in a supposed democracy

[she_sells_seashells]

Snow's death is announced on television the day after it happens. The announcer speaks of "sudden illness".

There are going to be emergency elections to replace him in three days. Without advance notice and the standard scheduling of elections, they're going to be setting up polling places in the Capitol at a limited number of sites. Some outlying neighborhoods will be served by schools and the like. But most of the city will be congregating at the Memorial Dome to cast their votes for the next president.

(There follow thirty solid minutes of campaign ads. The district imports comptroller, the chairman of the traffic control commission and former Gamemaker, the deceased Snow's personal assistant, and a handful of lesser individuals are running. Bell hates them all.)

"Suppose the Memorial Dome caught fire," she says to Sherlock and Tony, frowning at the TV.

Comments

[sicaria]

"A fine plan," says Sherlock.

[she_sells_seashells]

Bell goes up to the bar and orders pots of makeup and dye in the relevant colors, and pins, and a stupid hat that she bases on the District Four tribute escort's hat but with changed colors and a higher lace-to-fake-flowers ratio, and a truly, epically stupid dress that's mostly gray on the left and mostly sky-blue on the right, with accents in red and ruffles in canary yellow.

She picks up her items with undisguised disgust, but thanks the bar politely.

[sicaria]

"You will look like a disaster," she says. "But not a recognizable or a memorable or a notale one."

[she_sells_seashells]

"That's the idea, yes. Ugh, Capitol aesthetics. We should do my hair here. No point leaving evidence around the house we don't strictly have to." She heads for her room.

[sicaria]

Sherlock follows.

[she_sells_seashells]

There is a bathroom in her room. Bell reads the instructions on her hair dye, takes the stick out of her hair and sets it aside, and starts combing out minor tangles with her fingers in the mirror.

[sicaria]

"Do you need any help?"

[she_sells_seashells]

"Yeah, actually, this stuff gets combed in," she points out a little comb attached to each package of dye, too small to effectively detangle but decent for incorporating a substance, "and I can't see the back of my head." She's smoothing out her hair and making a zig-zagging part down the middle with her fingernail. "If I hold the left half out of the way can you comb the dye into the right half and vice versa?"

[sicaria]

"Yes I can," says Sherlock.

[she_sells_seashells]

"Swell." Bell double-checks the neatness of the part. A Capitol person would have had this done by a professional stylist; she only has to stand up to casual scrutiny, and there'll be a hat, but she really shouldn't half-ass it. Finally she gathers the right side of her hair into a pigtail, smooths down stray wisps on both sides with drops of water from the faucet, and says, "Okay, start with the blue on my left?"

[sicaria]

"All right," she says, and there she starts.

[she_sells_seashells]

When Bell's hair is blued, she picks up that half and twists it into a pigtail to keep it out of the way while Sherlock bleaches the other side. It's not supposed to stick to anything but hair, so she's not worried about her shirt or the blue stains on her hands, but she does get out of the way so Sherlock can rinse dye off of her own hands before doing the second half.

Finally her hair is its ridiculous two-tone self, and she holds both sides out and away from her head so they don't touch each other while the dye sinks in. "Do I look suitably disastrous?" she asks dryly.

[sicaria]

"Not yet," says Sherlock, just as dryly. "But we are certainly headed in the right direction."

[she_sells_seashells]

There's not a hair dryer in the bathroom, but there's an exhaust fan; Bell flicks it on with her elbow to speed up the process. "As long as I'm here I should probably get a bra. I don't have one yet, but it might be a good idea now that I'm eating regularly and everything. Didn't get one last time because Isabella's friend was in the room when I was picking stuff."

[sicaria]

"You may as well, then, yes."

[she_sells_seashells]

The catalog is around here somewhere. There it is, sitting on the bed. Hands occupied, Bell manages to flip it to somewhere in the middle of the bra section with her feet and peers at the pages.

[sicaria]

"That one's pretty," Sherlock comments.

[she_sells_seashells]

"It's all right -" begins Bell, when it occurs to her that Sherlock's opinion on her underthings could actually become relevant at some point during the life of this garment. "Yeah. It's pretty." It is, and as long as she gets it sized right it won't be impractical, either, she doesn't have to get the plain-looking one just because human makers of such things tend to compromise between usefulness and appearance.

[sicaria]

"Were you going to say something else?"

[she_sells_seashells]

"It wasn't my first choice, I was going to go with something plainer, but I like it okay, and you're, you know, in a position that entitles you to opinions on what I wear," shrugs Bell. Leaving ambiguous whether that position is 'girlfriend' or 'funder of the purchase'.

[sicaria]

"Well, if you are pleased with it, then so am I."

[she_sells_seashells]

"My instincts towards plain stuff are mostly about the fact that manufacturers don't make the fancier stuff durable or sometimes even comfortable. But Bar can," says Bell, kissing Sherlock's cheek. She stretches a finger away from her grip on her pigtails and pats her scalp. All dry; she lets her hair fall.

[sicaria]

Awwww. Sherlock smiles.

"Fashionably disastrous," she says, running her fingertips down the blue side.

[she_sells_seashells]

"Grand," says Bell. "It'll wash out eventually."

Here she is on a bed with her girlfriend. She snuggles up.

And then she observes that she didn't have to ask her brain what would drugged Bell want?

"All done pretending," she reports.

[sicaria]

...Sherlock grins.

A kiss seems like a properly thematic celebration! Doesn't it?