thecapitol | There is no peace here, war is never cheap, dear

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There is no peace here, war is never cheap, dear

Who| Linden and YOU
What| Catch-all for District 6's famously drug-addled Mentor, with a twist: he's been sober since the staff retreat. If you're District 6, staff or Tribute, it's a good time to get CR with your Panem-native former Victor!
Where| District 6's suites, various other places.
When| Starting at the end of week three and continuing up through after the end of the arena
Warnings/Notes| Mentions of drugs/alcohol, withdrawal, some language probably

Scenario 1: District 6 Suite

Over the last odd decade, Linden has gotten used to living his life on a certain wavelength. The sharp, inquisitive, quick-witted boy who'd won the 63rd Hunger Games hasn't been seen in years; rather, he's been replaced by a jagged wraith who's grown increasingly neurotic and difficult with each passing arena. He's worked to the best of his waning ability, but even if he'd beaten a Career for the crown in his Games, he's not done so well against the Mentors of Districts 1 and 2. They tend to be concerned with upkeep and image, whereas Linden's consistently backslid, resting dazedly on his laurels and saturating his mind and body with dust and rot. If the plan was to shudder out of existence before 30, he's been doing a fine job, but something has shifted lately. Those who watch him with any attentiveness might have noticed him watering down his drinks and tapering himself off Morphling after the crowning of The Signless, and following the staff retreat, he's been... different.

Bored, of course. Adjusting to this new, sober wavelength is a lot like what Linden imagines infants must feel like when they're pulled from the warm and safe darkness of unbeing and flung into a bright, loud, and unforgiving world for the first time. Everything is colder, clearer, and a lot more painful, and that's how you'll find him today, through the worst of the withdrawal but still on a hairtrigger when it comes to the tetchiness that goes hand-in-hand with drying out. He's in front of the television, but rather than being splayed sleepily on the couch, he's hunched forward over the coffee table, grinding his teeth, mumbling to himself indistinctly as he moves both sides of a marble chessboard. The process is a lot looser and less rigid than an actual game, but he seems to be taking it very seriously; the frost and rust crowding in his intellect are starting to fall away, and it's left him restless and malcontent. It's not how President Snow likes to see him; he's starting to resemble, for the first time in a long time, the type of man who could actually challenge the status quo.

Though he might seem as prickly and unapproachable as ever, he's craving stimulation beyond what his solitary strategizing can provide him with. Anyone who wants to speak with him had better be absolutely certain that they're prepared to weather the redirection of his needle-sharp focus, however.

Scenario 2: Training Center

Linden is still not hale or anything even resembling hearty; in fact, he looks pale and drawn beyond what is typical for him, as if he's been ill lately, which isn't far from the truth. Morphling withdrawal is a bitch, not to mention the effects of practically subsisting exclusively on alcoholic calories and then ceasing to. That being said, he's clean and well-dressed, even if clothing that should be fitted hangs on a hollower frame. He moves quickly from station to station; he's not here to work out, but to keep an eye on those Tributes who are out of this Arena's running and preparing for the next one. His attention isn't solely limited to District 6's prospects, though; he's certainly giving other Tributes (and Mentors) sidelong glances, sizing them up, considering their strengths and any areas he can suggest that his competitors exploit.

If you watch him very carefully, you can see him making quick exits occasionally to deal with bouts of withdrawal-induced nausea, but otherwise, he's surprisingly present and diligent. He especially has an eye out for any sponsors who might be here to size up Tributes; they will not escape without getting a detailed explanation of why Clementine and Karkat are worthy of gifts in the arena, so concise that it might as well be bullet-pointed.

Scenario 3: Around the Capitol

Morphling has a way of making the hours melt together or disappear altogether. It's one of Linden's favorite side-effects, actually, and he misses it fiercely now that he is forced to honestly deal with time again. He had few reasons to leave the Tower before, his needs being limited to anything that could chemically lock him snug and safe in his own mind. He's freshly clean, and he knows that this is the part that's the hardest. The longer he goes without his favorite vice, the better he knows it will feel when he welcomes it back into his veins and his life.

