Trinette Auclair || capitol || [fin]
Nov 17, 2015 16:44:35 GMT -5
Post by arx on Nov 17, 2015 16:44:35 GMT -5
trinette auclair - 26 - f - capitol - fc: sandrah hellberg
Silk dresses and lipstick stains, champagne flutes and overzealous laughter—"You look simply stunning!"—compliments, curtsies, and colorless conversation. Could no one tell a good story anymore? Finish one drink, dance around a caterer and take another, but the headache doesn't subside. Bump into a stranger, giggle because the alcohol is working—"Trinette?"—and blush profusely as her hand finds the back of my arm.
"I thought you'd be working," I say, smirking. I bring my glass to my lips, cherishing the warmth gathering on my tongue, in my stomach, in my cheeks. The memory of her hands in my hair and my lips on her neck is enough to make me swoon; the dress she's wearing isn't helping. She rolls her eyes and laughs, pulling me closer. "The only thing I want to be working on is getting you out of that dress." Perhaps tonight wouldn't be such a bore after all.
The ting, ting, ting of silver against glass makes me slowly turn towards the stage, head swimming with fantasies even dirtier than Kiera Dempsey and Wednesdae Drummond could think up. Stars dance across my tongue, fingers dance across my back. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," a voice booms into the microphone. He continues on about donations, claiming that everyone's bet should be on Miss Corléon. A small guffaw comes from a man nearby—"Did you see the Krearns boy drive his spear through that girl's eye the other day?"—and a younger girl gushes to one of her friends—"Dustyn is too sexy to die."
Typical. It was always the Careers with the support. Didn't seem to matter how many times District 11 produced a Victor, the Careers would always be the favorites. Could no one recognize a good story when they heard one anymore? Olivia's lips brush against my ear; I feel her grinning.
"Crinkle your forehead a bit more, I don't think the guy in the back can see your disgust," she whispers, pulling away while I smile and roll my eyes. I shake my head as the video rolls, a collection of every hit the girl from Two had landed interspersed amongst her devilish grins and haunting apparel. She knew how to perform, knew exactly how to act in the spotlight to appear favorable, and it was true, she was as interesting as Miss Antoinette had been.
I take a sip of wine, let the bubbles dance over my tongue. I mutter to Olivia, feeling like I ow an explanation. "For a girl as entertaining as Miss Corléon, this film should be much less lackluster," I mutter, watching as more recent events begin to play on the screen. She plucks feathers from a delivery word, the poor creature dying as its heart gives out. "I get it. She's a ruthless, deadly Career deserving of loads of sponsorship, a safe bet," I move closer to Olivia now that the film comes to a close, the eye of a Balor sending a fire ball at us. "But she's a human being, too. She's got a story to tell, not just a pole sword."
Clapping commences and I hear Olivia giggle beside me as she moves to sit. She claps enthusiastically, though I know she hates these things even more than I do. "You're cute when you work," she says, slipping into a seat and folding her legs. I set my glass down on the table and blink at her with a smile. "Yes, and you're cute when you flirt," I say, glancing at my reflection in the vase in the middle of the table. "Congrats, you're doing it correctly."
She shakes her head at me with a grin and downs the rest of my drink. I turn my attention back to the stage where someone else vies for money on behalf of the Careers, this time the couple from One. Mister Lexig's transformation from man to wolf and the strong relationship between the two certainly is reason to root for them. However, the film does very little to tug at the heart strings. Both Mister Lexig and Miss Foster had been up to some heart-wrenching things lately, and yet this man chose to highlight his use of werewolf teeth to bite his opponents and her expert hand in axe wielding. Magus would be wholly disappointed with everything and everyone here.
I don't turn back to her even as her foot crawls up the length of my leg. "I'm working."
"Good," she says, the howl of a werewolf signaling the end of the video for the One's. Her foot crawls further up my leg; I suck air through my teeth. "I am, too."
I slowly stand as the next presentation begins; I ignore it. To have to sit through another Career fest of axe swinging and limb chopping could quite possibly kill me. I have to work tomorrow and being dead wasn't a good enough excuse for Magus to let me off. "Dinner on me?"
Olivia stands with a smile and loops her arm in mine. "Finally," she says, exasperated. "I thought you'd never fucking ask."
I lace my fingers around the coffee mug, eyes glued to the television. "Thanks," I say, taking a sip. I look around her, waiting for new footage and updates. She steps in front of me; I shift to look further around her.
"Hey!"
I look away from the screen then, still listening closely as Caesar drones on about revenge and Careers and Balors so that I don't miss anything new. "I'm working."
