I Know Explosions Make Debris, and Catching it Kind of Suits You [Open]

[dead_black_eyes]

Who| Linden and Stephen, Linden and OPEN
What| Linden and Stephen do another blindspot conversation about rebellion stuff. Also a catch-all for Linden
Where| Lots of places
When| Before (for Stephen) and after (for everyone else) the Binding!
Warnings/Notes| Bidding mentions/implications, profanity, descriptions of injuries and sad stuff.



[a]. [for Stephen]

Linden is a lot less recognizable than he usually is today. Despite the nice weather, he's bundled up in several sweaters, and doesn't appear to be perspiring. He's got a few books under his arm as he strolls down a busy Capitol street, getting a few glances and murmurs of "is that...?" from curious appreciators of reality television. He's not wearing anything around his neck and his scar gives him away to attentive fans of the Games, and who in this part of Panem isn't?

He's not planning to hang out on Main Street, though. Linden Lockhearst is going into the seedier parts of the Capitol, striding through streets he is seldom if ever seen and ignoring casual midday offers for scantily-clad companionship. Eventually, he makes his way to a dark, isolated and unbugged alley, turning past the rougher edges of an older building than is typical in the Capitol. It's clean enough, unremarkable and nondescript, and when he sees his District's Escort, he approaches. Since Cyrus began cleaning up Stephen's image, he's been wearing clothes that are more subdued than any he's likely ever worn in his entire life. Traces of glitter remain, but ultimately the aesthetic is reminiscent of Cyrus's, sharp, clean-cut and professional.

"It took me long enough to find this place," he says; even with the confidence that they won't be overheard, he keeps his voice low and the movement of his lips minimal.

[b]. [tribute center rooftop]

Linden is off Morphling, clean for weeks and counting. The world is sharper, brighter, and a lot more hateful than the one he remembers cultivating for himself after his Games; that being said, he's found other ways to stimulate and soothe himself when either of those effects are needed. One such method is hanging off the guard rails by the back of his knees, dangling his body over the edge of the tower and gazing down through the forcefield at the street many stories below as blood rushes and sings in his ears.

The Sun's setting soon. From Linden's current vantage point, it'll look like it's levitating and being absorbed into a strange, solid, silver skyline composed of jagged skyscraper teeth. He tries to focus on this instead of the depressing revelation that Panem and especially the Capitol are falling apart, and even if he has to do some pretty shitty things to contribute to a cause that has actually succeeded in lighting a fire under him, he's on thin ice. It would take so little to slip and fall, and the precision of a tightrope walker to succeed; it makes hanging off the edge of a building seem dull and unadventurous by comparison.

The building has a safety net, after all; the rebellion doesn't, and anyone willingly involving himself with it carries the welfare of everyone he cares about on that wire with him.

[c]. [upscale Capitol bar]

The Binding had shaken up a lot, and for good reason, many staff members or people who are otherwise closely affiliated with the Games have been extra careful not to arouse suspicion. In this classy, upscale establishment, Linden actually looks like he (or more likely, 6's stylists) have put some real effort into his appearance tonight. He looks like a caricature of himself, dressed in close-fitting black vinyl with silver accents. It covers every inch of him below the neck, but is skintight on his extremely thin frame. His hair looks artfully tousled rather than slept-in, and his dark makeup accentuates the hollowness in his eyes and cheeks rather than attempting to soften, conceal or apologize for it.

For as little as he really looks like himself, absolutely no one could mistake the strikingly larger-than-life Victor as he currently appears. Even his scar is exaggerated and accented with makeup, and it's not long before a tall Capitolite of indeterminate gender is slipping into the seat next to Linden, ordering a drink and wrapping the man's thin fingers around the frosted glass. They strike up a conversation, appearing to already know each other. From a distance, it appears that the Capitolite is getting close and cozy, and though Linden doesn't reciprocate, he isn't making an effort to distance himself from the situation, either. He sips at his drink as his companion's hand strays to the sharp blade of Linden's hip.


[d]. [d6 suites]

Linden comes in late assisted by two Avoxes, seeming to time it so he isn't seen by anyone. A long bath and approximately 12 hours of sleep later, he reluctantly emerges from his room, appearing... strange. He's had some help from stylists, clearly, but the swelling around his eye is still noticeable. Foundation light enough to match Linden's parchment-pale skin is hard to come by, so the result is a mismatched nightmare that clashes with the cool tones in his complexion and does very little to cover the mottled bruising. The same goes for his neck; what his higher-than-normal collar doesn't cover tells a disquieting story of someone breaking his rule about even touching his neck rather severely.

