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 The sharp, inquisitive, quick-witted boy who'd won the 63rd Hunger Games hasn't been seen in years; rather, he's been replaced by a jagged wraith who's grown increasingly neurotic and difficult with each passing arena.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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In many ways this Arena was much easier and much more difficult for Nill to manage. On the one hand the setting was much easier to handle than the last; the doors in the space Arena made it impossible to tell if you were about to run into someone, and had she not been able to rely on her telepathy she would no doubt have died much earlier on in that setting. This time it was cold and woods, and Nill at least has a fair amount of experience with cold. It didn't stop her from getting a cold, of course - she's always been prone to minor ones, and it set in before any of the sponsors could actually send people things - but even that was easy enough to deal with, since it never involved a fever. She was largely on her own in the Arena, never running into the people she was actually looking for and instinct constantly screaming that if the person wasn't one of them she should stay the hell away.

The supplies Linden had spent kept her warm and nod fed for long, but long enough that she made two-day rations last at least a week. She ran into Karkat, he fretted and scolded her for not taking care of herself. They went on. Until the Smilodon, anyway, which gave the Capitol the very first footage of something that few people ever saw in Nill; she was livid, even with tears in her eyes. Karkat died first and if looks could kill that smilodon would have been dead in seconds. It's not the case sadly - she died a few minutes later, but not without getting several good stabs in.

Nill actually woke up a few hours ago, but the parallels between her death in this Arena and the one she experience before her arrival were far too close. She seriously considers going to the bar again when she's finally on her feet, but she made a promise, one that actually sort of sounds more appealing. District 6 is the first place that Nill looks for him, and she's a little glad she didn't need to look for long. She steps inside the suite and lingers near the doorway to the common area, rapping her knuckles against the wall to announce herself, a small smile on her face despite her red-rimmed eyes.

It's not uncommon to see District 2's Mentor hanging around the Training Center. Torin might not like the system that keeps him in such a job, but it's still his job, and he's still got a responsibility to his Tributes.

It is, however, quite uncommon to see District 6's Mentor hanging around in the same way. Torin's got to go check on the younger man. This at least seems safer than karaoke. "Linden!" And there's Torin, looking just as put together and at ease as ever, closing in fast. "Haven't seen you since the retreat. How have you been?"

Linden glances up sharply at the sound of his name; the quality of Torin's voice is almost piercing in comparison to the thick blanket Linden's grown accustomed to hearing through over the years. He's relearning his senses again, and even though he's dried out several times in the past, he's never been able to sustain it for this long. He's never wanted to, and moments like this remind him why.

He meets Torin's eyes, and his are colder and clearer than the other Mentor's probably ever seen them.

"Tired," he responds, after giving his choice of words careful consideration. "I miss when there was an entire year between Arenas; I haven't been back to 6 in so long."

What Linden knows of the Arena is much starker and realer than most he's seen since his own. He's watched this one either in withdrawal or sober, and he's seen and processed everything. He's glad that Nill got his parachutes, especially since she'd gotten sick. Like most Tributes, even if she was doing fine for herself, the items he'd sent couldn't possibly hurt her chances. He'd been glad when she'd met up with Karkat, knowing that it would make her happy to be able to protect him... and then failing to when the Smilodon had taken them both out within minutes of each other. At that point, he would have sighed and reached for another bottle, but this time, he'd resisted the temptation. The hours had felt like years, and his skin had crawled, and his teeth hurt from grinding, but he'd managed to hold on. How many times had Nill seen him shattered and pathetic after an arena? Just as she'd shown the world a side of her she usually kept hidden and buried, he wanted to show her the person he used to be.

It was ambitious. Perhaps too much, because while he could keep his promise, rubbing at veins that ached for Morphling without injecting it. He won't be able to show her anything but someone who is exhausted from fighting a battle that he invited. But his eyes are sharp and clear, and though he's lost weight, he stands steadier on his own feet.

He goes to the door, steadying his dizziness by leaning against it for a brief moment before opening it. She looks like she needs something more substantial than Linden can ever give her, but he nods, standing aside and motioning her in. As an afterthought, he reaches for her hand.

"I'm sorry you died, but I'm glad you're back."

