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 The sharp, inquisitive, quick-witted boy who'd won the 63rd Hunger Games hasn't been seen in years; rather, he's been replaced by a jagged wraith who's grown increasingly neurotic and difficult with each passing arena.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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

Cold turkey is a bitch that way, and it's something Linden's had ample opportunity to think about. He gives a tired half-smile when he requests that beer; if they'd met sooner, Phil would know a different Linden, one that poured hard liquor down his throat with reckless abandon and didn't stop until he was passed out and someone else's problem (usually Stephen's, incidentally). There had to be some perks that came with surviving the Hunger Games, right?

"It was going to happen," Linden says gamely, accepting the beer and cradling it in his skeletal hands. "Not your fault, even a little bit... actually, I'm relieved. Do you want one, as well?"

The offer wouldn't be turned down as Phillip uncapped his own, nice and chilled, "Might as well have a little now, and not be so far from the suites."

The Phone Guy then lifted his bottle, as if to make a toast, "To making the best out of our situations...And if we fall off the wagon, we get up and try again." If he could keep track of Sandy in the Arena, and actually face his affections in his own way, helping his mentor, and himself, would be a hurdle he could do something about.

Linden lifts his own bottle accommodatingly, clinking it against Phillip's. "To failing, and the earnest attempt that had to take place prior to it," he says, an attempt at eloquence at a time when joking and regret both seem like inappropriate responses.

"And all subsequent attempts."

"Amen," Phillip toasted and swung his bottle back for a hearty gulp. These two probably did have one more thing in common and going for them: their livers could take quite the abuse if they needed them to.

Gray also knew this was not the best way to cope with his own problems but eh. He saw the people he cared for die, and in Milo's case, stricken by one of his fellow D6 Tributes.

Linden's liver is rumored to have tried to cut itself out of his abdomen, believing that it would have a better chance on its own than in the body of someone actively trying to pickle it.

As for coping... all anyone can do in Panem is their best, and any who put themselves in a position to judge would be better off biting their tongues.

"I think there's something stronger," he says. "District 6 distills a kind of moonshine. We call it Motor Oil, and it does taste like that, but we work long shifts and don't have a lot of time to get drunk, so the alcoholic content is through the roof."

The poor thing probably didn't make it out there. Though the suggestion of something stronger perks Gray up a little more than he should. Should I accept this invitation to try a transdimensional drink that can knock me on my ass, or do I refuse my mentor, his thought processes were at the moment, not very lucid from their earlier chats.

"I can empathize on that long-hour shifts," Phil responded at this suggestion, "But I'm guessing no bar offers such a, um, volatile mix, huh. I'll stick to these for now, sir." He'd hoped that Linden wouldn't take the refusal as rude or an offense, but he had to stick to his plan of sobriety as best he could.

Linden notices the way Phillip seems to take to the suggestion. Now that he's been pretty well-enabled and has a doctor's order not to quit cold turkey, some floodgates seem like they're about to be opened.

"No bar does, you're correct in that regard," he says easily. "That's why I keep it in the wall. I can get it right now."

He stands, making his way to the fireplace and reaching for a poker, the kind with a hooked end, ideal for spearing through a few layers of peaceful-looking plaster.

Phillip blinked for a moment as he watched his Mentor grab a fire poker. This meeting was turning even more peculiar by the minute.

"What are you...what are you doing?"

Destruction of public property was not part of what Gray had intended to do or participate when he woke up this morning.

Linden squints, giving the poker a couple of narrow practice swings before going over to a large portrait on the wall of a slightly younger President Snow. He starts to draw back the poker, but then catches himself, setting it aside and sheepishly removing the portrait, leaning it against the wall. The picture is nearly as big as he is, and the process looks more than a little worrying as he wavers and almost tips backwards.

Once the portrait's out of the way, then he smashes the poker through the plaster. It doesn't require much force; though the layers look pretty flawless, they're only a patch there to conceal a dug-out hiding place for several dark brown bottles of fluid. Linden draws one out.

"I could re-patch this, but I'm not really in the mood. Do me a favor and get that picture back on the wall?"

Phillip's jaw dropped at the whole affair and the moment he saw his Mentor whack the wall with such strength. He even tried to help stabilize Linden as the man destroyed the wall...until he saw why. Oh Lord, wow. That's commitment "...I'm impressed," Gray wasn't lying at that. He was very impressed at just how resilient an addiction could be and how creative Lockhearst was.

"S-Sure, I'm on it," he quickly recovered from the surprise he was going through. As heavy as the portrait was, the man was used to handling animatronic parts to really mind, even after the Arena. "That looks like it's gone vintage, sir."

Vintage is a word for it.

Linden is a scrawny, wiry thing, easily exhausted and overwhelmed by a lot of day-to-day demands. That being said, he can be pretty clever and inventive when it suits his purposes, and this is just one of those cases that it's tragically practical for the demanding mistress that is addiction.

There's Morphling in there, too, several vials of it, which Phillip might see when he goes to rehang the picture. Linden seems to be putting as much distance between himself and the small glass vials as possible, turning hastily and focusing all of his attention on the bottle and its history, and how generous it is for Phillip to think that any bottle left around him has the time to become vintage.