If he notices someone staring, either at the bruising or the ginger, painful way he moves, he'll offer a tight smile. The tone will vary depending on whether or not they're friendly, but the message is always more or less the same.

"You should see the other guy."

Comments

b

[pythianjudgment]

Linden isn't the only one walking that careful tightrope. It's been a difficult few days for Terezi since the mission was completed, leaving her feeling wrung out and unstable. Part of her wants to scream. Part of her wants to burn everything to the ground. Part of her wants to not make things worse...

She doesn't feel safe around people right now with everything still so raw and painful. She might snap or do something to give herself away. She has to keep it together--just until she can figure out how to grab Kurloz and run.

She clutches a bright red blanket around her shoulders as she makes her way to the roof. Out of everywhere in the Capitol, it's the place where she usually finds the most solitude. She doesn't want to feel suffocated by the people of the city. She doesn't trust herself around half the Capitolites. If she has to hear even one word about Kurloz, she might gut someone in the middle of the street, and that isn't going to help anyone.

Not that she feels like she can help anyone right now.

She's barely paying attention when she comes to the roof, to absorbed in her own thoughts and misery. At first she thinks it might be empty anyway, and she's almost relieved--until she realizes that isn't quite right. There's a pair of feet hanging from the railing, and she has to assume they're attached to a person.

Terezi stops a few steps from the railing and frown distantly at the person. She has half a mind not to bother, but she knows it'll provide a distraction--if she can just force the words out.

It takes a few minutes, but she finally speaks up in voice lacking her usual emotion. "What are you doing?"

[dead_black_eyes]

The change in mood over the Capitol isn't something that one can just miss; quite a lot of people are experiencing a heightened awareness of generally unpleasant or odd things, as if they're primed to react to anything potentially harmful and waiting for a hammer to drop.

That can't be it. There must be more.

Linden's hands are hanging toward the ground, and he stares at his dangling fingertips. The forcefield is too far away to touch, but if he did then he'd feel its slight give, and if he fell into it, it would catapult him right back to the rooftop. He's considering letting go just for the hell of it, to feel the instinctive, icy drop in his gut as he tempts and challenges sacred laws of nature by dropping into space, if only for a moment and under an illusion... but then he hears a flat voice asking what he's doing. He sighs heavily before pulling himself upright with surprising core strength for someone so spindly. He's red-faced at present from all the blood having rushed to his head, and he seems surprised to see Terezi.

"Killing time and thinking," he replies, affecting the same flat tone and tilting his head questioningly. "I suppose you're here for the same?"

[pythianjudgment]

"Yeah. I guess." Not quite the same, but the shorter answer is the easier one to voice. The differences don't really matter, and she doesn't think that she can explain.

Instead, she hunches her shoulders a bit and pulls the blanket tighter around her. She stands there awkwardly, unsure what to say. There's a deep pain in her chest, and she sorely wants to relieve it, but if there's a remedy for a broken heart, she doesn't know what it is.

"I didn't know anyone was up here. I just... can't stand being down there."

[that prompt up there the one for me]

[capitolprivilege]

Stephen's perched atop a waist-height brick wall, holding a cigarette with smoke that blows rainbow-colors as it disappears into the sky.

"I'm sorry," he says as he jumps down, with a smile that reflects the apology. "I keep taking you to places that are more convenient for me than for you. You can pick the rendezvous point next time, if you want." He puts out the cigarette and tosses it in a nearby trash can.

His excuse is a 'breakup' with Candi -- you know, the stripper who was arm at the Crowning -- it was clearly a difficult conversation for him, and he's out here having a long think and unwinding a bit before going back to the Tribute Center. But Stephen figures Linden doesn't need to hear about that. It doesn't matter; they're here to talk about more important things.

"Let's get right to business. I don't know if you know about it, but a secret post went up on the Network yesterday, the first one in months. Did you see it?" Stephen wants to know this, first -- he doesn't want to explain something Linden already knows.

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden crosses his arms over his chest as he draws closer, eyes following the wisps of multi-colored smoke as they rise and dissipate.

"It's no trouble," Linden's quick to counter. "It gets me out of the Tower, and any excuse to get some air and Sun is something that my physician will thank you for." Even if there's very little Sun in this alley, his point stands and sounds reasonable.

