thearena | Hair done, nails done, everything did

Who| Molotov Cocktease and you?????
What| Just a touch of R&R and maybe also some bloodthirst. They go hand-in-hand.
Where| Glamor Nail
When| Week 2, Day 4
Warnings/Notes| Drinking, lookin' fly, copious nail polish fumes that can be annoying

Molotov was actually... marginally disappointed. So far, the only real violence she'd seen was at the Cornucopia, with the explosions -- everything else seemed fairly tame. Maybe it had to do with everyone hiding all the time, making nests in their various little corners of the mall until they were forced to actually fight.

But she didn't want to start a war while she was so severely outnumbered. She'd heard about a few injuries starting to occur, and she figured that would start knocking down the numbers soon enough. There were things to occupy the time, of course -- hoarding supplies (she'd had to upgrade from a backpack to a duffel after the sponsor gifts started rolling in), hoarding food from the daily frenzy in the food court, threatening everyone who got close to her. She was still on the hunt for a pair of thigh-high red boots, but she was making do with a few pairs of black heels for now.

By now, she's managed to pick out the stores that garner the least amount of attention, mostly because they don't have real supplies in them, only bric-a-brac useless for fighting. But that didn't make the stores completely worthless, now did it?

Blaires Accessories turned out to hold a wealth of flashy jewelry, Molotov's favorite kind, and she picked up some massive gold heart-shaped hoop earrings and a bunch of rings. There were hairbrushes and decorative hair bits, and she commandeered a mirror to tie her hair up in a black scarf with red hearts. Some off-brand red lipstick and black eyeliner (both spot tested on the back of her hand for potential skin-burning effects) helped her feel like she wasn't an uncivilized cavewoman.

Next door, though, was what she really wanted.

Glamor Nails may reek of chemicals, but Molotov is a vain woman, and the scent of nail shops is nothing foreign to her. She takes her time painting her nails red, but her real goal lies toward the back of the shop, in the big leather chairs attached to the foot baths. She's not aiming for a pedicure so she doesn't fill the basin, but when she finally drops her kit bag next to her and leans back in the chair, it's with a low groan and an almost orgasmic, "Oh."

The massage on these things is powerful as hell, which is good because Molotov has enough tension for five people in her back, and she's got bottles of gin to aid in this relaxation. So now she sits in the nail salon, nearly melted in her chair, with alcohol and a boxed salad from lunch on her lap.

Now this... this is a death arena that Molotov can get used to.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"It must be quite the castle, to have such a climate, to grow all those things. I assume your castle is at home in Ireland?"

It's an assumption, but you never know, castles pop up for sale pretty frequently.

"Well, I grow some of them indoors, and some seasonally. The trees in the orchard don't bear fruit, unfortunately." At least he didn't say he grows potatoes. "Aye, back in Mayo. I was born and raised there, which I'm sure you couldn't guess from the accent."

~~She probably would have been more pleased with potatoes.~~

There's a smile, and she shakes her head jokingly. "Never would have known. It sounds nice, castles and things. The western ones are so different from ours. I have only been to Ireland a few times, only Dublin and Belfast. Always for work, political things."

"It's lovely."

He misses home. Cain keeps trying to convince him they should move to America, and Tom can't seem to get it through his thick skull that that isn't going to happen and that American coffee is vile and it's like he's trying to give Tom a heart attack and whine, whine, drama, drama.

God, he hopes that Panem isn't secretly an alternately reality of the United States.

"I could take you out to the countryside, if we make it out of here, sometime. It may be a bit slow for you but sometimes a little serenity makes the inevitable destruction later more satisfying. Besides, if we get bored we can shoot leprechauns."

She can't help but to laugh at the idea of shooting leprechauns, the visual of them running around on their little legs, in their little green suits. Do they explode into Lucky Charms? Things to think about.

"But how do you get their gold if you kill them?" Molotov catches her breath, wraps one arm around her midsection. "I was born in the country. Well, as much of the country as tundra can be, really. But we went to Moscow when I was still young, for training. I have never really been back to know if I like it."

