Linden's heard about getting clean from other addicts, how suddenly the air feels fresher and you have more energy and your body learns how to get by as nature intended. It's supposed to be invigorating; he suspects they were all full of complete shit. He's been abstaining for a few weeks now and he has yet to feel any better. If anything, he's more irritable, sicker and angrier than he's ever been, and his primary method for dealing with such triggers is off-limits to him. It's a recipe for disaster for anyone he happens to run across in this state, even if they're familiar with all of his quirks and neuroses and know exactly how to tiptoe around them.
One such person is Nill, of District 9. She's already saved him from snapping badly very recently, and he owes her a quieter, gentler thanks now that all the excitement has died down. He takes the stairs to give himself a chance to rehearse some of what he wants to say, but when he's approaching 7's floor, he hears a series of sounds that seem consistent with the noise that's been coming from upstairs for the last week, with a slightly more alarming edge. Maybe it's because Linden's closer, and maybe it's because it sounds like a person was involved, but he's striding toward the suite's door and letting himself in, newly sharp gaze taking in the... frankly deplorable scene in front of him. The Avox has taken the blow to the mouth, mashing her lip on her teeth and drawing blood, and she stares up from her place on the couch as she hastily tries to regain the silent composure she's supposed to affect at all times, regardless of circumstances or abuse.
"Hey, what the fuck?" he demands snappishly, turning toward the source of the violence and fully expecting to see an unruly Tribute from another world who took things too far. "You don't hit the..."
...oh.
The corner of Linden's mouth twitches. It's not the beginning of a smile, but more of a tic, acknowledgment with scarcely-contained contempt glittering behind his dark, bruised-looking eyes. Even during his Tribute days, he heard whispers that this guy was the Escort you didn't want. While he did his job well, all things considered, he had a reputation as a nasty piece of work. In the following years as a Mentor, Linden's come to see that proven definitively, and the bad blood was only amplified by the fact that District 10's boy had come in third in the 63rd Games, stabbed by Scorpii while Linden held him. Jason had held a petty grudge over it long after Linden's Victory Tour; rumors indicated something about a vacation supporting his Tribute that late into the Games had prevented him from taking.
"I hadn't heard you were reassigned to 7," Linden says stiffly, crossing his arms over his chest. He does't strike a formidable figure; though he's of average height, years of drug abuse and their substitution for actual nutrition seem to have stunted the growth of his bones and musculature, both of which have changed little since he was a rangy teenager. Derisively, he adds "...you should know better. What with your good breeding, and all."
II
One such person is Nill, of District 9. She's already saved him from snapping badly very recently, and he owes her a quieter, gentler thanks now that all the excitement has died down. He takes the stairs to give himself a chance to rehearse some of what he wants to say, but when he's approaching 7's floor, he hears a series of sounds that seem consistent with the noise that's been coming from upstairs for the last week, with a slightly more alarming edge. Maybe it's because Linden's closer, and maybe it's because it sounds like a person was involved, but he's striding toward the suite's door and letting himself in, newly sharp gaze taking in the... frankly deplorable scene in front of him. The Avox has taken the blow to the mouth, mashing her lip on her teeth and drawing blood, and she stares up from her place on the couch as she hastily tries to regain the silent composure she's supposed to affect at all times, regardless of circumstances or abuse.
"Hey, what the fuck?" he demands snappishly, turning toward the source of the violence and fully expecting to see an unruly Tribute from another world who took things too far. "You don't hit the..."
...oh.
The corner of Linden's mouth twitches. It's not the beginning of a smile, but more of a tic, acknowledgment with scarcely-contained contempt glittering behind his dark, bruised-looking eyes. Even during his Tribute days, he heard whispers that this guy was the Escort you didn't want. While he did his job well, all things considered, he had a reputation as a nasty piece of work. In the following years as a Mentor, Linden's come to see that proven definitively, and the bad blood was only amplified by the fact that District 10's boy had come in third in the 63rd Games, stabbed by Scorpii while Linden held him. Jason had held a petty grudge over it long after Linden's Victory Tour; rumors indicated something about a vacation supporting his Tribute that late into the Games had prevented him from taking.
"I hadn't heard you were reassigned to 7," Linden says stiffly, crossing his arms over his chest. He does't strike a formidable figure; though he's of average height, years of drug abuse and their substitution for actual nutrition seem to have stunted the growth of his bones and musculature, both of which have changed little since he was a rangy teenager. Derisively, he adds "...you should know better. What with your good breeding, and all."