thecapitol | out and about [open!]

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out and about [open!]

Who| Lestat & you!
What| Down time in the common room, and then a shopping spree.
Where| Starting off at the District 6 Common Room, then all over town.
When| Week 6
Warnings/Notes| General warning for terribleness, will edit if needed.

District 6 Common Room
Lestat was not looking forward to this idea of 'mentoring.' He didn't want anything to do with these people, no matter if they were from his District or not. Besides, he was watching the Games (of course-didn't everybody?) and some of these people were simply...he had his work cut out for him, at least.

If he was to mentor these people, then he had at least put in a minimal effort. After all, the Capitol had told him in no uncertain terms to put in effort and do things-something he wasn't looking forward to. They never said he had to actively search them out, though. They'd some through the Common Room eventually, that was good enough. So, slouched on a couch in the Common Room, he flipped through a trashy magazine. As people entered, Lestat lazily waved them over, to talk about whatever stupid article he was reading.

"You, come over here. What do you think of this?" he asked, pointing at an inane article-possibly about clothes, possibly about a celebrity, possibly about both.

All About Town
After he got the traditional boring mentoring bits out of the way, Lestat had decided to hit the town. After all, if he was going to spend time in these boring quarters, he needed to personally outfit it a bit more. So, Lestat meandered from shop to shop, looking at fancy clothes, lavish home goods, way too expensive and gaudy curtains, things like that. He was dressed to the nines today, which in Lestat's fashion sense, translated as lots of frills and ruffs. Waaaaay too many frills.

He walked from shop to shop, not really caring about others as he did. Why should he, after all? They were just normal, average citizens-he had proved himself better than them ages ago. So, as he shopped, it is entirely possible that he bumped into people, accidentally trod on some feet, cut someone off in line without second thought, etc. etc. without even realizing it or giving a damn.

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"Goddamnit," Venus says, realizing that she's stepped off onto the wrong floor. By the time she realizes her error the elevator's zipped off to floor whatever, and that means standing around feeling stupid. She shakes her head and tugs at her hair and stalks around the District 6 kitchen before peeking into the lounge.

She sets her shopping bags from the Capitol on the kitchen counter, tilting her head like a bird at Lestat. She tries to learn the faces of all her Competitors each Arena, if only to know who to stab and who to eat dinner with first. She blinks at him, all owl-eyed. "You new?"

Kicking off her high heels, she steps into the room, folding one hand into the other behind her back and peeking at the magazine he's reading. "I think that's a great dress."

As Venus entered, he looked her over, putting two and two together in his mind. She didn't look familiar-probably a Tribute. "If by 'new' you mean one of you, then I'm not new. I'm one of your Mentors." He looked over at Venus, frowning. She...did not look familiar. He took that to mean that she wasn't one of his tributes and he didn't have to worry about her.

However, Venus peering at the magazine has already earned her a few points in his mind. "Isn't it, though?" he said, as he returned to the magazine. "I'm not normally a fan of this style, but it does her wonders." He waves Venus over, gesturing for her to pull over a chair.

"Well, you're not one of mine. I'm on the wrong floor. Nice to meet you, though." She holds a hand out to shake as she pulls up a chair. "I'm Venus," she adds as an afterthought, because by now most people in the Capitol know her, and before that most of the public on her home world did as well. Remembering to introduce herself is a habit she has to train herself into.

She forgets to ask his name. Usually people are introduced to her if they're important enough.

She gestures with her fingers at the neckline. "I think it'd look better with a sweetheart neckline, though. I mean, not on that model, but on anyone with a nice chest. I guess I wouldn't know, I'm not a stylist or anything."

"Pleasure to meet you, Venus," Lestat says, as he shakes her hand. He doesn't get up off of the couch, but moves up slightly, so he could shake her hand better. "A lovely name for a lovely woman." He was flirting with her and it was slightly blatant, but it was true: she was a lovely lady.

"As for me, I'm Lestat de Lioncourt."

When they started to talk about the dress, Lestat nodded, listening to Venus's opinion. "My dear, everyone should know the basics of clothing. After all, we can't have stylists all of the time."

Venus has long mastered the celebrity's way of dealing with compliments, from the genuine to the fawning. A gentle smile washes up to her eyes, as if she knows it's true but hasn't heard it before. "Thank you, Mr. de Lioncourt. I could use similar adjectives for you."

