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

Entry tags:

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

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."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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?"

"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."

He snorts lightly at her noncommittal answer, slouching forward on his perch on the guardrail.

"Join the club. The mood's downright toxic right now," he mutters. "Unless something more specific is getting to you, in which case, please accept my sympathy?"

Something more specific. Yeah, this was a little more specific. This was hearing Kurloz's name on the radio and the television. Leader of the rebels. Thread neutralized. Handled. Taken care of. This was reading it in magazines. How safe they were now.

"My matesprit... They avoxed him." The words feel like they could rip the breath out of her. "Every station is talking about it. How he's a traitor, and... They took his voice. They tortured him." Does she have to say more? Linden should know well enough what all that entails. If he was paying attention to the broadcasts, he would have seen the dead look that now haunts the Initiate's eyes. She doesn't know how to explain how much that look terrifies her. It had been so hard getting him back the first time. What hope was there this time?

Linden, for all his oddness, isn't poor at reading people. Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact, and for that reason, his question was more of a courtesy than anything else. He composes himself, eyes settling on a patch of darker cement as Terezi explains.

She doesn't have to say more. Linden knows, has also been hearing it nonstop.

"I'm truly sorry."

Words that are also a courtesy, won't do anything to actually help.

"The process can be reversed," he offers. "In the end, if I had to predict what is going to happen, they'll want him back in the Arena. While that might not be much comfort to you... I don't believe that an irrepressible spirit can be suppressed for long."

Dangerous words, maybe, but Linden says them steadily, hoping it's enough to at least hint at his support.

The sympathy falls on her ears, but Terezi barely hears it. She doesn't know what to do with it. She feels lost, and words of comfort don't give her any direction. He offers her support instead, and for a moment it seems like it might be more readily welcomed. She lifts her head, bright red eyes gazing blindly up at him.

She shakes her head. "They already did. Once." Her tone implies that she doesn't think that they'll do that again. By all rights, they could have executed him. She doesn't think that anyone would have (or could have) stopped them. But likewise, she doesn't think that they'll relent again. "They put him in the arena and he came back better... He's not going to get better here."

To be fair, offering comfort is not one of Linden's greatest skills. It's probably better than someone who gushes uncontrollably about the misfortune and sorrow of others, but still... he tends to sound detached and insubstantial when he tries. It's a side effect of being smacked in the face by death and separation so many times that it ceases to leave a sizable dent emotionally, even if intellectually, he recognizes it as something that's painful.

"You don't know that," he says softly. "Unfortunately, none of us do, so I can't really reassure you one way or another, even if that was remotely appropriate, which it... isn't. But even if you're right, you'll manage. Time makes everything easier to manage, in the end."

"I don't want time. I don't want to manage. I just want him." She doesn't care how childish it sounds. She doesn't want to cope. She doesn't want to manage. What good does it do to numb the pain when she knows it's still there? She already feels numb enough in the places where she doesn't hurt as much.

"...I know what you meant about the colors now. Everything smells so grey and washed out. I need him, and he's not here. He promised, but he's not, and... And I don't know what to do." She's not sure at what point the tears started, but at some point they spilled over, pale teal drops sliding down her cheeks.

Linden sighs, not out of frustration or impatience, but the gentle knowledge that he's in no position to give Terezi a solution for this. He doesn't have the power or the influence or a magic wand to wave to change the law of the land he was unfortunate enough to be born into, and it does eat him alive from the inside every single day.

Her mention of the colors causes him to raise his head, and his eyes don't moisten, but there's something alive and restless reflected in their normally hard and cold lacquer. If something happens to him, through his own bravery or recklessness, will this be Nill?

"Yeah, it's... like that," he agrees quietly, wishing he had something to offer her to dab at her eyes with. "But you know, it's... maybe it's not gone for good. I started seeing color again recently, after thinking I never would again."

There's no satisfaction in Linden agreeing with her. Terezi just feels lost, even knowing that he's felt the same thing that she has. She doesn't imagine how it can get better, not while her Kurloz is a slave.

She would hate the Capitol with a passion if she didn't feel so empty right now.