Stephen cuts straight to the point, in a way that makes Linden's brows raise in surprise. He recovers quickly and smoothly, nodding briskly. "I saw," he murmurs, paranoid despite knowing that this spot is not being monitored. "I want to be involved, but I also remember the last time we talked and how important it is for me to remain a Mentor at this time. If I get in trouble again, I'll get fired, and that's the best-case scenario. But that's not stopping you, is it?"

[capitolprivilege]

"Being involved isn't all sabotage and high-risk infiltration," Stephen replies, sticking his hands in his pockets and leaning back against the wall he'd been sitting on. There's a smile on his face and a light in his eyes; after nearly a year of District and Tribute and 13 sympathies coupled with six months of good behavior and keeping his head down and publicity mind-games, he's finding himself happy to be actively helping, involved again -- especially since he's planning to be helpful in a way that he's certain won't get him caught.

"I'm planning a party on the night of the break-in, and I'd like to have you there." The way he says it makes it clear that this isn't as simple as Please come to my party as a guest.

d - Mentions of bidding in this thread

[impaledqueen]

Peggy knows the signs of when Linden's out with a bidder. She knows because she's experienced it plenty of times, the most recent of which was just the other night. It's made easier on her when she knows that they'll let their secrets slip to her in some vain attempt to make themselves feel like there's genuine care and intimacy in their encounter, and she will smile and nod and pass those secrets to District Thirteen.

It's still hard to come back from, though. No matter how many secrets she sucks out of the process, it's still something that's fundamentally out of her control, and she hates not being in control. So she's sensitive to the fact that Linden left the tribute center dressed far more nicely than usual with that unsettling makeup and that he didn't come back until after everyone else had gone to sleep.

She doesn't know if he'd want to talk about it. If he does, he'll bring it up himself. Linden is very blunt about uncomfortable topics if he chooses to be. So she swings by District Six after she feels he'd probably be awake (so some time in the afternoon). She doesn't stare at the bruises, but she knows what they mean, and there's a flicker of anger in her gut. "I'm sure you gave him the what for. I was wondering if you felt like sharing tea or coffee with me today?" She wants to distract him. Give him something to hold onto that isn't alcohol or drugs.

[dead_black_eyes]

It's been awhile since Linden's taken a bidder, but he does have his die-hard fans, and due to the nature of his Arena and his lifestyle since, those who have taken an unnaturally strong fancy to his Games tend to have dark and numerous secrets. After talking with Stephen about it and revealing to both of them that he's gathered a ton of information on Capitol politics for years without even trying, he's decided to contact some of these old fans and see if they still care for the promise of his company.

It turns out they do, more than he ever could have anticipated or wanted.

He'd left some bread crumbs on the guy's computer while he'd slept and gone through his communicator without leaving a trace, but it had been a sorely bought privilege, and this afternoon Linden's wearing the marks of broken rules and compromised safe places and commitments. Don't touch my neck had become a selling point for this particular Capitolite, and the hook for the encounter had been the chance to break yet another delicious taboo.

He's a little hoarse when he speaks, but his smile is bright and genuine. "I'd like nothing more, Peggy. Thank you for the invitation. I can have an Avox make start steeping some now, if you'd like?"

If it looked like he'd had his hand on the handle to the liquor cabinet, he at least did not follow through.

[impaledqueen]

He seems a little more... intact than she had expected, but everyone reacts differently. Even so, Linden had hates being bid on, and the bruises around his neck indicate the worst kind of client. "That sounds lovely, thank you."

She quietly sits down on the couch, mostly keeping the confusion from her face. Maybe he's in shock? He hasn't been part of the bidding system for a long time. She really shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, if he's not drinking. "How has your day been so far?" It's a veiled question. He can treat it at face value or talk to her about what happened, either way. She's giving him the choice.

c

[reassures]

It seems like everything as of late has gone right to hell. If Karkat was okay then no one was making a point of telling Nill what was happening to him - not that she would expect them to - and she is far more than just certain that both Steve, her District mate, and Kurloz are dead, the kind that the Capitol will not bring them back from. She almost hopes they're dead, because between all the things the Capitol could do to them it was probably the kindest.

(Please, please don't still be alive.)

