thecapitol | All the gold on Earth, it won’t buy time.

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All the gold on Earth, it won’t buy time.

GROUND FLOOR - COCKTAIL BAR

Breaking free from his entourage of pretty girls and paparazzi, the cocktail bar is where Jesse ends up immediately following a night of clubbing. His face smeared with sweat and makeup and stripper glitter, he slumps halfway over the bar top with his chin resting on his arm. In his other hand, he cradles a glass of whiskey he'll be refilling at least a few more times before he heads upstairs. This is the hardest part of the evening, the part where he feels a little relieved to be alone but he's still psyching himself up for the nightmares that wait for him in the dark of sleep. It's easier when there's at least one person joining him in bed. He is, without being too obvious about it, searching for that person now.

FLOOR 6 - COMMON ROOM

It seems to him like the common room's getting busier every day. And for that reason, Jesse has been avoiding the hell out of it. His gut twists with guilt every time he thinks about his Tributes. He hasn't been there for them, he knows that. But it's different now from how it was before, them being strangers and held to whole different standards. He doesn't know what to say to them. He doesn't know how to save them. And he's fucked it up for too long, anyway. So he keeps his head down when he passes from his room to the kitchen and back again, praying that no one will confront him.

FLOOR 6 - JESSE'S BEDROOM

Some days, Jesse doesn't leave the mentor suites at all. His team has been putting effort into making him a functional celebrity again, but it's an uphill battle. There are nightmares that require immediate self-medication upon waking. On those mornings, when Jesse rolls over and immediately shoots morphling, the rest of the day is lost to the nod. The door is left unlocked so that the occasional Avox or someone can come and check that he's still breathing, perhaps attempt to feed him. Jesse himself remains sprawled on the floor, staring at the psychedelic images being projected onto his window screen for hours on end.

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It's only been a few days since he died in the Arena but his nights are already booked. He walks into the Tribute Center late at night, looking rather debauched. Again. He heads straight to the bar and orders his own whiskey. He tosses that back and orders another before he notices that he's not alone at the bar tonight.

"Long night?"

Jesse barely turns his head to look at the guy. Tribute, right? District... 3? Shit, he can't remember the guy's name, let alone how he died. Jesse hopes that doesn't come up.

He clears his throat, though his voice is still hoarse when he answers, "Always is." But he smirks, because it's fun, right? Getting shitfaced and partying all night. Living the life. Fun, fun, fun.

He nods. It's almost always a long night but at least it's not his brother dealing with the long nights. That's what makes it worth it. "So are you getting ready to leave or getting back?"

Jesse huffs out a short laugh. It's hard to imagine a scenario where his stylists would allow him to leave the building looking like this. "Getting back," he says, tapping his glass. "Nightcap."

Eliot gives him a wry smile, lifting his own glass. "Didn't have enough while I was out."

"Is it ever enough?" Rhetorical question. Jesse straightens his posture so he can properly knock back what's in his tumbler, then pushes it forward for a refill.

Leaning on his elbow now, he offers his hand to the guy. Get this out of the way: "Jesse Pinkman."

No. It's never enough. It never completely drowns out what they've done to him, what they've made him do.

He takes Jesse's hand with a slight smile. "Eliot Spencer."

Still doesn't ring a bell. Too bad. "Nice meeting you, Eliot," Jesse says. He'd normally follow that up with a hollow compliment about technique or some bullshit, but...

"Where do you usually party? Feel like I haven't seen you around. Then again, I ain't got the best memory."

He shrugs. "There's no one place. It all depends on who I'm with."

It's more true than he likes. Everything's on his dates' whims.

Azula spent alot of time alternating between the bar and her own floor.

At her usual booth she was sipping a glass of wine as she watched one of the TV screens. A scene of Shepherd unleashing her power on the rock monster Orc. It was beautiful.

And yet she knew Shepherd's time was numbered. The sponsors had started drying up, saving their money for the last few weeks when there were only a few left. That meant very little food to fuel her powers.

This round had not been as glorious as the last, then again the last round had been a miserable nightmare for Azula so she could only appreciate it now based on the outcome.

Casting a wary glance around the bar she wondered what other pathetic souls were up this late. Perhaps it was time to pop another tab of her Morphling and pass out.

Edited 2014-03-01 02:48 (UTC)

"Haa, yeah. I feel that." Though he wouldn't necessarily call them dates, himself. Clients? Patrons? Whatever. They call the shots, these Capitol citizens, even if he's supposed to be the VIP.

"Anyway, this right here," Jesse says, pointing to the bar in front of him, loud enough for the bartender to hear, "is better than all of 'em. Ain't that right? We got the best whiskey right here. And that's all that matters."

Jesse spots Azula out of the corner of his eye. He tries not to be too obvious about it as his gaze drifts between her and the TV and back again. He recognizes that look on her face - or thinks he does, at least - but he can't guess whether or not she needs support. Some people like that, a little company to get through things. Other people just want to be alone.

Eventually he makes a decision and picks his drink up to amble over to her side. "Hey."

On the bad days, Ziva haunts Jesse's room like a shade, moving in and out quietly to check on him, make sure he's alright. For whatever given definition of alright they were working with that day.

