glass houses {kinKAYde}

[Death]

[googlefont="Almendra Display:400;"]Cygnus Winters

Old Orleans Lounge, CAPITOL-- Paper umbrellas and tardiness were unacceptable, which is why she ordered a martini after arriving thirty minutes ahead of the scheduled time. It was almost dead, except for the silver-haired suit with his ringed hands traipsing up the silken hose of the new, unmarried skirt who giggled between sips of expensive champagne. 

They knew how to play the game so well. Him making her feel desirable, yet at the same time, her extorting these affections from him. The dynamic was fascinating.

Cygnus brought the glass cone, like a sake bowl had a baby with a classic martini glass, to her lips and glanced down at her notepad, silently thanking the cosmic powers at large for having Cass in all his untactful, blunt glory.

It sure made her feel better when she fumbled with words at work parties to know he wouldn't judge.

She took another sip of the martini before circling it in the palm of her hand.

Interviews were different, however. For some reason, the control that being the conversation director gave her made her more confident in herself. It was a gift, she was told, to be able to ask the tough questions. A gift and a curse, because too often it was too difficult to hold her tongue. 

No stranger to censorship, Cygnus was still recovering from being called into her editor's office to discuss one of her most recent articles.

"Sit down, Winters," he'd said, with a sigh deeper than the trouble she was certain she was in. He tossed her latest article, along with the entire manilla folder of research, onto his desk. "We can't publish this."

"If I might ask, why not, Sir?"

"People don't want to read this bullshit. They want the latest gossip about the latest person. I can't publish a compilation of facts and figures, especially on a topic like..." He cleared his throat. She clenched her jaw. "We're not publishing it, and I'll be holding on to your research. Do you have any left?"

"No, sir," she said like she was trying to force the last dregs of toothpaste from the tube.

"Good. Just sign these incident documents here, here and here. Also, you're on the Kinkade interview. Get Sparkle to give you the contact information for him."

It felt like she was signing the document in her own blood. Every article she wrote felt like she bled into, but this time, she wasn't the one pricking her soul. It was someone else, forcing her hand. She didn't like it one bit.

She realized she was scowling into the dregs of her martini and looked up to see the bartender was staring at her, frozen in the act of wiping off the counters. He quickly looked away, putting, no doubt, twice the effort into his work than he had before.

After tugging the olives from the toothpick in her drink (olives obviously being superior to those damned paper umbrellas), she took the empty glass to the bar instead of setting it on the table. After all, it was unprofessional to let the interviewee know you'd been drinking before the interview even began.

Cygnus scanned the bar, taking in its supposed old-timey feel, with its soft jazz playingin the background and the sleek black furniture and floors. She looked over at the couple as the suit set down his glass with a clink. The table was littered with shot glasses and the skirt was almost as red in the face as her lipstick.

"Let's get outta here, doll. I've got thirty minutes before the wife expects me home," he said, sliding his hand higher up her skirt. She nodded stupidly, before trying to get to her feet. She couldn't walk straight.

As the suit practically carried her out of the bar, Cygnus wondered how those girls were still sexy. Maybe it was the fact she had legs that opened faster than his checkbook, or perhaps it was just the fact she had something between her legs that made her desirable. Have hole, need dick, or something to that effect.

She massaged her temples. Cass had asked again this morning as they did their customary wake-up ritual. Her head on his chest, his arms around her. Soft breaths and the gurgle of Squiggle's tank. Kids. Always kids. She was a damn reporter for the damned upper class. She had her fill with kids of all kinds every day of the week.

Glamour Kinkade, however. Glamour Kinkade. Her first inclination was to wrinkle her nose with distaste. Who the hell names their kid Glamour of all things? It's like the name of the ever-coming-and-going secretaries. Sparkle, Shimmer, Glimmer, Shine, Glamour.

The watch on her wrist said it was nearly time. She shuffled her notes and clicked her pen one last time, then glanced up at the gleaming black wood and glass of the front door as it was pushed open by the avox doorman.

Glamour Kinkade.

If there was one thing Cygnus knew at this very moment it was that it wasn't a stretch to see that his name was accurate because glamorous was the first adjective she'd use to describe him when she'd type everything out later tonight.

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

a note from the desk of

gamemaker

Glamour Kinkade

i can hear the echo ringing in my head

One of the biggest perk of being Head Gamemaker had to be the extra style budget. He was expected to be presentable twenty hours a day, which required a full time, rotating set of stylists. They trailed him everywhere, from the dingy Training Center, to luncheons with the President, to interviews. Glamour was more comfortable with his styling team - trusted them more - than many of his friends. One of them - a petite girl, who only neared the height of his shoulder with six inch heels - accompanied him to the doors of the swanky bar. She reached high with an extended brush, softening his blush, accenting his chin. She declared him finished with a puckering of her lips, darting out of the so that he could make his grand entrance.

