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

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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."

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Gary's mouth forms a silent 'oh' of understanding. "District 6's Mentor? Yeah, I've heard of you!"

...And the fight he had with that Jason guy, via his apology. Gary's smile flickers, just for the briefest moment, before he decides to quickly change the subject.

"--Fifteen, huh? Guess I have some catching up to do! Hah." He trails off with halfhearted laughter. There should be some kind of joke he can reach for...bah, but he's not feeling it today. Gary breathes a sigh through his nose, stares ahead and goes awkwardly quiet.

Linden's getting used to that. The newer Tributes aren't quite as on top of things, but the ones who have been around awhile and pay attention absolutely recognize Linden Lockhearst's name and reputation. Lately, it's not so fantastic, more "mad dog" than "respected and esteemed Mentor."

"Have you?" he asks, somewhat dryly as he withdraws his hand, the implications not lost on him. It's even clearer when the young man not-so-subtly goes in for a subject change.

"It's not the youngest a Victor's ever been," he says fairly. "Finnick Odair was 14. It's true that the older Tributes usually win, but the younger ones are smaller and can hide more easily. I certainly benefited from the strategy in my Arena."

The subject change is maintained, in spite of Linden's interest. He probably doesn't want to talk about it. Gary wouldn't want to talk about it. Being called out in public like that...how humiliating. Let's not linger on that.

"Yeah, well," Gary shrugs, as well as he can while he's upside-down, "I'm nineteen and I've been in three of these things. You'd think my chances would be a little better."

He doesn't realize how much he's parroting Nick's reservations at the most recent Crowning. It just seems like such an appropriate argument right now--he's starting to feel and appreciate that sensation of being duped. It's not very fun.

"Three? Since you're not a Victor, that means you've died that many times," Linden deduces, his tone blase. "Considering you're up against mostly adults, though... some of whom are seasoned fighters... it's not so shameful, and you shouldn't let it feel that way. All right?"

As if the word of someone so desperately washed-up could possibly reassure the kid.

"The Victors of the Old Games... even though none of us have had to die, the threat of death was different, I think. It was permanent. Being gone forever from the world. I don't know which is worse."

It's in Linden's best interest that he is a Mentor, because that means Gary is willing to take him seriously regardless of his previous activities around the Capitol. Here's a guy who's won. He's famous, more than all the other Tributes combined. He had his own Crowning, his own product lines, lived in the lap of luxury (as far as Gary's aware) ever since without a care in the world or an Arena to worry over. This is someone Gary can look up to.

The point that Linden makes afterwards only drives that feeling home. "The second, definitely," Gary says without hesitation, glancing over with wide eyes. He doesn't even consider that the roof is a safe place to say this--it just kind of spills out before he can even think about it. "It's not fair, to put people in a game and punish them like that for losing. It doesn't even make sense, like--like having a football game and killing off the losing team. It's dumb! Why would they even think that was a good idea?"

No matter what a Victor does in their time following their win, they're still Victors, and nothing can actually change that. It's one of the securest titles in Panem; politicians can be voted out, Gamemakers can be replaced, but Victors are eternal.

Worrying about Arenas is another story entirely; one could argue that every one since has been one Linden's been obligated to worry about, that that's inherently the job description of being a Mentor. But Linden will need more than a few drinks put away before he'll argue that to any length whatsoever.

Linden listens to the frankly treasonous claims, sighing. He pulls himself up, expending the day's full allotment of core strength, unsnapping an inner pocket of his jacket and pulling out a packet of cigarettes.

"Do you smoke?"

Linden doesn't immediately reply, so Gary's first thought is that he's made a mistake. He shouldn't have said that. Linden isn't a victor like the Signless is--he's in that book China gave him, he's a native, maybe he doesn't even know about what's going on in D13 or the Rebellion or anything...maybe he's going to rat him out. He's sitting up to go flag down a Peacekeeper and take him away. Then what happens?

Gary yanks himself upright hard enough that he pops his shoulders. He looks more than a little alarmed, pale, anxious, like he's ready to throw himself off the railing and bolt. He's not sure where he would even go, but he can figure that out as he goes.

Thankfully, none of this is necessary.

"Uh..." No, he doesn't. He's smoked a few blunts before and nearly choked on a cigar his friends passed around a party one time. Gary holds out his hand. "Sure! Thanks."

Linden glances back at the sudden movement, alert and sharp and utterly tense, but he relaxes when he sees that Gary's alarmed and not coiling to spring for an attack. This is a trait that most classic Victors have in common: mere humans, struggling to cope with reactions and tics that a couple of incredibly stressful weeks left as scars.

His fists are clenched, and gradually, they loosen and uncurl. He puts two cigarettes to his mouth, lights them both, and hands one to Gary, grasped delicately between his thumb and forefinger.