"Eh. It's hidden somewhere in the castle. I'll find it eventually. Or you could always take their children as collateral." Tom started bullying the leprechauns as soon as he was as big as they were, so, about when he was four.

The fact that he's entirely serious is what makes it so funny, and he grins. The crow's feet around his eyes deepen. "I'm sure the country in Ireland is different than the country in Russia, although having not spent much time in the country of the latter I could always be wrong."

Something about the whole conversation makes her laugh harder -- leprechaun children, impossibly tiny magical creatures with no point but to haunt rainbows or something. Tom with a whole cage of them, poking them with his cane.

She's practically in tears.

It takes her a moment to recover, get back to a real topic. "Russia is so big, we have everything you can think of. Most of the country is just farmland with almost no one living there. But the woods, the woods are the best part. That's where you go for mushroom-picking in the summer, after the rain. You can fly to the more southern parts of Siberia, it's like heaven for that."

All the better knowing that this has, at some point, actually happened.

"I can't imagine anything more lovely than mushroom-picking in an exotic locale. And then spending the night with a like mind." He raises his eyebrows at her, in case it wasn't clear enough who he was talking about.

She only smirks in answer, arching her back slightly as the massage chair digs into the small of her back. "Like minds are tremendously choosy about who they spend their nights with," she says lightly, wrapping her arms back around the headrest of the chair. "You must be very good at picking mushrooms."

"As I've said, horticulture is one of my many specialties." He settles further in the chair too, as if he has no intention of going anywhere for a while now. A nice chat is much preferable to the hum drum of waiting for people to wander close enough to get killed. He wonders if this is what wolf spiders feel like.

"And I, too, can be quite discerning about who I lend my presence to."

It reminds Molotov of a stakeout, an extremely long one with no TV to drone in the background, and a lot more glitter than one would normally be around.

"Tell me your other specialties." It's practically a demand, but she makes it sound like coo, a soft plea.

And so he divulges possibly too much, but unwilling to resist her charms.

"I've already tipped my hand as to interrogating and explosives, but I've all the skills that come from thirty years in the business. Electrical, computers, negotiating with other terrorists." It's so nice to not have to pretend to be ashamed of his life choices. He's perfectly happy with his chosen career.

"All handy skills in a place like this," she says, nodding, but she looks happy, gazing at him with a smile. "I have never been gifted with computers. I can break through a security panel, but bah, keep all the circuits and wires away from me. Sniping, assassination, bomb-making, those are all things I love."

"Sniping is a lost art. There's too much reliance on scopes and focus technology now and not enough raw talent at just accurately pointing at a thing." He makes a gesture with his hand like he's lining up a gun. "We'd make quite a pair, our skills combined."

"We will see how it goes," she purrs. Molotov knows there's an off chance she won't win, knows that the Gamemakers are allowed to fuck with them just to keep things interesting, that they can cherry-pick a winner if they want to. It's a worry she's had -- if she's too good, they might want to keep her around, might do something she can't wriggle out of so that she has to compete again.

"I want to see your little stunt before I make any decisions."

"Tomorrow. I won't be telling you where until much closer to the event itself. I like to keep a little bit of surprise up my sleeve."

He grins, smirks, his smile more on one side of his face. Tom doesn't anticipate victory unless he really plays his cards right, now that he knows that people are revived. It's not something logical; it's simply easier to believe you'll survive because you're fated to be the last one standing if you know that literally everyone else dies. Tom finds it harder to contemplate a future without him in it than to contemplate resurrection.

She clucks her tongue and makes a coy little disappointed noise. "Making me wait, what a tease you are," she says with a sigh. "That's my job, couldn't you tell?"

"Your name was something of a tip-off." He gets up, finally, ready to take his leave. "We'll be seeing each other around, lass."

She wiggles her fingers at him in good-bye. "Oh, we most certainly will."

Hair done, nails done, everything did

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