She holds her hands on her hips and glares down at me. I take another sip of coffee and stare through her. After a few beats she moves, grumbling. "Yeah, I know." I let out a heavy sigh and set my cup down. When Caesar jumps into another spiel about the District 6 and District 10 rivalry born after the Feasts I decide there must be nothing new to report on or he wouldn't be repeating old news.
"Livi," I call to her from the couch. I hear her moving in the kitchen; she doesn't respond. I click off the television and follow the sound of an clinking dishes. She has her back turned to me, apparently doing the dishes. She's never done them in her life. "Didn't know you actually participated in domestic activities." She doesn't respond.
I roll my eyes and sit myself down at the island across from her. I stare at her back, holding my chin in my hand. "You'd make a great housemaid," I comment, though it was clearly the wrong one for the moment. I didn't care. I knew it would get her to at least acknowledge me.
"I'm working."
I clench my jaw and scoff. I deserved that. But I wasn't in the mood for taking what I deserved with any real dignity or grace. I had to be at work in an hour; I didn't have time for this. "Fine," I mutter, standing from the table. "You can clean the rest of the kitchen too then. I'll pay you extra."
She whirls around at me then, letting the dishes clatter in the sink. She jams a finger in my direction, her voice raised. "Don't you fucking dare throw that bull shit at me!" I glare at her.
"Why the hell not?" I ask, picking up a wad of cash that sits in the middle of the table. I unfold one of the bills, a lipstick stain slapping me in the face. "This isn't my color, nor is it your's," I say, waving the paper in her face. She rips it from my hand, crumples it in her fist. "Why should you have my undivided attention when I don't have your's?"
She grabs the rest of the money from the table and storms into the bedroom. I follow her—"Liv!"—but she doesn't seem to care. And at this point I guess I shouldn't care either. I stand in the threshold and watch her jam her clothes into her purse. She doesn't bother to take the time to strap on her heels before moving to pass me. "I haven't paid you for your services yet," I sneer into her ear.
She shoves my arm out of the way and moves past me. "Come on, Liv, I'll pay you doub---" She whirls around just before she reaches the door and throws her shoes at me. "You knew what you signed on for when you met me!" I toss her shoes onto the couch so I can fold my arms. "For fuck's sake I told you who and what I was the moment we met!" My jaw clenches, my forehead crinkles. She pauses, waiting for me to answer. I don't have one.
She shakes her head and laughs but I see tears in her eyes. "I've never wanted your money, Miss Auclair," she says my name with a poison-tipped tongue; I hate when people call me that. But she knows that. "But if you want me to be your whore then fine, I can do that." She slams the door so abruptly I jump. I move to the window and watch her leave the building, feet bare and struggling to light a cigarette.
I let out a shaking breath and turn away from the glass as she disappear in the growing crowd below. I want to cry, scream, throw things, break dishes, kick over furniture, pull out my hair...
I grab her heels off of the couch and find my way back to the bedroom, tossing the shoes onto the bed and setting myself in front of the mirror. I look like shit. Lipstick, eyeliner, eye shadow, concealer, foundation, mascara, blush, highlighter, tweezers, eyelash curler, brush, brush, and more brushes—"This is a woman's toolbox, Trinette."—Mom made sure I could use it all. She always called it a super power everyone could purchase, but not everyone could master. "Luckily for you sweetheart, I am the master—and I am willing to show you."
Paint the bags under my eyes away so no one can see how tired I am. Pop the top off of my Beatrice Birch Blood Red lipstick and run it over chapped lips to disguise the frown. Eyeliner for ferocity, mascara for seduction, blush for innocence. Curl my hair, pin it up. Grab a professional dress from the closet—"The more your heart aches, the lower the cut should be."—decide on something much less so. I smile at myself in the mirror; Mom is always right.
The smile is gone as quickly as it came as my blemishes laugh at me from the mirror. My hair isn't colored right, I've penciled my eyeliner all wrong, and I've got wrinkles in all the wrong places. At this rate I would end up old, fat, crazy, and surrounded by a thousand bitchy cats. I sigh and grab Liv's shoes off the bed and strap them on in a moment of desperation to get back the ferocity the mirror had just stolen away from me; they look better on her.
I grab my brief case, slip on my trench coat, and make sure to finish my coffee before I lock the door behind me.
Copy machines and coffee makers, attentive receptionist and flirtatious assistant—"You look nice today."—harassment, hand shakes, and heckling heretics. These were the few people who could tell a good story. Finish one cup of coffee, snap at an intern to get another, but even still fatigue seeps into my bones. Knock, knock, knock on Magus' door—"Come in."—and enter with all the copies of new footage barely contained in my arms.