It's the kind of thinking that would easily destroy Nill if she let it, which is why she's been trying to do other things, keep heerself busy, make things easier for other tributes. So when her escort - who Nill has only heard speak very rarely - suggested that being in the public more often would be a good idea she wasn't really in any position to turn it down, and certainly not the state of mind. No one had bid on her yet but that was purely luck, and if she was going to keep herself mostly whole she had to learn how to be casual in a place like this, how to not want to crawl out of her skin and leave it behind for the people that actually want to touch it, because she sure as hell doesn't.

She's not with bidders when Linden arrives, but there is a small group paying attention to her off to the side, relatively quiet compared to some of the other people. Nill's fans, at least the ones that she's with this evening, are a bit more subdued than some others. While she doubts it will last she's nonetheless grateful. They ask about her clothes, about her favorite brand of cigarettes, if she liked the e-cig Oceana had given her for the evening (because she has been smoking constantly), how hard it must be to care for her wings, if she would ever want to dye her feathers, they could just be so lovely if maybe they were a little more purple--

If Linden didn't actually see Nill when he came in it's because she's trying not to be seen. There's only so much she can handle for an evening, and him spotting her here isn't something she wants to worry about dealing with for now. She continues to think as much when she glances towards the bar every few moments. Oblivious, her fans offer her drinks, but she denies most, writes that she would rather recall speaking with them than not, and they practically swoon.

She doesn't budge until when she glances up she sees that the Capitolite actually has their hands on Linden, and after that it doesn't take long before she's waved some of them off and on her feet. Nill approaches immediately and practically yanks the Capitolite's hand off Linden, but she doesn't look at him, instead holding up her notepad for the Capitolite to read almost the second she's touched them.

would you buy me a drink?

The smile on her face is quiet and polite, but if in the last Arena Linden saw fire in her veins after Karkat was killed then now the only thing in her eyes is pure ice, the coldest he has probably ever seen her.

And if she's managed to get between them a bit then that's all the better if it means this disgusting excuse for a person is not touching someone she cares about as much as she does Linden.

Today her hair is lightly curled and left down instead of the usual braid or ribbons. Oceana was kind to her and though she's wearing the equivelant of a little black dress with some red trim, between her hair and her clothes it's hard to see any of her scars without looking for them purposely. Her makeup is meant to imitate something more natural, but to Linden it will still be obvious where the foundation is around her eyes to mask the fact that she has been sleeping even less than she did before the Binding, and her e-cig with at least two packs worth of vapor in it is matte black to match her dress. Appealing, but not eye-catching. It's practically advertisement.

[dead_black_eyes]

The two are close, involved in a conversation that Linden seems tolerant of, if not wholly comfortable with. He's tense under the Capitolite's touch, but nods attentively as the other person speaks, as if it's the natural and expected course for the discussion to take.

Nill's appearance is sudden and startling, and Linden freezes, wide-eyed, as the Capitolite's hand is forcibly removed from his person and Nill is demanding the gaudy individual's attention as well as a drink on his dime. She's positioned between them, almost protectively, and though the pit of his stomach is cold and sick, he tries to school his expression into mild surprise rather than utter horror.

No, not here...

The Capitolite laughs heartily, a deep voice revealing the high likelihood that he is male under all that heavy makeup and festive, colorful hair style. His lashes are bright red, his makeup is dark and intentionally smudged, and a direct look at him will reveal that despite being middle-aged and having a bit of a gut on him, he's had some plastic surgery in the facial region to make him more resemble Scorpii Cronen.

"Why, hello young lady," he grins, batting his long, crimson lashes coquettishly. Even if some of his features resemble an older, fatter Scorpii, nothing about his mannerisms speak of the dead Tribute. "Do you make a habit of interrupting other people's dates to demand alcohol? Or are you jealous? Don't worry, there's plenty to go around."

"She's an offworlder," Linden supplies hastily. "She doesn't understand."

"I know who she is, Lockhearst. Everyone who reads the tabloids knows, you dog," he adds, tone teasing as he flashes Nill a knowing smile. "Are you as vanilla as you seem, Nill? You can't be if you've ever shared a bed with Linden. Are you hiding handcuffs and a restraint system under that darling little black number you're wearing?"

"Claudius..."

"Ah, yes. Thank you. I should introduce myself! Nill, I'm Claudius Westchurch. I've been a lover of Linden's ever since he won his Arena; I was always more of a Scorpii fan, myself, but this is the next best thing, isn't it? A way to live a part of one of Panem's greatest tales of love and betrayal!"