The bar was disappointingly empty. He did his best not to scowl even as he tried to remember the last time he'd looked at a clock. Was it mid-day? The middle of the night? He hadn't slept in a very long time. Of course, his styling team had delivered him to his Penthouse not so many hours ago, but he hadn't slept.

He had spent the time far more wisely.

Glamour flicked back the long coat tails - he really didn't like the fashion but his team assured him it was on fleek - as he took the seat beside Cygnus Winters. "It's been too long," he said by way of greeting, leaning forward to kiss her icy cheek. He'd learned long ago that pleasantries and flattery didn't work on Cygnus, which on the one hand was aggravating because he could find no other way to seduce her, and on the other refreshing. Presumably she set the same standards with other interviews.

He rattled off answers to the first few questions. They were all prescripted, things he had to reveal over the course of many interviews. Well, I'm sure Dom spent a lot of time by herself among the old ruins, poring over every details of the lives of inconsequential people. She found a few pretty knots and from there, my vision took hold. And, we're still tweaking the muttation program. There's some very promising new designs, after which he smiled bright and wide, teeth glittering.

And then he spaces out. He's sitting there, chatting away, but his mind is elsewhere, and when he tunes back in, he's talking about the one thing he should never speak of: the only open secret in the Capitol. "I do find time to relax. I'm making the rounds, preparing, twenty hours a day for the month leading up to the Bloodbath. But I always have four hours to sleep, or do... other things." He smirks mischievously at her. This is where he should change the subject, dangle some new bit of information about the 71st in front of her pale eyes. He's about to - he's even thought of something appropriately shiny to share - but even as he opens his mouth, he knows he's going to say something else. Something he shouldn't. "Of course people are so touchy about the victor's time right now. Like the District Four tributes really care where their mentor is in the middle of the night. You'd think they would be happy, knowing he was being well taken care of."

His heart is pounding in his throat so hard he almost chokes on the last word. He reaches for a glass of water, downing half of it with a greed normally reserved for champagne.

template by anzie

[Death]

[googlefont="Almendra Display:400;"]Cygnus Winters

The Glorious Presence of Glamour Kinkade, CAPITOL-- Her father used to enjoy fishing at the pond near their family home. He'd sit at the end of the dock, right after he'd had the fish freshly restocked, and dangle his bare feet over the water, being careful to not touch the surface and risk scaring any fish.

That little red and white bobber-- so old-fashioned, yet the best because of familiarity-- resting on the surface, except for the occasional blip from curious fishes. Two sets of crocus-blue eyes watched while the hook dangled in front of the fishes, just below the surface.

Cygnus is no stranger to baiting and casting a line, but being a reporter means that, whether she knows she'll be caught and released, or caught and eaten, she has to swallow the bait. Hook, line and sinker.

To Glamour Kinkade, little reporter Cygnus Winters was merely another fish in the pond to be caught. She could respect that. It was a mutually beneficial relationship. She got a fat paycheck for her work. He got whatever it was he wanted out of the interview-- publicity, bragging rights... who knows?

"I do find time to relax," he says in that classic Capitol lilt-- almost blasé, but with an edge she can never quite place in any of them. "I'm making the rounds, preparing, twenty hours a day for the month leading up to the Bloodbath. But I always have four hours to sleep, or do... other things."

That fishy feeling returns and then he's got a smirk like a cat peering into the water to observe all the fish at its disposal.

Cygnus takes a languid sip of the scotch on the rocks. The ice shifts and clinks against the crystal.

"Of course people are so touchy about the victor's time right now. Like the District Four tributes really care where their mentor is in the middle of the night. You'd think they would be happy, knowing he was being well taken care of."

Cygnus' precisely plucked eyebrows nearly hit the peak of her hairline and the swallow of scotch defies gravity, sliding up into her sinuses. Coughing, she pitches forward, pinching the bridge of her nose with her left hand. Her eyes stream with the burn of alcohol in her nostrils. 

"Pardon me," she says after blinking a few times to clear the tears from her eyes. My damn make-up is probably smudged. Fuck. "That-- that was the thing I was least expecting. Well done." 

The glass of scotch went back on the glass table with a tap before she clicked her pen a few times. She bit her lower lip.

He says everything for a reason. Don't forget you're a fish. Is he ready to release this information? It's not like we haven't heard the whispers or made the euphemisms... He broached the subject-- but it's entirely off-topic! We're here for the Games! A certain District Four victor, however, is still Games-related...

Again, a sip of scotch. She often found herself thanking science for developing artificial livers to fall back on, once hers gave out. Better her liver be stressed than her mind, in her opinion.

"Has your... experience with the 67th Games and its... legacy affected how you approach these next Games?" 

Fuck. Maybe he'll... we can always dig deeper. Just relax, Cyg. Why is it only with these types you screw everything up?