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

[molotov]

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.

Comments

[president_evil]

His mouth twitched, as if amused by the very possibility.

"I do miss my old office," he said, just as easily, despite the fact it was technically incorrect. His had been distinctly more oval shaped.... "But I would never presume to speak for the people."

He finished the meat and pulled the empty glass close, neatly tipping up his plate and draining the remaining juice and blood into the latter.

"If they should call upon me, I would of course serve. But if not, I have many talents."

[molotov]

"Don't we all," she says, a bit dryly, and raises her glass slightly to him, as if in a toast. She doesn't voice the fact that his talents mostly lie locked away by the Capitol, that so many of the former Tributes' do. She feels better, warm inside, to remind herself of the fact that no part of what she is can be taken away by a chip inside her, that she will always be a predator while the others become tame and complacent and caged. Idly, she has a vague regret that she never shared an Arena with Wesker, wonders what could have happened.

When they are all on equal footing, she is the one that rises above all the others. She wants to reassert that fact as often as possible.

"I expect that the military will begin relying on all of our talents sooner rather than later. It's like keeping wolves on chains while sending the miniature poodles to fight the battle."

[president_evil]

He didn't dignify the thinly-veiled innuendo with a verbal response, but there was a small breath, not quite a snort, before he was lifting his glass, blood swirling thickly in the bottom.

It wasn't ego, to know what one was capable of.

And he was capable of a great deal.

"The Capitol knows what it has, perhaps they're merely being indulgent. Soothing a few ruffled feathers, and bruised egos. Letting them cut their teeth, before bringing this nonsense to an end."

[molotov]

She tilts her head in consideration, swallowing the sip of her drink she's taken. A tendril of hair falls down along her neck as she nods, though, again, she has opinions on that line of thought that she simply chooses not to voice.

"It's possible," she acquiesces. "I always do tend to expect efficiency out the last people that I should. A bad habit left over from the old days, I suppose, when it was important to do things quickly. If there's a surplus of anything here in Panem, it is time."

Molotov chuckles, though the humor is cold. "War is entertainment to be consumed, in its own way."

[president_evil]

"Is it truly a victory if it goes unwitnessed?" Wesker asked with the same tone as someone asking if a falling tree made a noise in an empty forest. The tone of someone who knew what a dumb question it was. "And without the Games there is so little on television anymore."

[molotov]

"Anything is a victory if you report it as one."

There's some acerbic laughter hidden in her voice, from so many levels that she can't even pinpoint them all. She's a soldier and a member of the media expected to report on the war, positives only. She's from the Soviet Union, of all places in the universe, a former member of the KGB; propaganda and lying might as well be part of her DNA at this point.

Her eyebrow arches slightly when she smirks. "Have you seen their soap operas? This city knows how to make a masterpiece."

[president_evil]

"How lucky they are to have you, from the frontline to the newsroom, a true first person perspective. Perhaps they'll provide you your own program now." He sipped from his new glass, blood sliding up to the rim, leaving a thick stain behind.

He offered her a smirk.

"I prefer their gameshows, but I might tune in for that."

[molotov]

She smiles and tilts her head, finishing her second drink. "They've already offered me Panem Nightly if I want to keep it. But we'll have to see. Who knows, maybe I'll wind up wanting to just be a homemaker."

The thought alone makes her laugh. She's never been stay-at-home material; she needs to go out and occupy herself. Preferably with battle of some sort.

"I like the one where they see who can last longer on a date with a Districter," she says, standing up slowly and smoothing her dress out. "But it seems I have some poor Capitolites to save from my husband's stories. Have a wonderful evening, Mr. Wesker, let us know if you need anything. And come to dinner sometime soon."

[president_evil]

The comment drew a sharp smile from Wesker as well. Whatever his thoughts otherwise, whatever might happen, he sincerely doubted that particular future.

When she stood, he offered her a small toast with his homemade cocktail, and a little dip of his head.

"Congratulations again, and do give my best to Tom."