"That's right," Linden confirms. "I'm here because I want to be, with my friend Claudius, it's all right, Nill..."

Claudius snorts. "Are you dismissing your lady friend, Linden? Nonsense, the more the merrier! I'll buy you all the drinks you'd like if you join us, angel-wings."

B

[a_minute_younger]

It's not often that Gary actively searches for quiet places, but it's also not every day that something like Sigma's message happens. There's an awful lot to sort through and Gary has no idea where to start. That would involve thinking. Gary isn't much of a thinker. Maybe that's why the Initiate had such an easy time ordering him around. Maybe he should try thinking a little bit more.

The rooftop has been a good place for thinking in times past, and a good place to speak about things that Gary is fairly certain will have him executed. Even if it wasn't his fault, he was still involved, he still stole shit and he's not that much of an idiot to hope he can avoid punishment for that. He doesn't want to have his head turned inside-out on the stairs outside. But they can't hear him on the rooftop, he's been told, so perhaps he can find someone to talk to about this here.

Luck seems to be in Gary's favor, as he steps out from the elevator and sees the shins of someone dangling over the railing. A novel idea. Not a bad one, especially since there's no reason to be worried about falling (Gary has tested this theory before). Curiously he creeps over and, after realizing that whoever this is isn't actually doing anything, Gary silently sits on the rail a small ways down and flops backwards over the edge, dangling with his hands on the back of his head. Within seconds his brain is pounding in a numb, kind of calming sort of way. Gary relaxes.

A minute later, he gets bored and glances out of the corner of his eye to see if this other dude is doing anything interesting.

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden can feel vibrations moving through the rail as another person mounts it, perching and leaning backward in a similar manner to what he's doing himself. He turns his face, filled with blood and gravity, toward the youth who's joined him in this quiet spot conducive to thought and getting away with mildly strange behavior.

"...you're not in my District and I'm having some trouble placing you at this angle. Who are you, again?" he asks, realizing that they've never spoken.

B

[bravelyplucked]

Torin likes taking a warm cup of relaxing herbal tea out to the rooftop some nights. It's quiet, and if he's had a good day, he can pretend he doesn't hate the city he's got a breathtaking view of. Of course, most of the time, when he runs into someone else out there, they're not dangling off of guardrails. "I'd tell you it's safer to try that in the training facilities, but then I'd imagine it wouldn't be quite as worth it." Not that he's about to do anything of this sort.

[dead_black_eyes]

If Linden had thought ahead, he might have opted to bring some tea for himself, but like he told Peggy, he really only drinks it socially, and he was by no means guaranteed eventual company when he decided to come up here and mull over the plans and decisions of the last couple of days.

"Not nearly as worth it," he replies, sighing before pulling himself up, red-faced from all the blood pooling in his head. "The skyline looks better upside down, even if it still doesn't make much sense to me."

D

[voiceinthephone]

If there was one true manifestation of Phillip's insomnia and his past drinking habits, is the fact that he is frequently asleep during the day and awake at night. He tried getting more done, like reading or watching TV, anything to get him knocked out but he was restless without at least a glass or two. For now, he'd nodded off on the nearest table, head down and nestled between his arms as a letter and corresponding envelope underneath.

When Gray heard the faint sound of someone coming in, he sat up straight, "Sorry, I just had mail and-" he rattled off to allow his eyes to focus. He didn't expect to see his Mentor as he was: bruised to hell and back.

"I don't care about the other guy, sir," the Phone Guy was blunt about that much, "What happened to you?" Maybe mugged? Assaulted? Should he call in Officer Falxvale?

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden's having some difficulty staying upright. He's dizzy and isn't seeing so straight from getting socked so hard in the eye; already, the beginnings of nasty bruises are blossoming vibrantly on the pale skin of his face and neck alike, fist and finger-shaped respectively. He winces when he notices Phillip, seeming to debate leaving the way he came, but without the support and guidance of the Avoxes that flanked him back here, he's not sure where he'd even go.

A big part of the bidding process is, in Linden's experience, discretion. Even if some brutality is par for the course and well-known among some with specific and eccentric tastes, the illusion of civilization is still something that those who partake want to maintain. There are a lot of "clumsy" Victors for that reason... but the second he opens his mouth with the intention to lie about a bar fight or a nasty fall, he's closing it again. Even if he can't flat-out say what happened, he can come pretty close, and that feels much better than lying to the Tribute in his District he relates to the most strongly.

