thecapitol | The taste of dried-up hopes in my mouth

Entry tags:

The taste of dried-up hopes in my mouth

WHO| Maxwell and Open
WHAT| Returning from the Arena, catching up/reunions
WHERE| Various locations
WHEN| Sometime after his death in Week 5 of the Arena
Notes/Warnings| Probably some generic talk of death; some purple prose, knowing me.

District 8:

Maxwell emerged from his room a few days after.

He looked no different from the day he'd arrived - baring not even a scar to remember it - but he felt it. An uncertainty in his joints that left his gait stiff. A weight behind his eyes as they drifted across the suite.

The touch of Death lingering, calmy and chill, on the back of his neck.

He eased into a chair in the dining area beside the grand windows, and he sat there for a long time. Warming slowly in the sun, listening to the beat of his own heart, steady, strong and true once more in his chest.

Alive.

Miraculously. Impossibly.

His mind turned over the memory of it: of lying beneath the sky, watching it fade to purple and black; of the frantic drum of his heart, the gurgling pant, of the silence that had followed... And he laughed, suddenly. A wry, sob of a sound.

Wherever had become of Corypheus, Maxwell hoped he'd been watching.

District 7:

He went, every day.

Before the arena, he’d promised to keep his distance from District 7. Promised he’d give the escort no more reason to think ill of him than he already did. But still he went. Knowing he’d happily take the mage’s anger in trade for knowing he was returned, as safe and whole as any of them could be. (From the finality of death. From the darkness he’d seen for himself. From the quiet.)

Every day he knocked. Every day he waited.

Never quite certain which was worse: the dread in the heartbeats after, wondering if a stranger would open the door; or the weight of the silence that followed, knowing the room was still empty.

Every day, he left again. With the beat of his heart a dull, aching blow in his chest. His gut sinking heavily, cold and pitted. Wishing he could say it was for the man he remembered, but knowing he couldn’t.

Already they were tangling up in his mind.

In the arena, he might have turned, forgetting, ready to speak, to tease, before he caught himself. Back, again in the Capitol after everything, he thought of losing him, and pictured first an empty room, a floor below.

Silent and still.

Training Room:

When he wasn't watching - unable to look away, needing to see their faces, to check then against a mental list at every opportunity like a Sister before lesson - he was in the training room. Josephine was gone. As was Lavellan. As was--

He didn't know if he would be able to make anything of more of this chance, but they'd brought him back, and they'd made clear the stakes at risk.

He would be ready, if it came. The Maker as his witness.

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To say that Linden's been having a difficult time adjusting to sobriety is putting it gently. The District 6 Mentor has used for over a decade to cope with life's ups and downs, and this latest attempt to get clean is the most prolonged and difficult. He's been scrabbling for ways to handle his cravings, and they've brought him to the training center to do something he's historically shied away from: actually training.

Unfortunately, he's so out of shape and out of practice and form that he's tired himself out quickly. The punching bag barely moved when he hit it, and now he's off to the side cradling a sore, raw-knuckled hand. The physical pain distracts somewhat from the other things he's going through, but he should probably get some ice on it. He stands and almost immediately drifts into a Tribute he recognizes from watching the Games, but hasn't interacted with yet.

"Maximilian?" he guesses, trying to put his finger on the name. "It's something like that, isn't it? The new Tributes are shuffled around so fast it's difficult to keep track at times."

He was exiting the archery tunnel, the last of the light and magic men fading into the floor as the door whispered shut behind him. How long he'd been in there, he couldn't even say, but the hair at his temples was wet and there was a muscle twitching rhythmically in his shoulder blade. (Both satisfying and painful at once.)

Thankfully or not, depending on one's point of view, as weary as the training had left his body, his mind was still alert and as the stranger moved toward him, closer, closer, too close-- he reached out to catch him.

"...Maxwell," he said, holding out his hand a beat longer, making sure the man was steady on his feet, then letting drop. "You'll have to forgive me, I'm afraid couldn't even begin to guess at your name...?"

