COSMOPOLITAN // tulip & sampson

[Deleted]

"Girl, Jem, give me one sec', this kids about to break the fountain."

"Yeah, the ice one."

"STOP, no it's not- wait..."

"Is that Laz?!"

"Oh babe, he's not even retired- I KNOW!" 

She's hot against their ear, Sampson can hardly go two steps without a phone call. Jemima's the babe, it's not an event if there's not one thing that pulls them off the phone with her -- that's how they judge parties at this point. It's almost monotonous, unless someone is injured, crying or dying, Sampson's seen it all. Hell, they've even seen a few party deaths, Jemima and Sam wore match black one pieces and fur booties to Archaius Dorrel's funeral bash. 

Rest in Peace Archaius; they still kiki over how Dorrel's cousin pissed himself passed out - there's just no social come back. It's over with, your cousin is dead and so is your media standings babe, they haven't caught a peep of Tremane Dorrel anywhere on the timelines and odds are? It's gonna stay that way for a while. Last they heard of him, Tremane had changed his pfp to a blank icon. 

Embarrassment, really. 

"Oh, no, it's not even Lazarus. Snore,"

"RIGHT- like, why do we care? No, no, I don't know them. Ooooh, girl he didn't know it was a glass fountain."

There's blood on the dance floor, gross. It's a Fenwick party, they're probably used to it. Sampson cackles as Jemima talks her shit, "keep an eye out on Pipeline for me babe- no I'm not worried, I'm just nosy, bitch." They back and forth, Sampson's entire career has become so enveloped with these pre-games, mid-games and post-games parties. So committed to making each one a banger, they just stroll through them now, spending fifteen minutes at each one deciding if it'll be the one. 

The Party of the Year, Fenwick is always promising but there's just so many good choices. Sampson's walked hours on this street tonight alone, sizing gatherings, gala's, events and escapades, and have turned away so many unpromising aspects. "Are you at work, bitch?!" The absolute loyalty, "that's so hot," they hear the mutts whining in the background. Mixing with the whimpers of Nameless Injured Guy #3, Sampson's just whelmed. 

It's just not enough, y'know? Where's the theatrics? 

Where's the motherfuckin' show! 

Is that so hard- "no fucking way, Tulip motherfuckin' Aresenault?!" 

"Oh, oh ma'am," they shout, walking over to the pool side terrace, watching Misses Arsenault sip something bubbling and shooting confetti. "Jem, babe, I'll call you right back, k? Now, Tulip-" they shut off the NERVAlink, guising abhorrent shock at seeing this bitch here, without a single warning. 

They hold their hand to their chest, clutching almost in pain, "first of all, where was my warning call, you know I hate being the second best dressed. Second of all, what are you drinking and who do I have to fuck to get one?" Hiking the trail of their neon blazer, Sampson shows off their bare chest, hands on their waist and skin to the air. 

"I'm not mad you didn't call, just disappointed," they joke, breaking eye contact to see if that guy's passed out yet from blood loss. "Expected more from a Fenwick event, you been anywhere better yet?"  

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

► ► ►

Someone smashes into one of the glass fountains -- water and blood oozing towards the feet of Capitolites in capillaries. The caterers rush over to smack the guy across the face a few times into consciousness, his arm weeping profusely but he's so drunk he grabs another salmon canapé from a plate of fallen hors d'oeuvres before passing out again. What a social vulture.

Business is ninety-nine percent of being surrounded by idiots with rich families. Tulip swears she's seen more mutts come back from extinction than substantial thoughts in the upper echelons of the hedonic hell.

Somehow Cypress is about to cut the red ribbon on his new company tonight, larping as an executive, a clown costume made of his family wealth melted down, and she's here because her lawyer basically said she seemed too much like a bitch and needed some free PR. Another charity event? As if. Everyone only came here to break glass, shed blood, and look hot. That's a Capitolite mantra: bloodshed and looking hot.

She can't believe she's going to miss her dear step-brother's fucking circus.

Grabbing another drink from a waiter, the champagne making big silver bubbles exploding edible glitter in the honeyed drink, she's taking a sip to cure the boredom when she sees a familiar face emerge from the swarm people buzzing on the dance floor in bumblebee patterns. And over their shoulder, she swears she sees someone trying to jump onto the crystal chandelier from the terrace. Hope they die.

"Sampson." She's a little drunk and it shows when she says something almost earnest, gesturing towards their luminous blazer, "Stop, no one's better dressed than you and you know it."

It's strange how she had to kill at least three people in the power void after her father's death just to be able to do this -- fuck around and attend parties and make small talk. "Oh you know. I've been too busy donating pencils to the poor kids in Twelve and all that. Those children need a good education to become well-rounded miners." When another server passes with a tray of champagne, Tulip takes the whole bottle.

Her father was fond of swords and had a whole collection of beautiful blades. Maybe she should behead her lawyer.

"Expected more from a Fenwick event, you been anywhere better yet?"

"Hm, let's see. We had an end of year gala for our talent and staff -- in a fucking carnival theme can you believe it? Not my idea obviously. There were also a few charity events here and there, worse than this actually." She sighs melodramatically, uncorking the bottle to a puff of pink confetti before offering it to Sampson, "Sadly, right now I’m missing the only event I ever wanted to attend in my life."