"Do you remember our conversation on the night of the Crowning?" he asks hoarsely, feeling his way along the couch cushions until he locates a bottle and a small box.

aaand D for later

[capitolprivilege]

Stephen's face is just as tight, but he's not smiling. It's not easy to tell at first glance -- Stephen Reagan's concealer game is strong -- but if you averaged out how much Linden slept and how much Stephen slept, you'd get two normal nights.

"Linden, I have something to say to you. That thing is no. No, no, nope. Absolutely not. If this is the way it's going to go, this stops right here. This--" Stephen just gestures to all of him, "is never happening again."

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden's off Morphling, and he's kept it that way since the staff retreat, but when he'd gotten back to the District the previous night, he'd made sure to get his hands on two strong sleeping pills, knowing that he'd need some help. Once he was under, he'd stayed that way for nearly 12 hours, but he hasn't woken feeling or looking refreshed in the slightest.

He glances at Stephen, and then quickly away, trying to play off his injuries as casually as possible. He can feel his heart throbbing in the swollen area around his eye, and feel creaks and aches in his neck and throat, but his hands are sure and steady as he goes for a glass of water.

"You weren't born yesterday. You can't have thought we were going to just play cards or something," he says with a deliberately flippant shrug. "I appreciate your concern, but... believe me when I say that everyone came away with what they wanted."

It was a total success. What's a sore neck and a few bruises?

He takes a sip of water, moving to set it down and very nearly missing the counter. He was hit hard enough that his depth perception feels a little off; hopefully, that'll resolve itself soon enough.

d! lemme know if you want anything changed

[reassures]

Though certainly not as long of a day as Linden unfortunately needed to have, Nill's own hadn't exactly been sunshine and rainbows. As it turns out Candi's interference nearly twenty hours ago was almost entirely because she recognized the bidder Linden was with - a fact that she let Nill know as she was dragging her back to the group she was with for the evening. Though the words "you do not want to spend the evening with that man" had probably been said out of kindness, one of the few kinds that Capitolites actually seem to know, they had done next to nothing good for Nill. She had tried to get away, to go back and do something, but the only time Nill managed to look was long enough to see Linden making sure Claudius didn't try to bring her over again, and that was the last she was able to spot him.

So, perhaps understandably, it had been a rough night after that. She finished up her with the people that wanted her time and went home and finished off the stash she had hidden from one of her earlier Arena deaths, and waited until Stephen called to let her know that Linden was back, and that he "would be" okay. Then it was mostly spending the next twelve hours drinking coffee, or trying (and failing) not to doze off on the couch several times. She never drifted off for more than thirty minutes, but at least she didn't try to blame Stephen for the ordeal or try to punch him, which she very well may have done had she found him right away.

It's during one of these periods of dozing off that Linden finally wanders out of his room, and though he's not making much noise Nill starts awake. Thankfully that couch isn't really in easy view of the rooms, so Linden might not notice it, but Nill waits a moment to listen and gets up immediately when she determines the person walking is in fact not Stephen. Nill doesn't get more than a few feet closer before she spots what's been done to his neck and she freezes in place, worried and slightly wide-eyed, horror in almost every line of her features.

Oh, god, that bastard.

<3

[dead_black_eyes]

Capitolites aren't all bad, and as Linden had left the bar with a firm, possessive arm over his shoulder and accompanied Claudius back to his lavish cave-themed home, he'd thought back to Candi's gesture. It had gotten him through a lot of unpleasantness last night, actually, just knowing that someone had been looking out for Nill in a moment where he was all but powerless to save her. He's getting sick of that feeling in general, the fact that for Capitolites who want to fuck up a Victor as well as fuck them, Linden is practically playing on easy mode.

He'd gone to bed last night after washing every inch of himself that he could access, feeling filthy even after almost scrubbing his skin raw. The sleeping pills had hit him hard, especially having been swallowed with alcohol, and he hadn't even fully dried from his bath before collapsing in bed, but he'd managed to convince himself during those hours that all things considered, it could have been worse, and therefore, it ultimately wasn't that bad.

Shuffling painfully out to the lounge area in the suite, the first thing Linden sees with his blurred and slightly doubled vision is Nill's face, and all those carefully constructed, bolstering denials come crashing down in response to her horrified countenance.

It's that bad.