It was a both an honest statement, and a question as Maxwell hadn't any idea who the man was.

Linden has spent years replacing actual nutrition with Morphling and alcohol; the result is a wasted, bony body that seems somehow underdeveloped and stunted. Though he's in his late twenties, his shoulders are narrow and his back curved. It's like he can't decide whether he's leaning toward being a rangy teenager or an old man, but either way, he is not robust and doesn't begin to look his actual age.

He appreciates that steadying hand, even if it's a vaguely unwelcome reminder of the fact that he looks frail.

"Maxwell? I knew it was something like that," he says, seeming pleased that he at least came close. "I'm Linden Lockhearst, District 6's Mentor. I won the 63rd annual Hunger Games."

Making him a celebrity in the Capitol, if something of a washed-up one.

She'd learned a few things, during her time in the Capitol. A lot of it was still a wonder to him, and some of it she just couldn't stomach, but she was learning enough to know where to seek out her companions.

Making the rounds, memorizing the floors and where each of her friends would wake up when they fell had been something that had kept her mind off of the Games, at least for a little while. Now that they were starting to fall, her new distraction was finding them. She wasn't sure how the resurrection worked, exactly. She knew how much time had passed between when she'd died and woken up whole again only because someone had explained it to her, and the dramatic replays of her death were played whenever Cullen was shown to be at less than his best. Her other friends were starting to be added to that queue, their sad little group.

So she sought out Maxwell first. She'd spoken to Dorian's abrasive escort, the man didn't seem to think the other mage wasn't returning, and she knew how she felt about this situation. She knew Maxwell probably felt the same. She'd mostly been a bother, but when Maxwell was finally the one to answer her knocking the door, she gave him a smile, one that clearly masked the pain of the situation.

"I was sort of counting on you to keep an eye on them, you know."

There was, just for a moment, a flash on Maxwell's face as the door opened. Something bright in his eyes that sputtered and died like a glutted candle, flame drowning in its own wax. A hope, there and gone; pushed aside as quickly as he could manage.

His smile no less dishonest than hers.

"I'm going to tell Cullen you said he needed a nanny," he replied, trying for humor, as he took a step back to welcome her in.

Edited 2015-03-10 10:20 (UTC)

A celebrity perhaps to the Capitol and its citizens, but less so to Maxwell. He hadn't been raised in this place, didn't hold any of the awe for it as so many of them did.

His response, was more academic. His gaze traveling over Linden in curious measurement.

The (young?) man wasn't what he would pictured first as a victor, but he knew well enough that appearances could be deceiving.

"From the time before us," he said after a moment. "When they were using their own people, rather than reaching across - universes." For lack of a better term. "I suppose it must be a relief for you, and the others like you. All these changes."

Swann never rushes anyone out of their room before they're ready, especially not with so many Tributes who are being revived for the very first time, who aren't used to it. She allows them to wake up and take their time -- the only indication she'd been around at all are their large "Welcome Back" gift baskets on the bureaus, customized to each particular person's tastes.

So when Maxwell emerges, Swann is only steps behind, all smiles and bouncing, wrapping her arms around him from behind when she sees him, excited.

"I'm so proud of you!" she tells him, nearly as excited as if he had won. "You did so well, thank you!"

He tensed, heart jerking to a stop beneath her sudden touch. His hands went white-knuckled on the arms of the chair, his breath catching in his throat in a lump. His heart jerked to a painful stop, and struggled to return, laboring uncomfortably fast in his chest as he shifted to look over his shoulder.

"...I thought so," he muttered. The humor was strained, but he was trying not to wallow. "Right there until I made of mess of things by dying."

She ignores his flinch, because as painful for her as it is to admit, they have to learn, have to accept that this is how it is now. He'll die and be resurrected and everything will okay outside of the Arena.

