what's poppin // rave

Sampson was stressed, to say the least. 

Dying inside, to say the most, really. 

It seemed ever since Sardonyx Crowe retired, the entire design process of their team fell apart; hell, the integrity of it! They straightened their cowboy hat while going back and forth between mannequin's and Ridley Le Roux's recap screenshots from a year ago -- this had to be perfect. Not just the fashion line, but Sampson, and on top of that, Bambi was nowhere to be seen weeks before the tributes would be revealed. 

So help him if a Le Roux volunteered and this line wasn't finished -- they pricked themself with a needle. On accident, slipped between his teeth and caught in the firm of their upper lip, "shit- ahh," they sounded like thier mother whenever they got like this. Head buried in fabrics and seams and where the fuck is Jarvis? They don't look up for long, not when they can't afford to. 

You see, everything rode on this big reveal. Their mother was endorsing it, and so was Ridley Le Roux, the only pride and joy of their entire position since Ky's mother had won. And she had made it through with Sardonyx, not in spite of, and Sampson wanted to be that for Ridley. 

All they had to do was figure out how to actually be that successful, so quickly.  

"Uh, hello?"

"Yuh, yuh,"

They didn't look up from the garment at first, holding a fabric shred to their upper lip. Not right now, babe, alright? Sampson was the only one in the studio since Sailor left at every beck and call for... Beck.... and his calls.

But then they turned around, and felt the blood drain from their face.

"Oh, yuh- yeah!" Let's try that again, "yes ma'am, Mx. Sampson Crowe," they swiveled in their chair, remarking how much less soft Katelyn looked in person than off screen. They had never med her, only Opal. 

We were supposed to hate her, right? One and Eleven and all that? 

Sampson wasn't convinced, but her outfit definitely led to a second thought on the matter. They pulled the fabric shred from their lip, acknowledging the blood stain before letting it fall to the ground and licking their lip. "Haha, well, I quite like the hat!" Sampson couldn't decide how to talk on most days, overly formal had a bit of it's own je ne sais quoi, but who really talks like that? 

Besides, of course, Sardonyx Crowe herself. 

This was a train wreck, and Sampson decided they couldn't stop driving it further. 

"The rest of it, though-" they trailed off with a grin, trying not to be too rude, "I, uhh, I don't want to jump the gun or anything," spoken as they began to stand up, straightening out the fur lining of their jacket. 

"Aren't you... Opal's," arching their brows and rolling their hand over, "you know," partner? Tabloid's told it all and Sampson was a sucker at the very least. 

"You're Miss Katelyn, right? From Eleven?"

Big Fan! 

They had to remind themselves of how stupidly sophisticated they had to be.  
 

There always just seemed to be more work to do, Sampson found. Busy since birth and maybe that was just something they inherited from their mother - that, and that slick elitism. It was always a double edged sword, wanting to be the best, perceived as the best, 

to make sure they knew they were better. 

It seeps in the way Sampson glances at Katelyn without realizing, that complacent judgement and they regret it once it all sinks in. Who she is, the status of Persimmons; she was family in a way and Sampson had only ever seen her in the tabloids. In the capitol, that's just what family is. A name, the status, getting there was the hard part. 

You work and bleed and sweat, and eventually your name crops up before you're ready for it, because you're never truly ready to be perfect. Everybody holds a microscope and you're a bit too seen, the way you second guess yourself shows up in the articles criticizing the one time you spelled Ex Oh's name wrong. And every time Sampson catches themself buying into it, they feel even more paranoid. 

One of these days, they were just going to hire Sailor to follow them around and hit them with a spray bottle. Not even just spray it, just straight throw the thing at their head. 

It's regretfully ingrained as they hear Banana's name- they were worth the position at least. District Eleven, surely, everybody has to start somewhere; Marsha was a house name that they couldn't talk about. In the game as long as Sardonyx had been, they sucked on their top lip as Katelyn spoke, perking up just a bit knowing they were recommended. 

Highly recommended. 

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you! Miss Katelyn from Elevent," they bowed something polite, regardless of where she was born, she was royalty in this studio. Opal and Ky and Katelyn, Sardonyx may kill them for it later, but it was about time Sampson found their own way. Even if it were just him leading courtesy for a woman from eleven, it could be their own silent rebellion. 

Besides, being rich was exhausted, being middle class was the new thing. Kassandra and Nico clashing with Ridley and Beck -- now's the time for a statement, don't you think?  

But then that seeping nerve came back to bite, shit- there was so much to do, and Sampson wasn't even at the helm yet. There was Ridley's collection, the prework for they and Bambi's showpieces in hardly a month and worse yet, Opal's wedding dress sat on their office love seat, hem exposed. It was something similar to seeing someone with their guts out, Sampson cringed every time they saw it laying there. 