"I've been working on these all morning," I say as I drop all of the things onto his desk without much thought. I smell freshly brewed coffee and nearly faint as it fills my lungs. He looks more handsome than usual, even with bloodshot eyes and unkempt hair. I smile as his brow crinkles as he works and watches his own compilation playback; he sure is one attractive man when he is concentrating. "Thank you, Trinette," he says without much more than a glance and the beginnings of the smile curling his lips. But it was more than he afforded anyone else.
The rest of my day is spent compiling new footage, ordering the new intern to fetch me anything from coffee to sandwiches to film to lotion, and studying every old video Magus had produced. I only notice that the sun has set and the lights have dimmed when my intern doesn't come when called. Maybe I would have to fire him tomorrow. I glance around the office as the 66th finale plays on in front of me. Magus sits in his office, bathed in low light, a look of pure concentration on his face. I know better than to disturb him. He reminds me of my father in that way: same look, same dedication, same detached feeling towards society and everyone around him.
I shut down the computer and scoop up my things, straightening out the pile of papers on my desk, the picture of Mom and Dad, the bouquet of wilting flowers from the guy who works in the cubicle 15 feet away from my desk. I sneak a liquor infused chocolate from my desk drawer and turn to leave, pausing only to wave at Magus when he glances in my direction. He'd back to work as quickly as he left it. And my mind is swimming with ideas for new videos just as soon as I leave the building.
My eyes roll into the back of my skull as soon as I here his voice—"And where might you be going this evening, Mademoiselle?"—and it takes every ounce of my self-control not to just turn around and jam my key into his eye. I walk on, tossing only a quick remark over my shoulder—"French is a dead language." I shouldn't have said anything.
"And you're drop dead gorgeous," he says, following after me. "So I'd say it suits you."
I whirl around with the intention of removing his spine through his rectum, but the twinkle in his eye gives me pause. I lean back, folding my arms and looking him over. He looked proper enough, even if he did follow me around like a lost puppy searching for any kind of attention. Alright, this time I'll entertain him. I step up, looking into his eyes with the fierce determination to win.
"Tell me a story," I say, slowly; I have to make sure he can comprehend. "If I'm entertained, I'll follow you home tonight." He grins because he thinks he has won, I can see it as his eyes shine possessively. If he knew me, he would know the task is next to impossible; I am not easily impressed. I've spent my whole life listening to what children on the brink of death have to say. There are no stories better than the ones spun by dying teenagers.
Trinette Auclair
Silk dresses and lipstick stains, champagne flutes and overzealous laughter—"You look simply stunning!"—compliments, curtsies, and colorless conversation. Could no one tell a good story anymore? Finish one drink, dance around a caterer and take another, but the headache doesn't subside. Bump into a stranger, giggle because the alcohol is working—"Trinette?"—and blush profusely as her hand finds the back of my arm.
"I thought you'd be working," I say, smirking. I bring my glass to my lips, cherishing the warmth gathering on my tongue, in my stomach, in my cheeks. The memory of her hands in my hair and my lips on her neck is enough to make me swoon; the dress she's wearing isn't helping. She rolls her eyes and laughs, pulling me closer. "The only thing I want to be working on is getting you out of that dress." Perhaps tonight wouldn't be such a bore after all.
The ting, ting, ting of silver against glass makes me slowly turn towards the stage, head swimming with fantasies even dirtier than Kiera Dempsey and Wednesdae Drummond could think up. Stars dance across my tongue, fingers dance across my back. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," a voice booms into the microphone. He continues on about donations, claiming that everyone's bet should be on Miss Corléon. A small guffaw comes from a man nearby—"Did you see the Krearns boy drive his spear through that girl's eye the other day?"—and a younger girl gushes to one of her friends—"Dustyn is too sexy to die."
Typical. It was always the Careers with the support. Didn't seem to matter how many times District 11 produced a Victor, the Careers would always be the favorites. Could no one recognize a good story when they heard one anymore? Olivia's lips brush against my ear; I feel her grinning.
"Crinkle your forehead a bit more, I don't think the guy in the back can see your disgust," she whispers, pulling away while I smile and roll my eyes. I shake my head as the video rolls, a collection of every hit the girl from Two had landed interspersed amongst her devilish grins and haunting apparel. She knew how to perform, knew exactly how to act in the spotlight to appear favorable, and it was true, she was as interesting as Miss Antoinette had been.