She crosses her legs and leans over the magazine. "Well, I'm not saying I'm completely clueless, just that I'm not the expert. I'm open ears for tips, though."

"Oh, I'd hardly consider myself an expert either-after all, that's why you have stylists," Lestat responded, as he flipped through the pages. "Still, I know more than most. Of course, it's easy to know more than most, considering that some of these people wouldn't know style if it bit them." A frown played on his face as he looked at a particular outfit.

"And please, just call me Lestat." He was going to enjoy getting to know Venus better.

"Alright, Lestat. Not Les? Mandatory two syllables?" She drums her fingers on her knee and reaches over to turn the page of the magazine, leaning into his personal space.

"I've seen some nice pieces here, but people do kind of have a tendency to do, like...overkill." She suddenly snorts. "Wow, no pun intended."

"Just Lestat." He wrinkled his nose at the idea of a nickname. It was...well, it didn't fit him at all. Though, he did let out a small laugh at Venus's comment.

"What can I say, we at the Capitol love our excess."

"You can go to the excess with minimalism sometimes, though. Just, you know. To make what you do have pop." She shrugs one shoulder. "A single high-quality cherry instead of a cheap pie."

"A bold statement. One which I'm afraid will never catch on, but bold nonetheless."

"What if I made it trendy?" She grins until dimples show. "Don't you think I could be some great designer's muse?"

Wow, seriously? He knows he might not be the most obvious person, considering colored skin doesn't stick out in the Capitol and he's about as big as a toothpick, but stepping on his feet? That's a new level of rude that, if this were back on Alternia, or any other planet that wasn't this godawful one, he'd be able to handle with no problems.

But he's powerless. So all he can do is grit his teeth and ball his hands into fists as he sends Lestat the most intimidating glare he can muster - and considering he's only 5'8" and verging uncomfortably close to a skeleton with skin, probably isn't very intimidating at all.

"Do you mind, fuckfathe?"

The lisp probably doesn't help, either.

As he hears the Psiioniic talking, Lestat turns around, with a dismissive 'surely you can't be talking to me' type of expression. This twig had to be talking to someone else.

"Mind what?" he said innocently, as he looked at the troll.

This is why he hates humans.

"Where your feet are going." He can already tell talking to this man is going to accomplish about as much as telling a seadweller to go drown in a lake. "You don't need to thtep all over people."

He just gives the troll a look of utter condescension.

"Well if you got out of my way, then you wouldn't have gotten stepped on."

Is it impolite to claw someone's eyes out? Because he really, really wants to.

"Are you theriouth? Are you really that thelf-abthorbed that I have to be the one getting out of the way of your ugly, frilly thelf?"

"You're a skinny little man with a lisp," he responds, as if that's the most obvious fact in the world. All of those things, in Lestat's mind, implied weakness and weakness implied getting the hell out of his way.

"And honestly, gray skin? Apparently you have no taste as well."

"I know that." He doesn't need to be told things he's already known - he's only been around for centuries, and only wigglers can get away with pointing out the obvious. This man is clearly not a wiggler, so he shouldn't get a free pass to be a brat.

"I'm thorry my thpecieth lookth different from your thquithy rathe." There's a distinct feeling like he'd be rolling his eyes right now, but he can't, really. Having no irises makes that kind of impossible.

Cuthbert was out and about to try and get himself back to his normal routine. Shopping wasn't really part of his normal routine, but it counted toward making an effort, which was all he really cared about right then. He would have let Lestat brush right by if he hadn't knocked into him in the process. Something about being mildly disrespected brought out a part of Cuthbert he had otherwise been ignoring of late.

"Cry pardon for not backing away faster, your highness."

The sweet sounds of condescension... how long had it been since Cuthbert heard it in his own voice?

Lestat pauses, taking in that condescension, as he turns around to look at Cuthbert. What was it with these people and getting in his way, this afternoon? He frowns, looking over the man, obviously sizing him up.

"You should have," Lestat simply stated, slight sneer on his face and voice full of derision. Now it's his turn to have a slightly condescending tone in his voice. "After all, I am in a rush."

That may be the first thing in a week to genuinely make Cuthbert laugh.