With a hand on his arm, she moves to the front of the chair, crouching down though she doesn't really need to. "No, Maxwell, you still did wonderfully. There are over a hundred Tributes, and only one can win. To have made it so far, your first time? I couldn't be more proud, I promise."

Most of the Tributes are certainly in Maxwell's boat, and Linden has learned not to expect too much recognition (and yes, awe) from them. They haven't grown up seeing his face on television, fighting for his life and then again year after year during the Games and on Victory Tours.

Thirteen years is a long time. Enough time for someone who had been strong and capable enough to win the most important contest there was in Panem to turn into a pale shadow of his former self. It's a transformation that is depressingly common, and as Maxwell meets more Mentors, riddled with addiction and PTSD, he'll likely learn this firsthand for himself.

"A relief?" he echoes, as if the word is an unfamiliar one that tastes strange on his tongue. He shakes his head, staring blankly at the man. "On the contrary, I don't like change. I like rules, and promises, and the knowledge that I don't have to worry about certain things. No one likes it when kids from their District have to go and... mostly die, but if they're playing fast and loose with the rules now, there's no reason they can't take it even further."

"Well..." He suspected that she truly meant it, and that she was honestly trying to make it easier for him to accept, but he wasn't sure where to even begin with it. "There's that then."

He did try to smile for her, the corners of his mouth twitching halfheartedly.

"I do want to thank you, for the things you sent me. They did help."

Maxwell's brow furrowed, equal parts surprised and concerned.

"How much further could they go?" he asked.

It was already terrible enough, either the old way or the new; he couldn't even begin to fathom how much worse it could get.

"Surely there must be some limits to what they're willing to do."

Emily opens the door, a smile that's both friendly but guarded as she recognises Maxwell as a fallen Tribute from Eight. She knew that Jason would be angry with the thought of their Tributes fraternizing with those belonging to the other Districts, but she's of the mind that what Jason doesn't know can't hurt him.

"Can I help you?"

For a moment, his hand hovered in the air, still curled to knock, after the door opened. Surprise, and a fast following, dismay, holding him still. He didn't recognize her, and didn't know of any reason why anyone else would be in Dorian's room. Unless,... they'd finally decided not to bring him back.

His face fell with his hand and he gave his head a small shake.

"No," he said lowly. "No, I don't think so. I'm sorry to have disturbed you, I was looking for someone."

"You're welcome, but they were from your Sponsors. Do you understand now? Why we have to do the interviews and the photoshoots and everything?"

Her hands rest on his knees, and she looks up at him with her head cocked.

"They really like you, Maxwell. All you have to do is keep being you."

She pauses and smiles, then sits on the floor, her skirts poofing around her when she hits the ground. She produces a touchpad and opens up an application.

"I didn't forget, either, you know. That I said I'd let you Sponsor people. Tell me what you want to send, and I'll tell you if you can afford it."

It wasn't that he hadn't really understand why she wanted him to do those things, more than he didn't want to. Didn't want to pander, didn't want to pretend he condoned their actions.

...But he didn't have it in him to fight with Swann over it. Not when she was offering to help.

He went quiet for a moment, thinking carefully, fingers curling idly.

"They've lost my bow," he said finally, looking back at Swann. A cautious hope in his eyes. "And while Tabris is capable, extra food would make it easier for them."

"Dorian?" She glances at the empty bed, made up for weeks now while he'd been freezing in the wasteland of the Arena, then back to Maxwell. "We're still waiting, I'm afraid. And hoping."

She comes out of his room, closing the door behind her. "I only went in to check for bugs, not that I know what I'm looking for. I spoke with Mr Falxvale the other day, who mediates with the media about things going on here in the training centre, and it made me a little paranoid." She holds out a hand for Maxwell to shake. "I'm Emily, Dorian's Mentor."

She beams at him, then looks down at her tablet to punch through a few different screens, something she does multiple times a day for all of the Tributes still in the Arena.