It counts for very little, given that neither she or Karkat survived the experience, but it's very likely that the smilodon didn't necessarily live through it either. Though not as good as when she had a gun in her hand Nill could be just as lethal if she needed to, and she has experienced enough pain that more often than not she can work through it. Though another Tribute likely delivered the final blow at least one of her own had likely managed to hit something vital.

Next time she would either need to get Karkat to run, or to take whatever was attacking them out on her own. It would be the best way. It might actually keep him alive. She wasn't going to see him die again.

The smile on her face widens slightly as she steps inside, brittle though it might be, and her fingers curl carefully around his when he reaches for her, meeting him halfway. She's glad to be back too, even if she doesn't know how to face Karkat when she goes to find him, even if she's not sure what else to do at all right now other than to be there with him. She'd gotten a notepad somewhere along the way - from someone in the lobby, no doubt - and it's tucked under her arm, though she doesn't reach for it.

It's then that she takes a moment to really look him over. Nill isn't unobservant, but she has no real point of reference for the slight changes in the way Linden moves, the way he forms expressions, the lack of glassy eyes darting around every so often as if he's forgotten where he is. The only times she's ever seen him were all in varying states of inebriation. She lifts her other hand to touch his arm slightly, tilt her head, get a better look, (hopefully) without her staring getting to a point of discomfort.

Was... was he sober?

That Linden's eyes are clear is a good sign. A very good sign. Torin approves, and he's well aware of how hard this must be. He gives Linden a sympathetic nod. "I know the feeling. It's been a little different since my family's moved over here, but home is still home."

Phillip thought he could accept death better after everything he'd gone through back home. That it wouldn't be so bad to just let go and let things happen as they were meant to. But the actual event happened, when his whole body shut down after losing so much blood and that last ray of light slipped away, there was nothing like it. It was a disturbing sleep to wake up from, worse the way he jolted awake. Everything about this felt...alien. No, detached. He felt detached from his own body, as if he was merely pulling the strings.

The temptation had been great to try and find ways to feel normal. Even morphling sounded good during the first week back from the dead. And yet, Phil knew the moment he dipped into anything, old demons would come back full throttle. Demons that sing little songs during the day and tormented at night. So to train again, keep busy, and explore the Tribute Tower again. And now...huh, that man was playing chess all by himself. That was a sight as Gray made himself a snack to return to the Training Center. Messy black hair, sunken eyes, clothes that seemed to hang off a shambling corpse. Wait.

So this was the Mentor Stephen had mentioned the morning before the Crowning...Linden, right? Right. Didn't hurt to watch the game before speaking up.

Linden is able to reflect on the soft gladness he feels when Nill doesn't pull away from his touch. Her grip is more cautious than his, certainly less tense and eager, but it is not repelled, and he takes that as a victory.

They have a lot to talk about, and he's anxious to start, but Nill is hesitating and examining his worn frame and haunted face. For all that he doesn't exactly look good, there are changes for the better at work. They're bittersweet; while he appears more present and aware, he seems sadder, and if he's steady, there's a newly calculating, caged quality to the way he takes in his surroundings. He's holding it together, but "it" is a patchwork, Frankensteinian, tentative thing.

It's been difficult to be sober and stay that way, but this is the first moment he's actually been something like happy about it, and felt it was in any way at all worth it.

He motions over to the couches. "Do you want something to drink?" he asks, out of habit, wondering how he'll be able to handle it if she wants something stronger than water.

Though Linden's focus is unparalleled when he's in top form and he is doing OK, relatively speaking, he's still suffering the kicking, tormented throes of withdrawal to an extent, and distractions are frequently as sharp and jarring as a ball peen hammer on glass. Even the quiet and unobtrusive ones, like Phillip's silent watching.

He turns his hollow gaze slowly the other man's way, and his face and shoulders follow momentarily.

"You're one of the new Tributes from 6..." he says softly. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced. My apologies; turnover is so high that it's a struggle to keep up sometimes."

He stands, but a wave of dizziness hits him and he ultimately thinks it's better to stay sitting. He does so rather quickly.

"It's Linden Lockhearst, Victor, 63rd Hunger Games. As much of a pleasure as it really can be to make your acquaintance, under these particular circumstances..."