I take a sip of wine, let the bubbles dance over my tongue. I mutter to Olivia, feeling like I ow an explanation. "For a girl as entertaining as Miss Corléon, this film should be much less lackluster," I mutter, watching as more recent events begin to play on the screen. She plucks feathers from a delivery word, the poor creature dying as its heart gives out. "I get it. She's a ruthless, deadly Career deserving of loads of sponsorship, a safe bet," I move closer to Olivia now that the film comes to a close, the eye of a Balor sending a fire ball at us. "But she's a human being, too. She's got a story to tell, not just a pole sword."
Clapping commences and I hear Olivia giggle beside me as she moves to sit. She claps enthusiastically, though I know she hates these things even more than I do. "You're cute when you work," she says, slipping into a seat and folding her legs. I set my glass down on the table and blink at her with a smile. "Yes, and you're cute when you flirt," I say, glancing at my reflection in the vase in the middle of the table. "Congrats, you're doing it correctly."
She shakes her head at me with a grin and downs the rest of my drink. I turn my attention back to the stage where someone else vies for money on behalf of the Careers, this time the couple from One. Mister Lexig's transformation from man to wolf and the strong relationship between the two certainly is reason to root for them. However, the film does very little to tug at the heart strings. Both Mister Lexig and Miss Foster had been up to some heart-wrenching things lately, and yet this man chose to highlight his use of werewolf teeth to bite his opponents and her expert hand in axe wielding. Magus would be wholly disappointed with everything and everyone here.
I don't turn back to her even as her foot crawls up the length of my leg. "I'm working."
"Good," she says, the howl of a werewolf signaling the end of the video for the One's. Her foot crawls further up my leg; I suck air through my teeth. "I am, too."
I slowly stand as the next presentation begins; I ignore it. To have to sit through another Career fest of axe swinging and limb chopping could quite possibly kill me. I have to work tomorrow and being dead wasn't a good enough excuse for Magus to let me off. "Dinner on me?"
Olivia stands with a smile and loops her arm in mine. "Finally," she says, exasperated. "I thought you'd never fucking ask."
I lace my fingers around the coffee mug, eyes glued to the television. "Thanks," I say, taking a sip. I look around her, waiting for new footage and updates. She steps in front of me; I shift to look further around her.
"Hey!"
I look away from the screen then, still listening closely as Caesar drones on about revenge and Careers and Balors so that I don't miss anything new. "I'm working."
She holds her hands on her hips and glares down at me. I take another sip of coffee and stare through her. After a few beats she moves, grumbling. "Yeah, I know." I let out a heavy sigh and set my cup down. When Caesar jumps into another spiel about the District 6 and District 10 rivalry born after the Feasts I decide there must be nothing new to report on or he wouldn't be repeating old news.
"Livi," I call to her from the couch. I hear her moving in the kitchen; she doesn't respond. I click off the television and follow the sound of an clinking dishes. She has her back turned to me, apparently doing the dishes. She's never done them in her life. "Didn't know you actually participated in domestic activities." She doesn't respond.
I roll my eyes and sit myself down at the island across from her. I stare at her back, holding my chin in my hand. "You'd make a great housemaid," I comment, though it was clearly the wrong one for the moment. I didn't care. I knew it would get her to at least acknowledge me.
"I'm working."
I clench my jaw and scoff. I deserved that. But I wasn't in the mood for taking what I deserved with any real dignity or grace. I had to be at work in an hour; I didn't have time for this. "Fine," I mutter, standing from the table. "You can clean the rest of the kitchen too then. I'll pay you extra."
She whirls around at me then, letting the dishes clatter in the sink. She jams a finger in my direction, her voice raised. "Don't you fucking dare throw that bull shit at me!" I glare at her.
"Why the hell not?" I ask, picking up a wad of cash that sits in the middle of the table. I unfold one of the bills, a lipstick stain slapping me in the face. "This isn't my color, nor is it your's," I say, waving the paper in her face. She rips it from my hand, crumples it in her fist. "Why should you have my undivided attention when I don't have your's?"
She grabs the rest of the money from the table and storms into the bedroom. I follow her—"Liv!"—but she doesn't seem to care. And at this point I guess I shouldn't care either. I stand in the threshold and watch her jam her clothes into her purse. She doesn't bother to take the time to strap on her heels before moving to pass me. "I haven't paid you for your services yet," I sneer into her ear.
She shoves my arm out of the way and moves past me. "Come on, Liv, I'll pay you doub---" She whirls around just before she reaches the door and throws her shoes at me. "You knew what you signed on for when you met me!" I toss her shoes onto the couch so I can fold my arms. "For fuck's sake I told you who and what I was the moment we met!" My jaw clenches, my forehead crinkles. She pauses, waiting for me to answer. I don't have one.