"It's just the natural color," he says, sitting on the couch and screwing off the cap. He sniffs it, recoiling slightly. "You know... you might be right. This is really strong."

Good.

He tips it back, pouring it down his throat in an amount that can only be described as "reckless."

"Drink it fast," he croaks, offering the bottle out to Phillip and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "Pretend you're on a schedule and it's the only way to get through the next 12 hours of mind-numbing assembly work, and that way you can really get the District 6 experience."

As soon as he spotted the small vials, Phil made a quick note of it, to never let the Mentor near the stuff again.So, that's what Morphling looks like, he thought as he replaced Snow's image on the broken wall. If Peacekeepers were as observant as they were, they would probably be on this stash as soon as they all went to bed.

But it's the way Linden just chucks it all back that makes the Phone Guy's brown eyes widen in both amazement and horror. Holy shit. And now it was his turn.

"That could have been my dad. I-I'll just pretend I have a 6-hour shift back home and I'll be all set," Phil said before taking a quick gulp. OH SHIT doesn't even cover the sheer amount of alcohol that went down his throat. That sat his ass down. "WOW holy damn."

That will be a tricky endeavor, considering the power balance between Tributes and Mentors is one that's undeniable even under non-tyrannical staff. A Tribute has no place telling a Mentor what he can or can't do, in other words, even if he is objectively right, which makes the situation... difficult.

He laughs heartily as Phillip takes a swig, dubiously proud of his heritage's organ-destroying legacy. "Right?" he teases, patiently waiting for the bottle to come back to him. He's not finished by any means, but it's alcoholic as all get out and it would probably benefit him more to wait between swallows.

Gray could only suggest his Mentor not die from an overdose of the narcotic substance. He'd grown to care about Linden as he would someone he worked with. It had an added bonus that Linden would last more than five nights, so it was even more imperative that they stay the course...if a little tweak here and there.

But these thoughts were on the back burner as he did his best to pass the bottle back, adding along, "I think I lost all feeling on my tongue. A-and throat, throat's gone too."

Linden is always open to suggestions. He's even open to promises and steps toward keeping them, but he'd compare it to trudging barefoot across the desert. While it's technically possible to keep going past every rock and cactus for quite a long time, isn't it eventually just easier to lie down and let the vultures have at it?

The people of District 6 are always so very thirsty. It's bottomless and wanting and desperate. We're all so practiced at looking the other way and pretending that thirst isn't the problem.

"What, you need those?" Linden teases. "Don't worry. It'll come back. Just don't let it sit in your mouth for too long; it's a good way to get raw spots and sores, and those take forever to heal."

Especially if you're still drinking it regularly.

Phil would be the first one to get Linden back on his feet and keep trudging on even if the desert blistered their feet off. That kind of resolution comes from surviving, and Gray knows his Mentor has done plenty of that.

"Eventually yes, I plan on eating something," he teased right back, letting the alcohol take its' course and daze his mind for a moment, "I'd rather keep my voice intact, you know?"

Fortunately, Linden is so utterly wasted from years of drawing worthless nourishment from alcohol and morphling that if push came to shove and still wasn't enough, he's insubstantial enough to carry.

"I know," he says hoarsely, downing another swallow with only the fleeting phantom of a grimace. "That's important, but the time it takes to sleep it off is usually enough time for it to return full force."

And if you're drinking motor oil, you probably will be sleeping it off.

Maybe something normal for Linden to experience but this is Phil's first Motor Oil hangover, and it's highly probable he will feel like death warmed over the next day. There was nothing comforting in that first swallow of the nearly gasoline mixture, nothing like Johnnie Walker or anything of the sort.

"I can imagine, I think I need to wash it down with something." Big phone baby. He'll learn eventually but for now, he'll be reaching for his beer.

It's certainly not distilled for taste or comfort. and Linden knows that better than anyone. In addition to being incredibly alcoholic, though, it is from home, and that means a surprising amount now that he's been away from 6 for so long.

"Fair enough," Linden says, running a tongue over his pale lips before taking another horrifying deep drink. "I'm jealous... I can't get buzzed off of beer anymore. It's just calories, which... admittedly, I need, but feeling that full is still something I'm getting used to again."

The Phone Guy has seen death in the shape of a serial killer and the animatronics. But watching his Mentor, the person meant to guide him and survivor of a past Arena, chugging what is probably more like rubbing alcohol than a drink...it puts things into perspective.

"I'm jealous you're still conscious after that," he let slip out, "You really weren't kidding, District 6 drinks that every night?" And yet, Phil can feel the kinship in the factory workers, in working jobs that drain the soul right out of their bodies, only to be put back together the next day.

Death wears a lot of faces, and some deaths are a lot slower and more subtle than others. Linden drinks like there is a hell, and he is determined to find it.

"If you really want to go there, I'll see if there's anything I can do to arrange a visit. We're not the most festive District, and I'm really not sure if it's allowed, but it couldn't hurt to ask."

Edited 2015-04-09 02:59 (UTC)

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

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