#vb134

[alder-reid]

He needed some air.

Watching Slate play the role of the perfect Victor so well was getting under his skin, grating at his nerves. All of those tributes had died saving him in the name of the Rebellion, and for what? For him to become Snow's favorite pet and poster-child for Capitol loyalty?

He had already unbuttoned the top two buttons below the collar of his starchy shirt, pushing open the door to a patio overlooking the Presidential Gardens with his shoulder as he worked on undoing the tight cuffs of his sleeves, too. Unfortunately, the patio was smaller than he'd expected, and he wasn't alone. Of course, he recognized Sheen-- he recognized all the Victors anymore-- but they'd rarely, if ever, spoken. He froze in the doorway, unsure of whether or not he should retreat back into the overheated ballroom and take his chances with losing his mind in there, or with potentially pissing off a Career for getting in his space. He cleared his throat. "I'll uh-- sorry, I can-- I can go."

@sheenlux

[cress-meadowforge]

The world outside was growing cool in the pleasurable way autumn offered, still temperate enough to be enjoyed. And Cress, feline creature she was, was poised up on the thick bannister railing of Nerissa's back staircase -- the marble one descending into the gardens, which were beginning to wither and fade. She was watching a couple work their way through the maze, the tall shrubbery cloaking them as they weaved left, then left again, then right.

She peered down from her perch, drawn by a blur in her periphery. Sheen, slipping from the warmth of the festivities into the cool night. "Well hello, you," Cress cooed, head tilting curiously as she watched him from above. "Disappearing so soon? There's no escape, you know." True of these gardens, of the maze, of the party. True of their worlds, endlessly repeating. "Only reprieve, if that's what you're seeking. And even then, it's only fleeting--" She gestured up, palm opening, as though she were releasing smoke. Something incorporeal, unattainable. It would dissipate, or melt, like snow.

@sheenlux

[slate-skylar]

Slate had attended all of his previous balls sober and found most of them to be intolerable. This one -- the worst one yet, by his calculations -- he couldn't face in that same state. Of course, he hadn't had a day without morphling since the hospital, since they'd properly sawed off the rest of his ear, since Snow had personally threatened his daughter, since they'd bombed his district and killed his brother. Today was not about to be the day to begin a sobriety journey.

And anyway, his role tonight had been made very clear to him. A package had been left that morning at the door to the apartment they'd given him here in the Capitol. It had contained his crown: black, adorned in skulls, tall and sleek. A note had accompanied it: 'Wear it well. — N.S.'

Wearing it well, to Nerissa Snow, meant to play the part. He'd played it throughout the victory tour, smiling and giving the speeches exactly as they were written, faltering only a few times -- in Eleven, in Four, in Two, in One. He'd done what he needed to in order to keep his child safe.

So now, he was still playing the role, though there were no longer any speeches to read or lines to recite. It was freestyle now, and he was doing, he thought, an excellent fucking job.

"To think -- all of this is mine, and all I had to do was the simple task of winning the Hunger Games." He held up his drink.

[sheenlux]

The two Victor Balls were up there with Sheen's least favorite events, along with the Mentor's Ball. Really any large social event that brought a lot of people he couldn't stand to be around. The only ball he actually had fun at was his own, but that was because he had gotten so intoxicated he couldn't remember what actually happened at it. Now, he very strictly resisted anything that could dull his senses. He was currently being tortured by an older sponsor who still felt that Sheen owed them a debt for sending him gifts when he was in the arena. His eyes scanned for an escape and eventually, he found one.

Abel Evans

The Victor of the games immediately after his. Putting his hand on the sponsor's shoulder, he excused himself from the conversation because he claimed the need to speak to Abel about pressing Mentor work. He moved in close to Abel, closer than Sheen would have liked, but he knew that if he didn't make it over the top then the Capitolite would never believe his story.

"Abel, you're going to be saving me from that conversation. Pretend like we're talking about something more important than we actually are. I'll find some way to make it up to you."

[holland-westbrook]

Holland was speaking at length with a sponsor who had strong opinions about the beast at the end of the 134th Arena, and getting more and more annoyed. When a familiar face passed by, she reached out her arm, snagging the person and saying, "Settle an argument, will you? Was the finale of this past Arena a let-down?" The sponsor stood with expectant arms crossed, their position clear that it had been.

[mxhlon]

"Are you goin' to this party later, or am I gonna find you shuckin' oysters in the kitchen instead?" Mahlon teased, peering over Pyxis' shoulder, though this time, there were no tide charts, no papers of any kind. He was a little drunk, but only pleasantly. The last time one of these things was thrown for someone from Twelve, it had been his own fuckin' celebration. And damn, was it nice when it was someone else's face plastered all over the place. Poor kid. But better than it being Mahlon.

"D'ya dance, Pyx?" Mahlon's brows lifted, wiggling.

@sitting-on-the-bottom

[sitting-on-the-bottom]

Location: 134th Games Victors Ball With: @montgomery-cannon

To the absolutely shock of no one who knew her, Pyxis immediately noticed Monty's outfit. Draping himself in a dress that made her thing of the depths of the ocean, pearls scattered in his veil, he had a divine look to him. It was like the legends they had told many years ago, of Aphrodite as she had risen from the waves. It looked as if Monty had done just that.

It took all of her self-control not to reach out and touch the pearls, to feel them roll in her fingers. Most of the time, that was all it took for her to know the provenance, if they were one of the ones harvested in Four, a Flannan Pearl. Instead, she just asked, "the pearls," was her greeting, "they're stunning. Do you know where they are from?" No hello, no what a ball this was, no frill to the conversation. Straight to to the point.

[cress-meadowforge]

This time, it was Cress' turn to approach. Another ball, another opportunity to debase herself by quelling the violent fury simmering in her core. And here, with Zelena's minions on the hunt, and Snow's Peacekeepers haunting the corners like ghostly shadows, she needed to be even more convincing than before.

"Link, darling!" Cress cooed from far enough away that it would draw attention, a few curious eyes sated by the view. "Oh, Snow, look at you." The outfit was very Link: a pantsuit, nicely hemmed, just festive enough to feel intentional without being egregious. Celebratory, but not political. “Here, I brought you a drink,” she offered out the glass, matching her own, except that hers was lacking any spirits. “I thought it would be a terrible shame if we didn’t share a toast this evening.”

@linkcache