It would be so easy. There are viewing parties everywhere, painted faces that have an intimate knowledge of him and the handful of things that he loves. This city has destroyed him, but it's also given him the adoration that every Victor is due. It's almost impossible to go four steps without running into a champagne flute or a pill offered like a talisman, with a wink and a nudge.

There have to be other things to do. Learning how to enjoy actual nourishment again in the form of the rich food the Capitol has to offer, a brisk walk, seeing a bawdy, raunchy live show... but fresh through withdrawal, scarcely clean and still weak on his feet, Linden could use a few suggestions. Otherwise, the music and laughter of reveling drunks and users threatens to drag him under.

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Everything about Phillip fell apart in that moment, "S-So is it true that...that you had a fox pirate in th-that Kids' Arena? R-Rotten and falling apart?"

Sandy told him that way back when he'd arrived in Panem but the mere thought of it being true, that one of those children were sent here to kill more people for the audience. He had to speak up now. He shook his head and his tone became that much more professional.

"No, shorting them out never worked. They're relentless towards adults, even more so males. They're not fueled by electricity, at least not in the conventional sense. You have to disable their servos, they have to lock up. H-Have them fall in a way that keeps them from moving. Give it ten minutes and they deactivate. I've never tested it but it's part of a failsafe," Gray stated and pointed to his neck, "Beheading them doesn't work, and pumping them full of electricity makes them worse."

Watching the man collapse and cave emotionally is fascinating. Linden doesn't comment, just as he doesn't judge; truly, he has no place to. "You heard that, then," he says with a soft sigh. "It's true, and I'm sorry, but that's the situation. They can and will make anything and throw it into the Arena with you if they think it will help the ratings."

Someone falling apart completely would absolutely do that.

"Failsafes really should be tested..." he grumbles. "It sounds like a mess. But I'm telling you as your Mentor that odds are, you'll get the chance to test it. Hopefully later, rather than sooner."

That emotional roller-coaster would conclude as Phil looked directly at Linden and asked, "What did the Capitol do with it? Did they keep it or did they send it back? I-I need to see it or at least know if it was one of my kids." If it was, he could at least use the f

He didn't bother correcting that those were animatronics, not children but he couldn't care about such minor details.

"To disable them, of course," Gray quickly covered himself, a stern element to his smile. "They're quite dangerous...and as your tribute, I completely agree. If it is Foxy, you will need flashlights. That one's a bit twitchy and would be warded off with flashing the lights in a strobe fashion."

Linden shakes his head dismissively at Phil's question, biting one of his bloodless lips and dropping his gaze to the ground.

"That's not going to be possible. The things they put in the Arena are generated... it's not quite the same thing, but it's similar to holographic technology of some centuries ago. It was created for that Arena, and like all other pieces of it other than the Tributes, it's gone now."

Linden's answer gave Phillip some measure of peace, "Good, okay, I-I can deal with that." No not really but the hint was fully appreciated. "And certainly what the Capitol deems...Arena appropriate next time."

Realizing something about Linden, "When you experienced your Arena, and I really don't want to be insensitive," Lord know the public is, "Did they try something similar with you?" Phil immediately regretted the question, "Never mind, I-I'm probably keeping you." Good job Gray.

He blinks, surprised by the question but not noticeably offended. Phil's more sensitive than most Panem citizens about it, and it's only fair, given that he's told Linden a great deal about his own homeworld and the most disturbing things that go bump in the night.