"How far have I fallen that a citizen of the Capitol doesn't recognize me for the tribute I am? I thought your sort was supposed to fall fawning to me."

He's less amused the longer he stares at Lestat. Of all the people to be dismissed by, this might actually be more insulting than he thought. Cuthbert is all too confident that as soon as he outs himself as a tribute he will have this man falling all over himself, though.

As he mentions that he's a tribute, Lestat frowns for a moment. He's too much of an egotistical jackass to admit that he's wrong, but he is rather annoyed that he had met a tribute and even more annoyed that he hadn't recognized the person.

He had one trump card in his arsenal (which really, he played all the damn time).

"There's a difference between Tributes and Victors," Lestat responded, his frown turning into a smirk. "You lot die a dime a dozen in the arenas. We've survived."

That definitely struck home. Cuthbert was not happy about the way he had died and everything associated with it.

"Quite right, I should not assume I'm any better simply because I've likely killed more men in the arena than you."

But he lightens his tone after that as he takes a moment to really size Lestat up.

"If I had to guess I would say you're terrible fashion sense blinded your last few enemies and you were able to take advantage of the involuntary retching that happened as soon as you came into view to attack."

He hadn't much time to look around this place when he first arrived here; he fought off an alien thing, got sent into the arena, got killed, and now he was back.

But keeping to his suites was one a good idea, actually. Because, jesus, how much better could the District 6 suites get? A nice bed, unlimited food (hot, non-carbtien, delicious food), and the ability to get away from people for a long time. Oh, and you didn't have to worry about the dead knocking at your door.

Unfortunately, he'd been pushed outside by the escort. But now he could sneak back in without having that argument again. Except there was a new guy sitting there, with a magazine, so, fuck. There went sneaking.

"I think it's a waste of good paper." Perry glances at the picture of... he thinks it's a person wearing something. "I can't even tell what that is."

As he spots Perry, Lestat can't help but smirk. Of course he knows that this person is one of the Tributes he needs to mentor-the Capitol thankfully gave him that heads-up before they rudely yanked him here.

"It's a dress," Lestat replies, in a tone that obviously implies 'no duh.' Oh how little he knew. "Though, we can talk about that later. Perry Kelvin, correct?" The small smirk still played on his face, as he looked at the boy. "My name is Lestat. I'm your new mentor."

He's definitely the guy that needs a mentor, not that he would actually want one. He was anonymous, at least by Capitol standards, and why couldn't he keep that going? Perry was pretty content with letting that happen.

Absolutely content with that. Especially if that was considered a dress around here; he'd seen the suits, and he was in no way wearing something that crazy. No, really, he needed to deal with all this? A mentor was the guy who helped you survive in the arena, right, he'd have to figure that one out.

"That's right." Perry doesn't even flinch, though the smirk really irked him. "Nice to meet you." He didn't put his hand out to shake.

"So why haven't you been here before?"

"Why would I want to be here," Lestat responded, with a scoff and a frown. Training Tributes who he honestly cared little about instead of living it up in the Capitol itself was not his idea of a good time.

"I'm only here now because the morphlings keep letting you lot die," said with an idle wave of his hand. That's a lie. He's here because the Capitol effectively shut down living the high life for now. Given the choice, he's let all them rot. But Lestat wants to appear in a position of power, wants to impress to anyone that he is in charge of his destiny, he is his own man. The idea of being ordered around is too insulting for him to bear.

"And since I'm not an addled addict, the Capitol saw fit to bring me in so we could win a Game or two."

Why would he want to be here? Why would any of them want to be here? Perry certainly hadn't decided to show up here, and he seriously doubted any of the others wanted to come here. Though he was sure plenty of them wouldn't want to leave, now.

"Because god forbid we die in a death match. That's just crazy." Perry laughed, the sound hollow, but sightly humorous. It was a big change from when he first got here. Maybe he was actually finding something to laugh about. Perry gave a shrug.

"So you teach us how to fight and survive in the game. Lucky for you, I already know how to do that, so you can focus more time and energy on the others." Who need it. Or want it.

Lestat couldn't help but smirk slightly at Perry's little joke. "Winners from my District are few and far between. Those who win are either lucky, insane or, in my case, exceptional." There was that ego shining through.