Sometimes she speaks, quiet words meant to soothe, because she can't help but think she's failed him as soundly as he thinks he's failed the others--he was her Tribute after all, once. She brings food and water, clears it away when it's evident it hasn't been touched and is past the point where she'd want him to eat it.

She needs him functioning just as much as she needs to do her job for the others, because there's a lot to do--more and more every day--but she also needs him functioning for his own sake.

This time around, Ziva touches his shoulder gently, trying to rouse him from the floor. She's brought a bowl of fruit along with her this time, and water, and she intends to sit with him until he eats something, though it's very likely she'll be forced to give it up and leave sooner or later.

"Jesse."

Ian isn't sure whether he is hungover or still drunk. But either way he feels awful and he is just coming in. Despite it being mid morning.

He isn't sure exactly where he was last night, out. Clubs that played music until the sun came up, letting himself be carried by whatever he was drinking (he had lost track) and the vials of morphling.

He almost walked into the guy as he made his way through the suite. "Sorry."

She turned her gaze ever so slightly to address him and quirked an eyebrow. Another wayward mentor, they were just coming out of the wood work.

"Hello."

This one she had heard of, done a little digging on because of the rumors. She could have just as easily wound up like him if she hadn't been in the hospital.

"Can't sleep? Or don't want to?"

It has gotten busier now, though Perry has stayed in his room most of the time, ever since he got back. He'd blown up. He had literally been blown to pieces, and now he was here, and how the fuck did they fix him? His ribs were no longer broken, obviously, but he had been blown up. Blown up, set on fire, blown up.

Which meant he was jumpy. So when he was coming out of the kitchen, and Jesse is coming to the kitchen, well. He jumped.

"Fuck!" Perry stumbled back, closing his eyes. "Sorry. You just. Sorry."

Jesse sure remembers Azula. He's old enough that he'd been a mentor long before her Reaping. His head had been a little clearer then - back when he was only subjected to the Games once a year - and he has a sharp memory of the events that led to her victory, too. But he has no judgments about her. How could he possibly, when he also brutally slaughtered his own ally?

Taking the question as an invitation, Jesse slides into the seat opposite her. "I'm working on it," he says, tapping his glass. "You probably won't have much luck if you keep looking at that screen."

He long ago gave up on mumbling protests and trying to send her away, but he hates her visits. He hates that she still cares for him, and that that care is a chain that ties her to him and drags her down - and he hates that, despite all of her effort, he can't manage to get better for her.

That feeling is so ancient that it permeates even the nebulous haze of his high, tugging him back into the present world the same way her hand does. He allows her to move him; he needs the help, when his limbs feel this heavy, and he has to lean on her if he's going to stay upright.

It's the comedown that's seized Jesse, not a hangover, but that means he's more lucid than usual (if sick to his stomach, if cold and shaky). He deftly avoids collision and manages to not spill his morning coffee in the process. But when his eyes land on Ian and he realizes who exactly he's looking at, his face pales significantly.

Until now, he's only seen Ian on TV. But the glimpses he'd seen were enough to get the kid burned into his mind. Ian reminds Jesse of his little brother. Jesse hadn't been able to bear watching him die, but the news alone had affected him deeply. In fact, he still hasn't fully recovered.

If he opens his mouth just at this moment, he's afraid he might vomit. So he claps Ian on the arm instead: a gentle it's okay.

Ian froze when he was clasped on the arm, not sure who this was or why they weren't speaking. He had expected at least a grunt in response before he could escape to his room.

"Um... Are you alright?" He looked rougher than Ian guessed he himself did.

This poor fucking kid.

Jesse swallows before answering in a hoarse mumble, "Fine." He doesn't really intend to say more than that, since any kind of apology would ring so hollow and stupid. But he doesn't walk away, either, lingering to wash down the bile in his throat with coffee.

She wouldn't go, if he told her. She would tell him to stop being an idiot, that she was here because she cared, and he wasn't going to alter that fact merely by being a strung out mess. They all handled the pressure of memory differently.

As it was, she lets him lean on her, guides him to the small table and chairs set up in the corner where she's set up the food and drink she brought with her. Sits with him.

"Eat something." It's an admonition, a plea. She's already lost one brother, she doesn't want to watch another destroy himself.

"Yeah. You don't look it." He had no idea who this was still, they didn't quite seem like a Capitolite, but some of the mentors seemed almost human. But some tributes were thrown into the arena straight away and Ian hadn't been paying attention to the footage.

"You need to sit down?"

She sighed and set down her glass tracing her finger along the edge. It was a habit of hers.

"Well I had a free morning tomorrow." She lied passively "So I didn't see the harm in sleeping in."

Truth be told she simply wasn't looking forward to her sleep because each day it seemed the odds of her district securing a second victory was slim.

And each day one particular mentor was getting more on her frayed nerves.

Jesse freezes in place, bracing himself for an attack. He's been around enough victors to know that a flashback's a dangerous thing and it can happen just about anywhere, anytime. He's been known to fly into a violent panic, himself.

So he waits, very still, until he's sure the kid's just surprised and nothing more. Then he eases forward. "It's okay," he says, barely above a whisper. "You alright?"

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All the gold on Earth, it won’t buy time.

Ground Floor

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Ground Floor

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Floor 6, bedroom

D6 common room

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common room

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