"You need to understand that before these Games, with all of you brought in from elsewhere," he says, "Tributes were thought of as sacrifices. 24 of them every year, and only one got to win. The things you learned about each Tribute were directly proportionate to how long they survived... it's pointless to know all the little details about someone's life if they're just going to die in the Bloodbath, so... our horrors were broader, made to fit a theme but the types of things that humans are supposed to fear. My Arena was a cave system; it wasn't a bad fit for me, since I worked in a factory before my Games and was used to climbing into dark, cramped spaces. It was dark... damp, quiet enough to hear your blood moving if you got too far away from other Tributes. The stalactites and stalagmites were poisonous on the outside but the only source of drinkable water. There were shallow pools with carnivorous fish. Awful things, but nothing tailor-made for me, that I would find the most awful."

He might not be saying everything on his mind. He does shiver slightly, shoulders drawing forward and tensing.

"After you win and people learn more about you, though... that's a different story. Then everyone knows what you find the most awful, and you're constantly at their mercy. I wouldn't wish it on most people in the outlying Districts."

Gray listened to the Arena's description with a twinge of disgust. It was still incomprehensible for him to deal with eleven children, and hearing Linden carry twenty-three? It was a small wonder the man was choosing to go sober after all that pain! Though he could see the toll of trying to hide from reality had taken on his mentor, ragged and self-destructive.

Then there's the media scrutiny. The obsession with the blood-soaked circus, the shallow attention span, the lack of care for their Victors and- "Sounds like what the, uh, paparazzi used to do back home, but this is an extreme, it's that bad. And what happened to the families of the, um, lost children?"

The past tense was done in respect of not just those children that never came back but also the Tributes that the Districts had seen come and go.

Though it's difficult to talk about these things even on the best of days, it's strangely cathartic to get it off his chest in the presence of someone who's not in it for the juicy details, who actually cares and recognizes that Linden wasn't lucky, and hadn't been honored. Phillip's clearly disgusted by the details he does provide, which is relief and validation presented in a neat and gratifying package.

"Paparazzi... yes, that's right," he says quickly, glad that there's a common thread to connect their perspectives. "That's what they call them here, too... you have them where you're from, then?"

The question about the lost children gets a distant look from Linden.

"Their bodies are sent home, when they can be salvaged, which is... usually. It's unusual for a body to be mutilated to the point of being unsalvageable... there was a girl who was blown up in my Arena, but those cases are kind of rare. They're given funerals, regardless, and their families bury them according to the customs of their Districts. In 6, since it's so crowded and the ground is so dry, cremation tends to be the preferred method. On the Victory Tour, it's customary for the Victor to deliver a brief eulogy for each District's fallen. That part is surprisingly difficult."

Edited 2015-03-19 04:23 (UTC)

"They're like cockroaches then...not even a nuke can finish off the species," Phil joked for a bit, little dark for the norm but it showed that they were indeed a problem in his time as they were in this one. "So long as the people want to know more about others and all that junk."

Simple men and women would get overwhelmed by the spectacle and-

As he listened to the lost tributes' funeral rites, bile tried to come up from his mouth. A child exploding, he barely kept his shit together long enough to not vomit on his mentor. "I-I can't imagine...w-well I can, actually."

It may not be the same as honoring the dead, but to tell the parents that they have looked all over the restaurant for their child was a horror Lockhearst knew all too well. To hold that child's last possession and pass it on with a Sorry that could never be enough.

Linden blinks several times in silence after Phil's joke; though his own sense of humor runs dark and jarring, this one falls flat for him, and his slate-colored eyes are uneasy.

"Nuclear weapons can finish off any species, if there are enough of them."

Sorry, Phil.

"You seem like you can... from what you've told me, you can probably relate better than a lot of the newer Victors in that regard." he chews his lip, reaching for his water again, taking a hateful sip of it. He still can't stand the taste.

"Only in my eternal disdain for the yellow media's, um, prying ways and lack of respect for the families," Phil let out in quick and embarrassed succession after noting that his early nineties, post-Berlin Wall fall humor wasn't the best in this world. Especially in a place that had been ravaged by the fall-out. Note to self, never mention that sort of thing in polite conversation, ever.

"I dealt with enough of those."