To be reminded of such a status so abruptly was a bit startling for Phillip, especially after following the game. The way Linden moved and carried himself, it was starting to make sense that he was still recovering from whatever dosage he had.

"Oh yeah, um, Phil Gray, pleasure to meet you too...uh, yeah, this is my first," he fumbled for a moment, avoiding the last word. Was it his first Arena? Or his first death? Jury was still out on that. "Must've been that bad, the rate of death I mean."

As much as Phil wanted to make a good impression on those he met, he didn't have the energies to do it consistently. He wasn't hiding behind a smile, adding years to his face, as both the Arena and Freddy's caught up to him. "Want some water?"

Edited (errors!) 2015-02-23 06:39 (UTC)

He is. He actually is. She's sure of it - for all the states she's seen him in, for as often as his eyes were wide or tense or agitated, She's certain that she's never actually seen him look this awake before. He looks like he's actually aware of his body and what he's doing with it, and he doesn't look like he'll sway with any breeze that blows through him.

For a fraction of a second Nill almost wants to say yes, but the mere idea is reigned in and crushed underfoot with such swift fierceness that it might make someone's head spin. As unappealing as the idea of remaining sober is when the images of a still chest and bright red blood are still burned into the backs of her eyelids, the idea of ruining what Linden has obviously worked hard for is a whole other kind of hell that Nill refuses to so much as brush against. She's very quick to shake her head at the offer.

She takes a moment to look at the couches, and that she nods to, but instead of making any movement to go over she gives his hand a reassuring squeeze and then gently pulls hers away from his. The reason becomes obvious quickly enough when she pulls her notepad out from under her arm and flips it open to write. Sign language she can pull off with one hand if needed, but she has yet to manage the same for writing.

thank you for everything you did for me.
can I hug you?

It's an odd request to write, and likely odd for him to read. But keeping in mind the obvious way he protected his neck that night in her room, and her own hangups about physical contact, she doesn't want to cause him any distress by just doing it without warning, especially when she hasn't before.

No one has seen him like this in years. He's intelligent, aware, and extremely sad, but it's the choice he's made, and no matter how difficult it ends up being for him, he's going to stick it out as long as he can. Morphling is addictive to the point where he might as well be eternally stuck in tar, but that doesn't mean he can't at least give it his best effort. Escaping the horrors of their way of life means first escaping his own enslavement to the whims of his body's dependencies.

He can see the sympathy in Torin's eyes, and he has to look away. Someday, maybe he'll stop being an object of pity; for now, in withdrawal, that day is a long way off.

"I suppose you're here to field sponsors?" he asks, having no actual idea. He is very out of the loop with the routines of other Mentors, having buried himself in his own solitary and destructive ones for so long.

What's abrupt for Phillip is commonplace for a Victor who's marched the unforgiving and relentless circuit of the Games for over a decade now. It's become his entire identity by this point, and while some revel in the culture and willingly absorb it, Linden is unhappy and finds it hateful, whether or not it's bonded to him irreversibly. This is not uncommon for Victors from outlying Districts, and the longer Phillip is immersed in the Panem experience, the more he will likely notice this.

He nods with an air of brisk respect even as Phillip grapples with proper phrasing. He's putting more thought into it than most people in Panem do, and with competing in multiple arenas being a somewhat recent thing, it's not like it's an established phenomenon with the vernacular to go with it. "I know. I saw," he replies blankly. "Get used to that, by the way... the plain fact that anything you experience in there has been experienced, secondhand, by pretty much everyone out here.

He seems surprised by the offer for water, and slightly uncomfortable, as if he realizes he must look like he needs some. "There are Avoxes for that, but... if you're going to get one anyway..." he trails off, leaving it to pragmatics to communicate that he wouldn't oppose the favor.

"I'm getting it anyways," the entire concept of an Avox was terrifying for a man whose main trait was his voice and agency, however limited, had returned to him after so long. He'd rather walk over and get the item himself, let the Avox slip by to do something else.

The answer to his previous fumble sparked a certain level of curiosity in Phillip. Sandy had made mention that the previous Games were on a permanent basis, all those lost children would never return to their parents. In that sense, Phillip understood that loss well. It's one of the reasons he had set a goal to visit District 6 at least once, to better understand this new world. He placed the bottle by the table but stood back. Manners and rank told the former guard to wait for permission.