"It looks worse than it is," he says hastily, knowing it's wishful thinking at best. He's hoarse when he speaks, his neck and throat both aching. He wants to see her smile, have some kind of reassurance to grab onto and hold like a lifeline, but he can tell that it'll probably be quite some time before she can look at him without that horror in her blue eyes.

B

[yoknapatawpha]

The roof remains a strange pleasure to Bayard, one which he almost feels he stole illicitly from the mouth of fear. Whenever he comes to the top of the Tribute Center, he feels a chill that starts in his spine radiate out towards his fingertips, a reorienting of his body to exist around the danger of a steep drop. He usually can't spend long up here - after half an hour he starts to feel a bit queasy thinking about how high up they are - but for that first half hour he leans against the rail and stares out over the city and gives himself over to marvel in the way only a child accustomed to entertaining himself by looking at clouds and making mounds of dirt can.

Today he comes up with a timer, which seems to him a fancy stopwatch that chirps at him, wondering how long it is that he can be out here before the chills of anxiety start to sour up his guts. He isn't expecting to see someone dangling off the rail, and when he does he feels as if a great electric hand as grabbed him by the backs of his legs, as if he's about to watch something terrible happen.

"Mr. Lockhearst!" Bayard says in a harsh whisper, thinking if he whispers it, no matter how loudly, he won't startle Linden into falling. He places a hand on Linden's ankle, as if, if Linden fell, Bayard were strong enough to keep him from plummeting entirely to his doom.

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden didn't used to be immune to marvel and wonder; it just sort of happened, a gradual desensitization stemming from years of repeat Capitol dealings. Even the opulent becomes stifling and tedious in excess, and the Capitol, truly, is all about excess. It comes down to the point where dangling off a ledge until it feels like gravity is trying to slowly pull his bones apart seems like the best option for meditation, and even this is becoming mundane to the Mentor. Provided, of course, that he's left in solitary peace and not disturbed. When that happens, things do get interesting, and not always for the better.

The rush of wind past his ears and the distant flow of traffic prevents him from hearing Bayard's fretful whisper, so the hand suddenly clasping his bony ankle does more than simply startle him. It inspires movement, frantic scrabbling, and one leg losing its place on the guardrail, leaving him dangling by the other and putting a lot of pain and pressure on the back of his knee.

Still, he clings tighter with it. It hurts a lot less than hitting the forcefield will if he falls.

"Hey...!" he calls up, trying to keep his voice steady and calm as he reaches with his other foot until he's managed to re-secure his initial hole. "Who's up there? I'm coming up, but you need to let go."

His core strength is shit anyway, and he won't be able to pull himself back if he's shaking uncontrollably with more adrenaline than his wiry body knows what to do with.

d

[crabmunicator]

Karkat's presence has been here and there since his return from jail. While he doesn't dislike his district, sticking around too long tends to remind him of the old curfew, and further of how stuck he is. Roaming around the tower at least gives some illusion of freedom (if a flimsy one).

And okay, maybe he's been avoiding Linden. Not out of any kind of dread, but more for any lingering bitterness over their argument. He doesn't want to deal with it under the present circumstances.

Presently he's come back to grab a different book out of his room, but the sight of Linden catches him up. Bruises are harder to miss on a mentor, and their placement and the shoddy makeup job only call more attention. He hasn't heard of any scandal... But then again, being stuck inside and purposely avoiding new programs doesn't do much to keep him informed.

Knowing he'll just keep wondering if he doesn't, he asks, "What the hell happened to you?"

[dead_black_eyes]

For Linden's part, he's been civil, if not outright friendly or frosty toward the troll when their paths do cross. It's almost as if he's reviewed the comportment manual for Mentors and is following it too perfectly. It's like he's turned something on autopilot or, perhaps more aptly, turned something off that might get in the way otherwise. Given events too recent for comfort, it's a form of self-defense, but depending on the person, his model detachment can range from eerie to outright infuriating.

This afternoon, he's a little too shaken and uncomfortable to affect it particularly well. His emotionless mask has slipped to reveal glimpses of something hunted and hurt for an eye keen enough to look for it. He scrapes it together, but the cracks are there as he turns his eyes on Karkat as he dumps some liquor into his coffee. It's not Morphling, so he's not going to feel too much guilt over it, especially while patches of flesh still ache and sting. He takes a deep sip before answering.

"Not a good enough makeup job, evidently. I guess I should go back to the stylists and tell them that it drew even your notice."