"If you do already know how to fight, my dear, then of course I'll focus my energy on you. After all, we want to win, don't we?" Or, at the least, Lestat wanted to win. And having one of his Tributes win was the closest he was going to get.

What district was he supposed to be in? Oh, right, yeah, Perry remembered. District Six. They weren't told enough about the Capitol here, or rather, they weren't told about the districts, here in the Capitol. You didn't know anything about them, beyond what you gathered.

"Should I be bowing now, or can I leave that for much, much later?" Exceptionally something, really. He does wonder, though, if there's a way to find out how this guy did win. Maybe they played it on video more then he was looking?

"It's Perry. I get that winning is a big deal here. I do. I don't think I'm your guy for it."

It's so many frills it's almost blinding...even to a zombie.

R sees the frills before he sees Lestat, only dimly registering him after the fact. Seriously, that's just...that's too many frills to be healthy. You could literally kill a man with them - any zombie worth his weight in blood could easily snag onto a frill without even trying. He doesn't even try to hide his staring. Besides, he's good at it - it's one of the few things he knows he's awesome at aside from the shambling and the lurching.

The man's chiseled cheek bones and golden hair that somehow flows instead of sits there like, well, hair. Basically the kind of face a Capitol citizen would lap right up and swoon over, whether it's covered in glitter or sprayed with blood. R already feels even more rotten than usual.

R doesn't even register that he has a few stepped on toes. He finds his voice again.

"Help...looking? For..." he pauses, swallows, and tries to bust out a multi-syllable word in one shot. "Access-ssories..?"

This man looks like he has a better idea what to do in a shop than a zombie. And R's getting tired of the same stiff collars and the sea-themed muzzles.

As he hears R's voice, Lestat turns around and oh good Lord. He pauses for a moment, looking at the young man. He wasn't entirely sure if it was the lights in the store or his complexion, but he looked, for lack of a better word, dead.

Lestat can't help his staring and the slight look of confusion and disgust on his face. He hadn't seen anyone who looked that bad in...well, ever. It was a bit disconcerting. At R's statement, he nods, still looking rather confused.

"Of course," he responded, frowning slightly. "Are you thinking of anything in particular?"

He's used to that mixed bag of reactions. Even the few fans he has get that way if he accidentally touches them when he's, say, signing autographs. Supposed to be signing autographs: kind of hard to when you don't remember your name or how to write. Even holding a pen's iffy. R tries not to take the stare personally.

He gestures at his mouth, the gleaming muzzle that protects the Capitol from his teeth.

"New...one. Nicer...?" R fishes about for something else, something to say that isn't just awkward shopping advice. He settles for jutting his hand out, his gray skin even more desaturated looking compared to the warm teals and browns (running District 4 ocean theme) he's stuck in. "I'm...Rrr. By...the way..."

He twitches his mouth into what he hopes is a friendly smile. This guy's so classically good looking R suspects he'd feel in shambles standing next to him even if he wasn't a zombie.

Lestat continues to look at R, obviously slightly disgusted. He was gray. Surely the Capitol could do something about that. Gray just wasn't aesthetically pleasing at all.

When R pointed at his muzzle, Lestat's frown only intensified. "Truth be told, I know absolutely nothing about muzzles." Which was a sentence he never thought he'd utter in his life. "But perhaps a brighter color would be best? It would certainly draw attention away from your...skin."

He felt so sorry for the poor boy's stylist: they must have their work cut out for them.

At this point they've practically given up on him and focused on their other Tributes.

"Like..." R racks his brain for all the words he knows for really obvious beach colors. "Not...blue and...green. Red...?"

Okay, so he's falling back on his default. He knows he looks okay in red. R feels Lestat studying him and probably finding what he sees lacking, self-consciousness starting to rise in his guts. It might've been different if this man wasn't so obviously handsome he even stands out around the rest of the Capitol citizens. It's like rubbing it in his face somehow.

Lestat frowns, looking at R. Red...it would look good in him. He taps his finger to his chin in thought, as he looks at R, then looks at the selection of other accessories.

"Perhaps a dark crimson would be good, if you want to go for red. Something the color of blood?" He had no idea that R was a zombie or even what zombie's connections to blood were (Lestat was not very book smart about certain things.) But a crimson red against that gray skin...it could be worse.