But he did notice the Mentor's disdain for the drink, "If I may ask...how long have you been going sober? If I'm prying myself, I-I can leave you be."

The ultimate answer is one that's pretty close to that. With District 13 as the main exporter of nuclear weapons and all of Panem having survived a war with the Capitol, a lot of pretty scary scenarios have been tossed around, and though Linden's a couple of generations too late to remember it, there was a pretty terrifying war less than a century ago in Panem's history.

The question gets a slow sidelong glance. He doesn't look offended so much as just... surprised. "Is it that obvious?" he asks, even as he understands the likelihood of someone having discreetly let him know that he's in recovery. "It's been a few weeks," he replies carefully. "So nothing to celebrate yet, but you're not prying. This has been everyone's business since the day I won the Hunger Games... no, make that the day I was reaped." He takes another sip of water. "Whether you win or not, you'll find out what that's like, if you haven't already."

"Not yet. I haven't stepped out of the tower. It's amazing what one can do within the confines of a tightly defined space," Phil confessed to his introverted state of mind at the moment, "It's not obvious but when you're used to numbing things out, uh, things get real fast."

The signs were there and Linden wasn't exactly the squeaky clean Mentor Phil once expected the first time he came across the name. After being in an Arena with whatever biological reset the Capitol had, and all that death, it was hard to come out the same man, let alone a child in the old times.

Though the warning was there: they are watching. They will know, and they will rip you apart like last week's trash. Then find the next schmuck to destroy and- "I'll find out eventually, I just have to lay low, and hope people find Dandy more interesting than me."

Linden nods miserably at the spot-on description of what he's going through right now. "Real fast" is almost painfully simple, and brutally concise, and he relates perfectly.

"I suppose that, to know, you'd also be used to 'numbing things out,'" he suggests. He'll be more open to talking about this if he realizes that Phillip has been on a similar path and felt the same shameful desperation.

Gray isn't proud of admitting this but he nodded at that suggestion, "I kinda do. I used to, uh, need assistance falling asleep. Stephen told me about the sleeping aids before the Arena started, but until then, I used other means."

He barely remembers some of those rare days off from the Pizzeria, and his apartment would have mostly leftovers in the fridge and a bottle of Jack or wine if he could afford it. His vice was alcohol, he wouldn't try anything stronger for fear of losing his job and his only lead in finding the serial killer. Plus, there wasn't much one could do but drink and forget when he would check on the surveillance cameras and see the power go out on the poor guard who got too cocky or trigger happy. Time for clean-up, Phil would think while sipping his glass of whatever he could find.

"I'm pretty sure the dive bar down the street from my old home knows me by face."

And the occasional one-nighter to feel like he wasn't completely gone.

Linden nods as though sleeping aids are the most natural thing in the world. More people use them here than let on, certainly, and Linden isn't an exception. Well... wasn't. He knows that the man probably means alcohol, since it's so common in many worlds, and he seems a little too hale to be a junkie, but Linden's aware that appearances can be deceiving.

"Just by face? Didn't you talk to the bartender? A good one worth his tips would know you by name, too."

For someone in recovery, Linden is very eager to talk about vices.

"I-I'm not much of a talker, especially if I'd come off a previous night shift but he did know me by name, by next of kin, and my favorite drink. Must've made his fair share of tips on my Johnny Walker preference, among other things," Phil made a face, "I've been trying to cut back, heh, but this Arena was...trying to say the least." Sandy's gin, Venus' vodka did nothing to help the man stay sober but he did practice moderation. A moderation that had been transferred into training and maybe a new habit of a glass to taper off, a bottle if things got rough.

He would've said something about making friends with the bartender at the Tower but even Gray thought that would be in bad taste.

Linden gives him a pale, gentle smile, and it might be the most sincere one the Tribute's seen yet from him.

"Cutting back is a lot easier when it was never a problem for someone," he says sadly. "You can't really go from addicted to casual, as great as that would be, but if you want to be a drunk here, it's the last place in the world anyone would judge you, including myself. What I'm saying is... if you'd take comfort in a stiff drink, don't abstain just for my sake."

