I don't find myself missing it."

He mopped blood with a neat cut of meat, speared on the end of his fork.

"Do you?"

Her mouth twists a little, and she looks down at her empty glass.

"I miss working with my father. I miss the Party. But I don't miss working for the government, no. I wouldn't have gone back to it if they were the ones setting the terms." Molotov shrugs, and for a moment, wonders how long she can trust Hunter to keep up his end of the deal. She doesn't feel like it's wrong to have backup plans for that.

"Why don't you miss it? If it was your whole life?"

"Umbrella was dying," he said flatly. If there was any remorse or grief to be felt, he didn't show it. "It had lasted longer than the rest of the world proper, but the consumption was starting. Eating itself from the inside. I had taken steps..."

Such plans. Everything, finally, beginning to fall into place - if he could have brought it back under his control....

"But even had I succeeded, it would have been years before the planet would even begin to be viable."

"Then what were your back-up plans? With everything dying, what's left for you?"

She settles back in her chair, peering at him, head cocked. Molotov's been making her own world for more than two decades, sitting comfortably atop her mountain of competitors and destroying anyone who tries to plant their own flag. Spinning webs of lies, attacking those who would break her threads. Doing exactly as she pleases.

"Are you one of the people who doesn't have much of a world to return to?"

His mouth curled, a sharp, humorless twist of his lips.

"That was the backup." All the years wasted chasing Project Alice, of chasing the cure?

It wasn't a memory he enjoyed dwelling on.

"Certainly not one worth returning to, not when Panem stands strong before us. Such potential. So much opportunity...."

Her eye narrows slightly, and she tilts her head more. "How long would you have lasted in a dead world?" she asks, curious more than anything else. "Three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food. What three does your particular need fall under?"

An Avox drops off another drink, and she watches it walk away before she keeps talking. "Yes. Panem is quite a land of plenty, though I suppose they do like to hammer that point home. Tell me, Mr. Wesker, what future do you see for yourself here? You must have planned extensively, if you don't expect to return to your home."

"I could have subsisted. There were other facilities, shuttered, forgotten. And T - for all her proclivities - isn't particular when it comes to consumption." The loss of Umbrella Prime would have been a blow, if his plot for Alice had failed, but only in the sense of convenience. Of expedience. The traditional cloning process was tedious, but not difficult with the right equipment. "But I don't care much for the taste of recycled air."

And what would be the point? To rule over a land of nothing?

He had clawed his way to the top for a reason.

The cut of meat grew smaller, Wesker eating steadily, leaving only the pool of blood behind. As an Avox passed, he requested a clean, empty, glass.

"I meant what I said, Mrs. Cocktease. Panem could surpass even my world, if it can get out of its own way. I hope to help it achieve that."

Well, if Molotov's world is correct, cloning is super easy, because basically the dumbest man she's ever met knows how to do it. Granted, he's not great at it (the clones keep managing to end up... kind of dead), but that could also be a genetic thing. The stupidity.

The Avox brings Wesker his glass, and again, Molotov waits until it's gone before she speaks. "High ambitions. I'm assuming you hope to ascend to the role of... vice president?" Her voice is so casual, and they both know she's talking for the cameras, the microphones, the fact that to phrase it any other way would be to risk both of their places in this strange society. "I have thought that perhaps they might like to expand the government a bit, after all of this mess."

whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

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