"You've been been watching everything, haven't you?" Innocent enough question, mentors watch their Tributes get slaughtered.

Torin nods. It's good to see the other so alert, even if he knows it's got to be painful for him. "More or less. There's not as much actual training to be done with the bulk of the Tributes in the Arena. The Sponsors are more helpful at this point in things." Even if they were more tiresome. "You're speaking with Sponsors today?"

Replacing happiness with Morphling for so long has come at a heavy and depressing price. Awareness means the potential for pain, after all, something he wasn't supposed to feel ever again after the hell that was his Arena. But it means the potential for other things, too, emotions that run deeper with more vibrant strokes. Nill's return is something he's seen before, but never in color, and it's as overwhelming as it is astonishing. He's feeling things with intensity that's been dulled since his childhood, and it will take time to get used to getting hit repeatedly by that freight train.

He's grateful when she declines a drink, even if the part of him he's trying to bury mourns the lost chance to be so close to his familiar and comfortable mode of escape. She's under no obligation to alter her behavior because he is, but it means a lot that she's willing to face a harsher view of the world if it means a higher chance of Linden holding on and not unraveling his progress.

When she pulls away, he almost clings, but manages to refrain, letting her write unhindered. He reads her words; has her handwriting always been so steady and crisp? The contrast between ink and paper is yet another thing that's returning to "normal" from his altered perspective.

"You can," he permits, nodding. "In fact... I would like that very much. Would it be all right if I hugged you back?"

Edited 2015-02-26 06:24 (UTC)

On top of the images that she has thus far been unable to blink away, there's also the knowledge that after this she'll need to go find Karkat, and she doesn't know how she's going to do that, how she's supposed to face him knowing that she'd failed him so utterly. Stumbling into a bottle would be cruel to Linden and Karkat both at this point, and Nill knows that full well, but it's still a preferable course of action on other days. Days where it's not endlessly important for her to stay good and far from anything like that. If Linden keeps this up those days might extend well past this one.

At his question she smiles, and between the way her mouth and shoulders move it's probably a fair guess that a laugh accompanied it, but she nods twice to make sure that her answer is perfectly clear. There's a table within reach, the sort that people typical leave keys or the contents of their pockets on upon returning home, and Nill is quick to set her notepad and pen aside there before lifting her arms to pull Linden into a tight embrace.

Usually she isn't quite so eager about things like this. She's all about making sure people can pull away from just about anything if they want to, and Linden certainly could, but it's a little more constraining than what she usually goes for, because Linden is sober. She's wanted to see him since the Arena, since she realized the parachutes were from him. It was kind, he had sent her more than other tributes, he sent her alcohol and it made her laugh more than once, which was a genuinely hard thing to manage in the Arena. She'd kept her promise and come to see him, but not for a second did she expect him to be anything close to sober. Fresh out of the Arena and witnessing the death of a friend, Nill never once expected something as genuinely great as this. She's not under the impression that he did it for her, but she's nonetheless grateful.

Nill's shorter than Linden, so her cheek ends up somewhere near or a little below his shoulder, but she's very careful not to let her head or anything come close to touching his neck.

Linden's noticed this, that a lot of of the new Tributes seem appalled by the very concept of Avoxes. As for himself, he doesn't like it; his parents were turned into Avoxes, for crying out loud, but that doesn't change the fact that it's always been this way, as long as he can remember, and for all intents and purposes, mute dissenter slaves are normal in his world. He tilts his head, shrugging and acquiescing. Even on a good day, when he's just the right amount of high and his concerns all dulled to the point where they might as well not even exist, he might argue. Today, he just doesn't have the energy, and he's picking his battles.

"It's in my job description to watch everything," Linden replies doggedly, glancing sidelong at the respectful distance Phillip is giving him before stretching out a long, bone-thin arm to reach for the bottle. "But you must know that by now. What about you? What's in your job description? If I'm going to help you not die in the next arena, or get your sponsors to send you things you can make the best use of, I should really know these things."

The question about his resume caught Phillip off guard, and he frowned as he tried to come up with a safe answer. "I was a night-shift security guard for a family restaurant," he answered curtly. "I made sure children were safe. I don't have combat experience, I'm afraid and...it showed. But I'm working on it."