For what it's worth, she does try to see it his way. She tries to find that bit of hope somewhere. If nothing else, he isn't dead. Her Kurloz isn't gone for good, like he said. If she could just get him away from the Capitol... Not that she knows how, but it's the only thing that she can grasp onto right now.

The tears are still coming, though. Every time she rubs at her eyes to try and stop them, they just burn more. She gives up after a few attempts. There's no one up here to see her like this except for Linden. She can deal with that. And if she's ever so careful about it... Maybe she can walk forward and rest her head against his chest. And maybe if he's feeling nice enough, he'll let her stay there a while. Then he won't have to see her crying, either.

They say that misery loves company, but sometimes it's just as shitty knowing that someone else has been through something awful. Surviving isn't thriving, and there's not necessarily joy in it.

Linden's quiet and respectful through her tears; this is not a sight he's unused to, and in District 6 before the Quell, most nights in the suites were spent like this, with two kids who don't have a fighting chance clinging to each other and crying their eyes out. She startles him by seeking comfort against his bony chest, but not in a dangerous way. Just a strange one, and Linden, knowing that there's nothing inherently comforting about him in the least, reaches a hesitant arm out to encircle her shoulders and hold her closer. Even if he feels just as brittle and bony as he looks, there's something like empathy there, strong enough to come through the angles and edges.

For a moment, it feels good to have an arm around her, even if it is bony and angular. It feels nice not to have to stand up on her own just for a little while. She feels tired--a deeper sort of tired than mere sleeplessness can give her. But she doesn't feel like a burden for once. He's not obligated to help her or babysit her. She's not his district, and he didn't know Kurloz at all as far as she knew. She doesn't have to worry that she's seeking comfort from someone who has their own grieving to do.

"You smell better," she mutters, as if the thought just dawned on her. Maybe it did. Maybe she's been too wrapped up in herself and all the things going on around her to really notice the difference in him.

Linden's not built for love or compassion in any form. It's like he's become the embodiment of the jilted, bitter wraith he was when he left the arena in the years since. Sometimes it runs deeper than appearances, and sometimes not, and sometimes he's too exhausted to keep the spiny front up enough to confuse people.

"Thanks," he says uncertainly, not knowing whether or not it's anything to be proud of. "I've been off Morphling for a few months now. Trying to keep it that way."

I'm still drinking, more than ever before, he thinks but doesn't say. It's not a problem as long as there could be worse ones.

Terezi doesn't know about the alcohol. She might not care if she did. It was progress made--progress that she hadn't even noticed. That feels wrong somehow. Like he's taken two steps forward and she's taken two back. Then again, everything feels wrong right now.

"That's good," she tones almost flatly, save for the bit of support around the edges. She's glad for him, for that much. She has to find something to be glad about. "Hospital probably thinks you're in jail again." Or wherever he was before he came to the Capitol again.

She doesn't bother lifting her head just yet. She doesn't want to move, and she doesn't want him to move either.

He's trying to do it for his own sake, knowing that the second he acknowledges it's for someone else, he's doomed to fail. People come and go especially in the chaotic and temporary world of the Hunger Games, and to hitch a hope to any soul is to beg for disappointment.

He doesn't move, happy to indulge her current need.

"It's easiest when I don't think about how long it's been, and how much I want it even long after the shakes and sweats have gone away. But it's hard to get to that point, so either way I pay for it."

Terezi considers that for a moment, dimly turning in over and over in her mind. What was the term humans had for that? Damned if you do, damned if you don't? Something like that. That was the sort of choice that it felt like. It hurts either way, and it feels a lot like the choices she's been forced to make lately. No matter what she does, it hurts. It would be a lot easier to just not think about it, but the road to get there would be too hard to endure.

"But it's worth more. Doing it this way. That's why you haven't gone back." There's something that means something more than the other path could give him. Or her, in her own case.

There are a lot of words for it, combinations linking hands to form increasingly sadder meanings. Language is like that, and Linden's always appreciated the cruel beauty of it.

"Maybe it's worth more..." he murmurs. "Then again, maybe not. It's entirely possible that everything worthwhile is too destroyed to ever come back the way it was before, or even better than it is now. If that's the case, then I'm depriving myself for nothing... and it does feel every inch like deprivation. When you're addicted to something, it's like going without food, the need is that intense."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject