#vb134

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

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

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.

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."

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

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.

"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