For a moment, he thought this would be enough to satiate his Mentor's curiosity in a neat and less problematic way that didn't involve his actual past.

Stumbling into a bottle is the second most tempting thing Linden can think of to do. The first most tempting thing is to jam a syringe into a vein. They're both urges that are every bit as powerful as the need to eat or sleep when one is in desperate need. Having them out of sight and reach help somewhat, but the hunger is always there, and it always gnaws fretfully at the back of his brain for attention. For now, he's got this, but he has no idea how long he'll be able to keep it up.

He'd expected a gentler hug, even a careful one, but he's not disappointed. There's so little space between them that there's no room for kind lies, and he relishes the simple, firm honesty. She's more than happy to see him, she's happy to see him making an effort to break free of his demons and strengthen his tenuous hold on the mortal coil while he's at it. He curls his own arms around her, avoiding the scars around her wings; the result is that his wrists end up clasped at the small of her back, which is... nice, if more sensitive and intimate than he'd initially intended. He doesn't move to break the embrace immediately, because the contact and warmth and connection he feels with Nill make it more than simply going through a series of motions or mechanically fulfilling a physical quota. He nestles his cheek lightly against the top of her head, pulling her closer, wondering if he's already taken too much by enjoying simple affection for what it is.

"I'd like to try," Linden replies softly. "You might not be as familiar with this, since Sponsors tend to really like placing their bets on the Career Districts, but the outlying ones like 6 have to really scramble for a chance. I've not been doing enough scrambling lately."

Linden's glad that there's some elaboration to accompany that initial description; he has it easier than a lot of the transplanted Tributes by being part of Panem, and having some shared context with most of the people around him. Small groups of the transplants can relate to each other, coming from the same place, but for most of them, the entire history and culture of another's world is an unknown quantity. Things like "family restaurants" don't exist here, not the same way they do in Phillip's world, but "keeping children safe" means something.

It also seems to stir some bitterness in Linden, and the reason is obvious for any who know to look even a little bit deeper than the surface. Keeping children safe, huh? We have the same job. Maybe you were actually good at yours.

"So, you're a coward?" he asks bluntly. "I can spin that. I can say that it's not that you're scared, it's that you're honest. Very few in the Capitol are honest, so they tend to be fascinated by those who do possess the quality. I'm not saying cry like a little bitch in your next arena, but for your next interview? Absolutely open up about something personal. We're going to decide what that is right now, because right now, I have time."

Edited 2015-03-01 00:30 (UTC)

...What just happened? Did Linden just do a backhanded compliment? Phillip was stunned for a moment as he tried to make sense of what was suggested.

"What? I thought being honest was a less than desirable trait in the Capitol?"

The problem with Phil is that for all his attempts at solving the mystery back home, he still carried the guilt of failure, of letting a serial killer run around because he wanted to protect the company image. Not to mention all those forcefully cryptic messages.

"I...guess I'm a coward, yeah. I avoid conflict as much as I can, but what can I say to an interviewer that doesn't immediately label me as fodder?"

He knew he was a coward but at least he proved to at least one tribute he wasn't going to lay down and die.

"It depends. Day to day, it's not terribly useful or desirable. Everyone wears makeup and gets cosmetic surgery and lies to hide their flaws, but the Hunger Games are all about flaws and drama. Things that usually stay hidden get displayed in all their raw glory. You're on TV and at the end of the day you're playing a character. If people feel like they know your character, you're a lot more likely to get parachutes."

He plucks the black king off his chessboard, rolling it between his palms.

"My suggestion is to let your fear make you seem human, but not weak. You're good-looking in an affable, accessible way, and your charisma isn't complete shit, but if you want my advice, and you should, talk about keeping children safe. No one will expect you to kill anyone, but no one will want to see you die, either."

Something about his mentor's answer clicked with Phillip on a level he was unnervingly familiar with. Put a mask, smile for everyone, and keep the bodies he lugged around away from sight. But to actually talk about the Pizzeria in a way that could help him? That was bizarre for him.

"Even if I failed at my job?" This was as close as Gray would get to admitting his mistakes so directly. "How do I go about telling the viewers if I screwed up? I sure as hell didn't live up to that."

Not true, as he made sure Sand was always safe and fed.

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

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