#pb128

"Ah, Alder Reid,” Maverick said, sidling up to Alder’s side, taking on a slightly nasally tone, the one they used to imitate Capitolites, “are you dressed as a god or a monster tonight?” He was hardly feeling in the mood for joking around, but the drinks helped, and the fact that Aspen was still alive. Still, things were a bit grim, inside and out of the Arena, and maybe a little fun wouldn’t go amiss.

It was an assumption; a stupid one at that, but Pluto tended to trust her gut and the mental record she kept in regard to her darling cousin’s behavior. She had gone back to the tower, excusing herself briefly making veiled statement that she needed to ensure that her daughter had made it home okay. She was really checking up on Micra. A knock on her door was all it took, but she was concerned, so she let herself in. “Sweetheart, are you home?” Pluto called out as she walked in.

“Which one of you bastards punched my son?!” she demanded, marching up to the bar, eyes flashing and spitting fire. Slate wasn’t innocent-- of course-- but she’d deal with that later. “I don’t care that the Arena is exploding, nobody hurts my kids!”

Emilia glanced up at one of the viewing screens at the sound of a rumbling and shaking in the arena. "I called it." When the earthquake had happened the day before, she'd felt it had something to do with the smoking mountain in the distance.

His life had completely fallen apart in a matter of 24 hours. Selene had set it all up, set every part in motion, pulled the rug out inch by inch, so slow he didn’t even know it was happening. Today was the final yank, sending him tumbling to the cold, hard floor. He was broke. He was a nobody. He was publicly ruined now, thanks to Selene. He took a deep drink from the cocktail he knew he couldn’t afford, and knew he’d have many more of them before the night was over too. Who fucking cared, what was a little debt on top of this shit show? He slumped over a little further when Everett joined him, staring at the syrupy dregs at the bottom of his glass. “Here to rub it in?”

She’d ordered a drink based solely on the fact it had wine in the title. Wine she could get behind with her whole heart, but when it’d been handed to her and it was black, she thought surely that was just a play on her by her eyes and the fact it was so dark in this room. A sip later confirmed that by the gods, it was not just wine. “Ugh, this tastes like the nasty candies my grandmother always had.” She muttered, pushing it back. 

Slate was glad that Twelve’s stylist had had some time left over after prepping everyone else, and had been able to put some makeup on him. Actually, more than some -- quite a lot of makeup. He wasn’t drinking tonight, but rather, putting all his energy into pretending that he had not gotten beaten up by a drunk Capitolite and had Carol Eyre of all people come to his rescue.

“I hope you’ve dropped the ridiculous notion you approached me with at the last ball,” Colette said, placing her skull carefully on the table between the two of them. She was pleasantly buzzed, not just on the Nectar and Ambrosia drink, but on the experience of visiting the Arena.