She shakes her head and laughs but I see tears in her eyes. "I've never wanted your money, Miss Auclair," she says my name with a poison-tipped tongue; I hate when people call me that. But she knows that. "But if you want me to be your whore then fine, I can do that." She slams the door so abruptly I jump. I move to the window and watch her leave the building, feet bare and struggling to light a cigarette.
I let out a shaking breath and turn away from the glass as she disappear in the growing crowd below. I want to cry, scream, throw things, break dishes, kick over furniture, pull out my hair...
I grab her heels off of the couch and find my way back to the bedroom, tossing the shoes onto the bed and setting myself in front of the mirror. I look like shit. Lipstick, eyeliner, eye shadow, concealer, foundation, mascara, blush, highlighter, tweezers, eyelash curler, brush, brush, and more brushes—"This is a woman's toolbox, Trinette."—Mom made sure I could use it all. She always called it a super power everyone could purchase, but not everyone could master. "Luckily for you sweetheart, I am the master—and I am willing to show you."
Paint the bags under my eyes away so no one can see how tired I am. Pop the top off of my Beatrice Birch Blood Red lipstick and run it over chapped lips to disguise the frown. Eyeliner for ferocity, mascara for seduction, blush for innocence. Curl my hair, pin it up. Grab a professional dress from the closet—"The more your heart aches, the lower the cut should be."—decide on something much less so. I smile at myself in the mirror; Mom is always right.
The smile is gone as quickly as it came as my blemishes laugh at me from the mirror. My hair isn't colored right, I've penciled my eyeliner all wrong, and I've got wrinkles in all the wrong places. At this rate I would end up old, fat, crazy, and surrounded by a thousand bitchy cats. I sigh and grab Liv's shoes off the bed and strap them on in a moment of desperation to get back the ferocity the mirror had just stolen away from me; they look better on her.
I grab my brief case, slip on my trench coat, and make sure to finish my coffee before I lock the door behind me.
Copy machines and coffee makers, attentive receptionist and flirtatious assistant—"You look nice today."—harassment, hand shakes, and heckling heretics. These were the few people who could tell a good story. Finish one cup of coffee, snap at an intern to get another, but even still fatigue seeps into my bones. Knock, knock, knock on Magus' door—"Come in."—and enter with all the copies of new footage barely contained in my arms.
"I've been working on these all morning," I say as I drop all of the things onto his desk without much thought. I smell freshly brewed coffee and nearly faint as it fills my lungs. He looks more handsome than usual, even with bloodshot eyes and unkempt hair. I smile as his brow crinkles as he works and watches his own compilation playback; he sure is one attractive man when he is concentrating. "Thank you, Trinette," he says without much more than a glance and the beginnings of the smile curling his lips. But it was more than he afforded anyone else.
The rest of my day is spent compiling new footage, ordering the new intern to fetch me anything from coffee to sandwiches to film to lotion, and studying every old video Magus had produced. I only notice that the sun has set and the lights have dimmed when my intern doesn't come when called. Maybe I would have to fire him tomorrow. I glance around the office as the 66th finale plays on in front of me. Magus sits in his office, bathed in low light, a look of pure concentration on his face. I know better than to disturb him. He reminds me of my father in that way: same look, same dedication, same detached feeling towards society and everyone around him.
I shut down the computer and scoop up my things, straightening out the pile of papers on my desk, the picture of Mom and Dad, the bouquet of wilting flowers from the guy who works in the cubicle 15 feet away from my desk. I sneak a liquor infused chocolate from my desk drawer and turn to leave, pausing only to wave at Magus when he glances in my direction. He'd back to work as quickly as he left it. And my mind is swimming with ideas for new videos just as soon as I leave the building.
My eyes roll into the back of my skull as soon as I here his voice—"And where might you be going this evening, Mademoiselle?"—and it takes every ounce of my self-control not to just turn around and jam my key into his eye. I walk on, tossing only a quick remark over my shoulder—"French is a dead language." I shouldn't have said anything.
"And you're drop dead gorgeous," he says, following after me. "So I'd say it suits you."
I whirl around with the intention of removing his spine through his rectum, but the twinkle in his eye gives me pause. I lean back, folding my arms and looking him over. He looked proper enough, even if he did follow me around like a lost puppy searching for any kind of attention. Alright, this time I'll entertain him. I step up, looking into his eyes with the fierce determination to win.
"Tell me a story," I say, slowly; I have to make sure he can comprehend. "If I'm entertained, I'll follow you home tonight." He grins because he thinks he has won, I can see it as his eyes shine possessively. If he knew me, he would know the task is next to impossible; I am not easily impressed. I've spent my whole life listening to what children on the brink of death have to say. There are no stories better than the ones spun by dying teenagers.
♕
