#vb127

[maverickmontana]

"I heard a rumor District Seven is the next Career district,” Maverick said as he felt someone approaching him. It was not a rumor he’d heard so much as a rumor he was attempting to start, after a few vodka shots.

[moxiepitlocks]

“What were they thinking wearing that here – I understand that for some people any attention is good attention, but really, how is that fit with the theme?” Moxie muttered, half to herself and half to the room around her, a champagne flute clutched greedily in her hand.

[everettlance]

Everett was standing in the lobby, looking around at the tall windows, the sleek finishes on everything, how it all sort of gleamed even now at night. “They really did this place up,” he said, spinning slowly.

[liliana-cannon]

“Why on Earth would you think it was appropriate to ask me that? Must I remind you I am both on the clock and decades of deadly training behind me?” And a couple of weapons on her person, but she was hardly about to confess to that. She leveled the person with a sharp gaze, daring them to continue. She was already in a sour mood for being forced to be here, in the Capitol, again among the disgusting excess, but it seemed whenever she was in this damn Tower people found it necessary to test her patience too.

[slateskylar]

He had misgivings about his assignment. About the whole publishing house actually. It felt like all anyone cared about now was this fucking Carol book. They were going all in on it, ‘betting the house’ — the whole thing was so far riddled with bad gambling jokes. But Slate had uprooted his whole life and moved to the Capitol to keep his job. He had to see it through.

And part of that meant tonight’s assignment of chatting with Carol, gaining trust, getting him to agree to an interview. The advice he’d gotten was to pretend Carol had already basically agreed, or like it was already set up and all Carol had to do was name the time and place. But Slate was not so good at smooth talk, much better at staying quiet and overhearing things that people wanted to keep private, writing them down, and sending them to an editor with a knot in his stomach.

The tributes he’d sent intel on were almost all dead, that was the one good thing. The other good thing was that Carol was a fucking murderer and probably didn’t have real feelings, although the editors and writers all hoped he did so they could craft a good story.

And Carol was proving to be a good fucking story. The thing was that it would probably be a terrible book. Probably no one would read it. Probably it would be boring as hell.

Probably, probably. All of these things to ease a guilty conscience. Because Slate wouldn’t want a book about him. He doubted anyone really did, at least not one they couldn’t control the narrative in. And Carol definitely didn’t control this narrative, the one painting him as a maniacal, backstabbing traitor who never cared about Rio Odair. The Odair family themselves were playing into it perfectly.

“I bet most people have offered you a drink tonight,” Slate said on approach, “so I’m breaking the mold and not offering you a drink.”

@caroleyre​

[hestiaember]

“Brownie?” She’d grabbed too many desserts, as always, and as much as she loved chocolate she found she was reaching her limit. She held out the plate to Moxie in offering, tilting her head at her. She was still figuring Moxie out, even after a couple of Games, but a good relationship among her team members was something she’d always valued. Otherwise, it risked their tributes, and she refused to impose any additional risk onto them than they were already in. “Eyes were bigger than my stomach,” she added in sheepish explanation.

@moxiepitlock

[olive-blackwell]

@chip-foster​

“I’m not saying your birthday will be miserable without me -” As planned, she’d ditched the ball early. Her heels were swapped out for sneakers, and her jewels dropped into the first garbage can she could find. (She figured security cams would alert her stylist to their location eventually.) “-only that it could be a lot more fun here.”

They were headed toward Chip’s car. She’d grab Sawbones from the garage the next morning. The nights were still a little too cold to be speeding around on her bike. Once they were at the car she added, “Let’s grab some burgers on the way.”

[alder-reid]

“I look like I lost a fight,” he moaned He caught his reflection in one of the wide windows overlooking the glittering city, and immediately zoned in on the dark, bruise-like makeup that had been painted under his eyes. He hated it. It felt like some sort of statement about losing the war, about being nothing more than another beat up rebel. He knew Lara better than to do that to him, but it still made him feel itchy in his own skin. “It’s not fair, you look like-- like a God or something, and it looks like I was dragged in here.” Which, emotionally, he supposed was accurate, but it didn’t have to be such a gut punch to his already dwindling self-esteem like this.

@maverickmontana​