Smoking in the girls room

It’s a night of celebration in the land of Liberation as the Museum Gala kicks off!
Light surrounds the Capitol burning the skyline and creating artificial halos for all the arriving angels. The Tiffany District is empty tonight.
Everyone who is anyone is here and anyone who is part of everyone is watching. Whether at home, or clapping in the crowd, the bodies parade for your amusement. Always abiding.
Beyond the carpet and all the exploding flashes the elite wait, the most voyeuristic of all, observing the celebrities’ arrival in luxurious comfort. They sit in the main hall, tables adorned with delicate pastries and, of course, this year’s wine. Compliments of the Nation’s artisans. As with everything at any of the years events-the Nation provides.
We arrive with the bluest of the red bloods, the creme de la creme if you will, our blond bombshell: Victoria. Though tonight she has no name. Her limousine is a generic black car, and her arrival goes wholly unnoticed and woefully unappreciated. She can see the stars touring the carpet from where she stands. She can even see the backs of all their fans-how quaint. She smirks, thinking of the fun. Pearl pink lips twitch she’s loving the feel of tonight. Her outfit a tribute to a more entertaining kind of worship and a more entertaining sounding time. She revels in it. Her blue eyes filled with the glamour of it all, her body tightly wrapped in white lace from the neck down, her fingers gloved as well. A true vision of grace with gold locks framed by a chapel veil, everything fitting to theme.
The night’s events are in full swing when she enters. The drinks are flowing and the music is intoxicating. Everything is adorned to please the eye and invoke the feeling of Dark Age worship. It’s beautifully gaudy with a hint of Peregrinus decadence.
The well bred District folk are all adorned in wearable fashions mimicking the appearance of the faithful throughout time: many in veils-like our girl, holding rosary beads, crosses, stars, and the like. Patterns, textures, and colors vary wildly creating candy for the eye and too much sugar for the mind. Though, the most gilded in room are those dressed by the designers themselves. Visions of angels and paintings, even a sculpture of old. Dead. Lost images brought back to life in their gowns and tuxedos. The Gala centers on watching these individuals as they display themselves, everyone smiling, drinking, laughing and applauding.
Moving through the celebration she recognizes so many faces, so many people, some you could even call family, but they don’t see her-why should they?
Keeping a glass close to her chest she sips red wine, searching. Adjusting designer eyewear she waits. She is here for something, someone, specific. Her gloved fingers move down the flute as a gaggle of actresses walk past her, giggling and pointing. Each likened to a cherub though the silk reveals no purity, their gowns more for accent than anything else.
“Hm?” curious eyes follow their lead to a well heeled young lady in the midst of composing herself, cheeks flush ever so slightly, eyes wet, but head high. She’s made up as a lost world queen. Her dress: the kind that exaggerates the hips and bust with all the wrong colors, but that’s not why they’re laughing. Victoria smiles faintly poor thi-
“HA!”
The outburst of laughter is stifled by bare hands covering delighted mouth. The group of actresses stop moving, each hushing one another while trying to stifle their own laughter. Tables of guests turn their attention on them, but they don’t notice. Of course not. They can’t feel the stares or maybe, maybe they like them. It really doesn’t matter they don’t see them anyways.
The original offender breathes deep, “Oh! Ha-”
Another burst of laughter is stifled before they continue towards the restrooms, with the mass slowly returning to center. Judgements are past, but rarely seen as just displayed-some things never change.
The subject of their amusement keeps her chin high as they make their exit. Her breathing is steady though her lower lip whimpers-just so. A picture of well bred naivety, and very effective socialization. Victoria sighs sparing the girl another set of prying eyes, instead following the gaggle.
Her heels nearly glide on the plush red flooring. She sets her drink down on an end table in a fluid stride. Our angel baby’s got that predator smile as gloved fingers play at her sides, the corners of her mouth twitch as she reaches the restroom door.
