ᴡʜᴏ: SOLEIL FLEMING & OPEN
ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ: TRIBUTE TOWER, FIFTH FLOOR
ᴡʜᴇɴ: POST-TRIBUTE BALL
Soleil generally hated their time in the Capitol – being clamoured over by ditzy Capitolites who had once wished for their downfall, feeling the eyes of President Snow and his goons on them at all times like a bug under a microscope, being dressed up and paraded about like a doll. They hated it, yes, but over time they'd come to accept it. The less of an outright nuisance they made themselves, the more they would simply be left to their own devices. It wasn't as though they were a particularly popular victor, after all – they'd found that, as long as the vitriol that was constantly spat from their tongue wasn't openly antagonistic towards the Capitol, then they could fly under the radar.
It was a fine line they walked – balancing between abrasive and outright treasonous.
This year, of course, was different. Normally, Soleil found it very easy not to become attached to her tributes – she could watch them go off and die without much emotion, having already used up her lifetime allotment of grief. This year, however, had come with grief built in. They'd never really planned on becoming attached to their fellow victors, to their families – but nonetheless, over time, and against their better judgement, it had happened. They should have known that the Capitol wouldn't let them hold on to anything good for too long without viciously ripping it from their hands. Life is, and always has been, exceptionally cruel.
They're upset, yes, but mostly, Soleil is angry. It wasn't supposed to go like this – if anyone was going to be sent back into the arena, sent to die, it should have been her. There's nobody left who needs her, not really – nobody who would miss her that terribly. Not like people would miss Finch, or Ampere, or Lark, or Joule. And yet, of all of them, she is the only one who will be guaranteed to remain at the end of all this. It all seemed ferociously unfair – so, yes, she was furious. But she'd also never been much of a problem solver. Or someone to deal with their emotions in a healthy way.
So, instead, we find Soleil on the sofa of the fifth floor. On the coffee table in front of her are a series of precariously stacked glass bottles. On the seat beside her, a bucket of rocks. The avox had given her a strange look when she'd made the request – but they'd done it anyway, Soleil had been sure to slip them some food before they left. As the ELEVATOR dings and opens up onto the floor, Soleil has just thrown one of the larger rocks, shattering two of the bottles to pieces with a rather satisfying smash. "I'm busy!" She calls out to the newcomer – not even glancing in their direction before picking up another rock and lining up her next shot.