They picture that dress on Opal, fitting like a glove, and they look up at Katelyn. 

And that's when Sampson realizes just who the recommendations were. They smiled slightly to themself, biting on their finger nail -- nothing was better than love. Especially between two queens; it would be about them, completely, but Sampson couldn't help but get excited knowing their name would be on those dresses. Those memories, perhaps if they just pushed hard enough, things would go their way. 

Impossible to say, really, "oh I can 100% do that, hon," Sampson built that confidence back up, "Marsha may kill both of us when she finds out, but hell, c'est la vie, you know?" When in Fashion, they had to admit, they had no idea where to even begin with this. They tucked their right arm under their left, sizing Katelyn up in ways that would make themself paranoid as well. In the name of fashion, there were just some things you had to deal with -- leave the struggles at the door. 

They couldn't be people, they had to be perfect. 

"Okay, so which heads are we turning," looking from her calves to her eyes once more. Her muscles were insane in a way Sampson hadn't expected, perhaps it was the gardening or harvesting, whichever she did in eleven. Victors had a way of being statuesque that always managed to catch them off guard, "how many, how often, I need details queen! And measurements, and those..." the wheels of that glorious mind turning once more. 

For a second, Sampson let themself get caught up in all that mental exposition and forgot how little free time they had. They turned without hesitation, digging around the station for spare sheet pads and iridescent ink- your work's only as good as your practice, and Sampson's notes were always drop dead gorgeous. Like their thoughts were spoken in something opaline. "There's nothing wrong with being from eleven, we all have to come from somewhere, but," they trailed a bit, focusing on scratching initial ideas onto the page. Katelyn Persimmion, y'know, from eleven, 

'you just have to elevate it, a bit." 

Or a lot, they turned back to Katelyn wielding the measure strip like a damn weapon. 

Why be a ten, when you can be an eleven? It wrote itself, really. 
 

Double taking as Katelyn spits out numbers and sizes, Sampson scurries back to the station to take note of it all. The ink shimmers as they write it, they hummed mhmm's along in agreement to everything she said. Of course, they'd go along and double check these measurements later on - probably through Marsha, it felt patronizing to second guess a client like that. Especially one with a crown, "eight and a half or nine for shoes, depending on the brand, really-"

That raises a lot of potential, Sampson scribbled some thoughts on heels to ask after the fact, when they're a bit more acquainted.

It was all just statistics and assumptions at this point in time, everything they knew of each other came from five or so sentences and then rumors. Sampson could list so many number's of her's and they wouldn't be too surprised if she could spit some back; it was almost exciting to be known. They had been in some ways, being Sardonyx Crowe's child and all, but Katelyn talked to them as if they were their own persona. 

In a way, they were just now realizing they were.

"Oh yeah, it's hard to sneak around this part of the capitol," they said, a side comment more than anything, "but yada yada hiding the shadows metaphor," too focused to be of any real good. Just enough to keep the conversation going, they always loved it when the client's had a life of their own. 

Kept things easier when they could both just breathe and do their thing, and maybe it was just that they sat backstage to their mother's shows for too many damn years, but Sampson had a good knack at getting people talking. Mostly because if the clients weren't talking then Sampson would be, and the work pile would stack with each word in that ramble. Just like bricks, until the motherfucker would be taller than them, taller than Katelyn, who was someone they hadn't expected to be so tall. 

Or muscular, "good! I mean look at you, darling, you're built like damn Adder Ames in her prime," they say through a smile, craning the neck as they wrapped up writing down the initial concepts. "Like those old goddess statues, I mean really, how could they not drool over you." Sampson said it like they talked to Sailor or Algernon, hearing the pen hit the ink glass like punctuation. 

They gleamed a bit hearing her talking about Opal, clasping their hands together gently -- it was so gentle. The yearning, the tragedy, the romance of it all, Sampson couldn't help but fawn and sweat and weep thinking of all they had been through- even if they couldn't sympathize fully. Shake it up how you want, "trust me Katelyn, if you want to look so good the moon falls out the sky, I can do that!" 

A confident older than themself, "you ever wore Antoinette's, by the way? We call 'em publicity heels," cause they get people talking. Anything taller than six inches and the soles were built in velvet and painted the floor with lust when you walked. Sampson hadn't wore any in a while, and neither had their mother, "wear those babies into war and you'll get nothing but the spotlight." Like she deserves.

Sampson was slowly finding Katelyn very, very enduring. 

Their mother would kill them for it later, surely.

C'est la fucking vie!