Gray almost doesn't return it, especially after the horrors they've discussed. Was that how Linden looked like when things were better? When he was relaxed? It was a surprise and it makes his response just as calm. If only Phil could tell Linden his sobriety was mostly for others, for his mentor and for a particular Tribute.

"I need to be sober, I need to remember why I'm here and not pass it off to someone else. One death down, eleven to go if I don't win. But if that's the case, I'll try to keep my ass out of trouble, sir. I've already got drunk before, ah, the Arena," The formalities tended to slip on occasion. He hoped no one saw him up on the roof with Julian.

Things are never better, and Linden is never relaxed, but when he comes close, this is how it looks: at the end of the day, still like someone chronically exhausted and perpetually sad. That being said, there's a ghost of better times behind his dark eyes.

"Of course. You have your reasons, and I understand," Linden's quick to say. "Just make sure they're your reasons, or you're sure to fail. If you're doing it for anyone else..." he trails off, sounding discouraged.

"You know all this. I guess it just helps to say it out loud sometimes."

"If you're being sober for someone else, you're setting yourself for disaster," Phil finished the sentence for Linden, his expression never changing as he did. Yes, he knew what the Mentor was going to say, and knew that relapse would be a bitch. "Because you set up an ideal that, uh, you won't live up to."

As for the discouraged sensation, "tt's no problem...It's nice to hear it from someone who is going through somewhat the same thing. I-I mean, getting plastered isn't the same as morphin-er-morphling, and maybe relapse won't be so horrible. I may have been here for a few months...but I have a feeling there won't be any rest for the wicked." He then dropped his eyesight away from his Mentor, as he remembered what he'd done to his fellow District 6 tribute, Dandy. He had to be strong to confront the choice he made in getting into that maniac's cross hairs.

Linden nods, satisfied with the man's phrasing and accepting it as what he'd put into words given the time and skill.

"That's right."

I did. I'm doing it for someone else and this isn't going to last. How can it?

"No, I get plastered, too," Linden says resignedly. "Or at least, used to. Very regularly. I think the only reason no one called me an alcoholic was because it didn't look so bad in comparison to the other problem, but..." he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I have to admit, I'm questioning the wisdom of quitting both cold turkey at the same time. I think I could handle Morphling withdrawal if I could have whiskey with my cigarettes."

Other means were always welcomed and Phillip was a little confused as the fact that Linden wasn't already smoking and going through whiskey like water. "If I may...why can't you go ahead and do all that? Is there a rule here or something? I-I can ask one of the Avoxes to get you some."

Ask an Avox, how cute. Even worse when the man realized that he and Linden shared a goal: To be sober for someone else that wasn't them.

"It's not the best, but cutting all ties with booze, it can't be good for your liver, I would think. Or at least in the short run." How open had he become that he could just share those addictions? Or maybe it was survival.

Linden's smoking, but he is trying to stop drinking, considering it is a problem for him and he is trying to prove, in one sweeping and drastic gesture, that changing a decade worth of bad habits was possible. It's not going so well, though, and he thinks that he'll backslide all at once far sooner than he'd ever anticipated.

"I wanted to be clean," he shrugs. "If you're going to try, you might as well go all-in, you know? Maybe I was misguided."

He scratches listlessly at his wrist.

"...fuck it. I'm going to have either alcohol or Morphling today or I'm actually going to go crazy. I think you should ask an Avox for something, and fast."

The scratching and the threat of Mentor insanity is enough for Phillip to request for a bottle of beer, might as well start easy. But going full turkey had a huge drawback: the urge to fall back would come back with a vengeance akin to a truck.

"Oh criminy, I feel like I just enabled you, I'm sorry," Gray shrunk in his seat as the item arrived, making all that progress get tossed out the window. Good job, Phone Guy, we're all proud of you.

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