"Okay, so it looks like you have enough assi for... up to four days' worth of food. Well, that would technically be for one person, they can always split it, of course. So what I have to do is send the funds to one of their Escorts, so that the gift will actually be sent out, but that's no problem. Just tell me who it should go to, and what you want the note to say."

Swann looks back up at him, waiting, ready to type everything up and move the funds around.

The relief was sudden and clear on his face, like a breeze across a still pond, casting ripples. The tension eased around his mouth and eyes, a breath rushing free.

"Thank the Maker," he sighed, stepping back to give her room as she moved forward and closed the door. "I thought--"

He shook his head, chasing it away, and smiled. Small, but handsome, and earnest.

"Maxwell." He reached out to take her hand, giving a warm, firm, shake as he introduced himself. "I-- was a friend of Dorian's, from before."

It was getting easier to say. A little less hesitation, the pang a little less sharp.

Taking his hand back, he blinked at her.

"Bugs?" He pictured beetles, skittering around Dorian's room, buzzing about and bumping into things in the dark. It was an image decidedly out of place with how - controlled - the Tower was. "I didn't know that was a problem here."

He wondered for a moment over 'assi,' trying to guess what it would look like compared to the coin he knew, then pushed it away. There would time enough to find that out later.

"Can I split it between two?" he asked. "The young Bayard, from twelve, I believe. I was looking for him when--" He'd died. "Some to him, if I can, with a note telling him not to be afraid and to find Cullen again. The rest to Cullen. He's in two. Tell him..."

He paused, eyes going distant for a moment.

"Tell him, 'we're holding the line.'"

"All right."

She sits in silence and types quickly with her fingers, through several different screens, then hits a button and looks back up at Maxwell with a smile. "Done. Their Escorts and Mentors will decide when to deploy the gifts, so they may not get it immediately -- if Cullen has some food right now, for example, Cal and Leo might not decide to send out the supply until he needs it more. But don't worry, they'll get everything you pay for."

There's a pause, and her face softens a little. "How are you?"

He watched her, feeling something like awe in the way her fingers flew, confident and easy, over the slick face of the device. He held his breath, half-expecting that something would prevent her.

When she finished, he finally exhaled, nodding and smiling slightly.

"Good."

He would have liked to do more - would have liked to be able to stop the arena and release them - but it was something at least.

"I'm better, now. Thank you." Shifting slightly, he straightened in the chair, looking a bit more like himself and less like warmed over death. "Do you know anything about those who-- died before me? Are they alright?"

Linden shakes his head. "That's a dangerous question to ask..." he murmurs softly. "Because the answer is always further than you'd be happy to see it go, and it's always difficult..."

He glances behind him quickly; if the wrong people are within earshot he doesn't want to say more.

"There was a Tribute from my District named Titus. Some years back it looked like he was going to win his Games, but he was eating parts of the dead Tributes. He went crazy in the Arena and he was killed in an avalanche, because there are some things that even the Capitol is sickened by. In short, an insane, cannibal Victor was unacceptable then... but then they let Kevin win, and he was both. I never expected that to happen."

"So more rules changed than merely those about participation," Maxwell said slowly, thoughtful. He looked sidelong at Linden, mind turning - wondering how much he could ask with the man looking so nervous already.

"What was the reasoning behind all this?" he asked carefully. "Did they say?"

To be fair, Linden essentially always looks nervous. Victors tend not to be the most well-adjusted or calm, and they almost always suffer from some measure of PTSD or addiction to substances. Linden in particular has to cope with both... and he knows better than anyone just what the Capitol is capable of doing to dissenters and traitors.

"Reasoning?" He snorts. "What passes for 'reasoning' is very frequently just rhetoric that sounds very fancy but lacks any underlying substance. It won't pass muster for anyone truly hearing what's being said, but... the fact is, it's enough for most Capitol citizens."

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The taste of dried-up hopes in my mouth

Training Room

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D8 Rooms

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D8

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District 7

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