The entrance is a deep blue no accents or highlights, just a deep blue door, with dark grey smoke escaping it’s bottom-how quaint. She grins that wild grin, cheeks framed by blonde locks and veil-time for the fun. Her pearl pink lips curl as she enters the room. Removing the eggshell chapel veil she breathes deep the second hand cheap.
“Hello ladies!” All teeth. The room goes silent. “Oh, come now, you’re all going to be so-so-so… lame?”
Everyone takes a drag of their cigarette, dead eyes on our pious princess.
“Yeah, yeah you are,” she sighs as three women, two of which are dressed in Halloween grade angel gear, make for the exit. She’s about to open her lips, to say something clever, then Victoria sees her. Her eyes go black.
“Everyone who wants to live follow their lead,” gloved finger points toward the exit, nobody moves. Shaking her head, eyes fixed on the prize. She’s not up to repeating herself. Cracking her neck, her eyebrow twitches, she’s hungry.
“Get out weirdo,” some shrill model demands. She’s in a tight dress completely unthemed her voice would normally induce violence, but Victoria’s hearing has ceased.
“Did you-What the fuck-Are you-” the girl dares to continue almost grabbing the blonde, but a frighten bystander grabs her before she can do anymore harm.
Victoria reaches her mark: another tall, beautiful, blond. Though, this one comes from a bottle. She’s dressed similarly to Victoria, though this bitch is in black, and the plunge in the front is inherently bland. Our girl’s wanted this one for a very long time she’s always hated orange tickets-especially her type.
“So, you think you’re strong?” Victoria’s voice is soft but throaty. Her eyes narrow as the room shifts uncomfortable with the new energy.
“Get the fuck out of my face,” the mark replies. Her green eyes shaking. She’s terrified, almost like she knows, “Seriously, get the fuck out. Someone call for security.”
Everyone’s listening, but no one moves. They can’t, they’re all frozen, and no one is sure why. It’s like they all know, and they just don’t want the fight.
The green eyed vixen waves her hand in front of Victoria’s face shifting to a more dominant stance. She doesn’t even know she’s made a mistake. No, this body thinks she can act and edge is her number one seller. Or, so she thought.
Our sweet vision in white grins wider, her eyes going round with delight as the mark brings her cigarette back to red colored lips.
Too quick to notice our girl lunges forward.
“Let’s see,” with one hand she pinches the green eyed girl’s nose shut and with the other Victoria covers the victims mouth. Cigarette and all-locked in tight.
“Let’s see how strong you are.”
Green eyes are wide, she’s struggling, grabbing at Victoria’s wrist, as her soon to be killer laughs. In that instant the room empties, everybody in hysterics. She doesn’t know she’s made a mistake.
“You don’t seem very strong. You should know how to get free, there’s a way, a few. It’s all quite easy,” Victoria snickers. Barely working at holding the orange ticket to the wall. “No? Hmm? Guess not. Pathetic, really,” tears well, deepening the green of her victims eyes, “It’s really, really pathetic. You don’t even seem to want to live.”
The actress is choking. She would really like to breathe now, but if she could do that she’d be screaming, “I do! I do want to live!”
Her throats on fire, but this isn’t over yet.
“You know, you’ll never be more than a clown. A puppet on stage for everyone to laugh at. You think, you actually believe you’re human, but you aren’t. None of you are,” Our girl laughs, the hyena peaking out, “You exist to dance for my amusement,” Victoria’s gloved hand lifts ever so slightly introducing a taste of oxygen to the mix. She screams, eating the flames as they form.
“So dance.”
The green eyed girl struggles, weakly at best. Victoria
takes a slow breath, watching her life fade, almost bored. The body goes limp and our girl lets it fall to the floor. The restroom’s plush purple carpet now gaudily adorned.
Victoria takes a moment to replace the veil, straightening it just so, before she exits.
Her entrance back into the Gala goes wholly unnoticed and woefully unappreciated. As security rushes the restroom the once frozen gaggle is now fully mobile, crying, and recounting their harrowing survival.

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