"Yes," R winces behind the muzzle. Not the way he would've liked to put it, but accurate. Zombies gravitate toward that particular shade of red for a reason and as much as he hates to admit it, he's no different. "But not...District...colors...?"

Lestat waved a flippant hand, letting out a small scoff. "Just make sure to wear your District colors whenever you're doing interviews or such. I'm sure those poor people in Twelve don't wear that ugly coal gray all the time." And if they did, then he really felt sorry for them.

It was obvious from Lestat's tone that he really didn't put much pride in his district.

Put like that, it sounds so easy! R's a little jealous.

"Grey...ugh..." R can agree on that. Grey's boring, lifeless, monotony. "Not...good at...inter-views. Tips...?"

When it takes you forever to groan up a sentence, an interview can be a torture for the interviewer. R looks hopefully at Lestat over his muzzle, expecting answers to life, the universe and the Capitol from him now. No way you could fake that smooth confidence.

"I can tell." A small smirk spread across his face. The boy had trouble stringing more than two words together. Interviews would be hellish for him. His smirk faded, as Lestat put his hand up to his chin in thought.

"Can you cry on command? Perhaps if you seem so distraught and mortified at the thought of going back into the Games, the interviewers will hold back on the questions."

It was a horrible idea. But really, R looked like he needed as much help as possible.

R looks trapped at that suggestion because on paper, it's a really good idea. Who doesn't feel a little tug when they look at someone crying? But that hinges on the fact that you can produce tears and R's tear ducts are as dry as a mausoleum: he couldn't cry even if his un-life depended on it. Embarrassed, R hangs his head, feeling like a new zombie in front of this man.

"Can't," R mumbles. "Can't...cry. Other...way? Win...hearts?"

It can't all hinge on faking it, can it? R couldn't fake his way out of a paper bag or look half as marvelous as this guy.

Outside of Peacekeeper Headquarters ('off his stage,' so to speak), Katurian was a wholly unremarkable man. He looked small despite his average height because he slouched and crouched and curled in on himself like a dying beetle. He did not wear garish clothing. He wore khakis. Collared shirts with ink stains on the sleeves.

In other words, he was difficult to see.

When Lestat cut him off on the street, he tripped over his own feet and fell forward, straight into the frilly mentor.

As the nondescript man fell straight into him, Lestat let out a huffy sigh. Honestly, people these days, why couldn't they look where they were going? He spun around to look at Katurian...and barely managed to hide the sneer of contempt that spread across his face.

Small, crouchy and drab. How hideous.

"Watch where you're going," he hissed, as if Katurian running into him wasn't his fault at all.

Katurian could smell the Capitol on him. He stank of it, filthy because he was so clean, broken only because he was so whole. Even as a Capitol lapdog, Katurian could not hide his disdain. Maybe it had something to do with growing up in the Districts, or maybe Katurian just hated to see someone who never fell down. Who never would.

He pulled away from the other man, brushing his shirt flat.

"You watch where you're fucking going." Despite the harsh words, he practically mumbled it, his eyes downcast, his shoulders flinching.

Edited 2013-12-10 00:07 (UTC)

"What did you say?" he hissed, words coming through clenched teeth as he looked down at Katurian. He didn't know who this person was but the sheer idea that being ran into was his fault offended Lestat to his very core. He clenched his fist as he looked down at Katurian, sneering.

He didn't recognize the man, so he probably wasn't a Tribute...why would someone willingly dress so bland?

"You ran into me. You should watch where you're going. Or else..." He still sneered, letting the threat linger in the air and leaving the other man to fill in the blanks.

"Or else you'll punch me right here in the street?"

He looked up finally, daring to dart his eyes between the clenched fist and the other man's face. He grinned, less like an action hero and more like a child standing just out of reach of a chained dog. There was an edge of fear to it, but mostly there was smugness. You can't reach me here. We're not in the Districts.

(Districts. Did something about this man look familiar to him? Was he something from his old life?)

It didn't matter, anyway -- he was going to be fine. These Capitol people never fight.

"Won't that muss your clothing?"

Edited 2013-12-10 23:26 (UTC)

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out and about [open!]

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Around an accessory store?

chill with me!

Re: chill with me!

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