This is an interesting standoff. It lingers long enough to make Gary anxious again, to the point where his foot starts unconsciously thumping against the railing. This continues even after Linden offers the cigarette. Gary takes it, puts it to his lips without a second thought and breathes deep.

He decides that this was a mistake. Gary wheezes in protest and is only barely able to catch his gift before it falls out of his mouth. He's trying to smile, very hard. Everything's fine. He can totally handle this.

"Thank you," he rasps, eying up the cigarette like it's going to pop in his face. He'll take another drag of it, absolutely, just. Give him a minute.

Linden smirks, then gives a soft, wavery laugh at the way Gary's inexperienced lungs handle the reckless inhalation.

"Not a smoker? You should have said so. Who the hell are you trying to impress?"

He's still laughing, shaking his head and taking a deep draw of his own. He's a Mentor. Of course Gary was trying to impress him, but he doesn't have to be even more of a dick about it.

Gary laughs back out of reflex (sheepishly once he realizes that Linden's laughing at him) and coughs his way through the rest. "I dunno," he shrugs. In imitation of Linden's handling, Gary chances taking a second smoke; he is no more successful than he was the first time. There's a bit more coughing. "Eugh...just seemed like the, uh...the right thing to do? I guess?"

Yeah, he's going in for a third time now. Maybe if he doesn't give himself time to recover, it'll be better somehow? Is that how this works? Sure, he'll try it.

Linden watches as the kid attempts to smoke again, just as recklessly and unfortunately.

"You'll get used to it eventually," he offers with a shrug and another deep drag. "If you want to make it a habit, which... happens pretty easily, in all honesty. Nicotine's insanely addictive."

"So I've heard." A third time is attempted and the results are...marginally better. He's learning how to temper his coughing reflex, one stubborn breath at a time, with apparently no regard for all of these warnings Linden is giving him and that he's already well aware of. Peer pressure at its finest--and Linden hardly had to lift a finger for it!

Eventually the individual drags of the cigarette become enough of a non-event (or he's learned to slow down a little bit) that Gary can focus on bringing the conversation back.

"Uh...is there something you wanted to talk about?"

Linden gives a brisk little nod when he hears the coughing begin to subside and lessen, at least a little bit, in severity. It was almost too easy to get this kid smoking, something that he feels a touch guilty for, even though he's having a hard time really seeing how he's to blame for the corruption of someone so eager to say yes.

The question catches him off-guard, though. He doesn't know if the kid's perceptive or bored, so he errs on the side of bored.

"I don't know. Do people walk around with pressing conversation topics just stewing in their brains? Is there something you want to talk about?"

It's a little bit of both, as evidenced by Gary's answer. Or perhaps more by his hesitation to answer. He chews on his bottom lip for a few seconds and stares intently at the cigarette fizzling between his fingers.

Then he shrugs. "Man, I dunno," Gary huffs as casually as possible and pretends to brush off the topic altogether. He would honestly prefer if he could--it would be easier that way. But it only takes a minute or so of stewing in his own guilt to change his mind there.

"--You're not going to turn me in or anything, are you?" he blurts. "Like--not that I said anything bad or whatever, but--you know how Peacekeepers are, all uptight and shit, I don't wanna twist the sticks up their asses, you know? Right?"

Linden gives him a slow sidelong stare, considering the indecisiveness displayed by the pale-haired youth. Unfortunately for Gary, brushing off any topic of interest with this particular Mentor is simply not an option once he's fixated on it.

But his answer manages to do something that's actually pretty difficult and surprise the former Victor, and his response is a rapid pair of blinks before he takes another thoughtful draw of his cigarette.

"You Offworlders have it hard enough, don't you?" he asks mildly. "I'm not about to create more trouble for you on a lark, so rest easy. I have nothing to gain by drawing attention to some poor kid who speaks his mind a little too freely... between us, most Mentors don't, especially if they're from one of the outlying Districts, which I am."

Gary mimics Linden's surprise, right down to the confused blinks and quick drag of his cigarette. The recovery required for the latter action gives Linden to finish his thoughts. This is fine by Gary, who has zeroed in on the first part of his answer and doesn't care much about the rest.

"...Do we?" His head tilts curiously. "I mean, the Peacekeepers are touchy sometimes, and I guess the whole political situation is a little...weird..." Gary hesitates again and at once realizes that it is, indeed, out of fear. Maybe that's the answer. But he doesn't really want to accept that on his own. "...but we've got all this...stuff! The building, the food, the drinks, the fame, like...I've never lived so well ever! I just...I dunno."

Shit. Gary suddenly leans forward onto his knuckles and has a good think. He's pretty sure what he wants to say and he doesn't like it.

"I don't see why stuff like what happened to Initiate has to happen. You know?"

That mirroring is a little unsettling; it almost looks like the reactions aren't natural so much as carefully and precisely copied, but Linden tries not to read more into it than there actually is. There's careful, and then there's just unreasonably paranoid and jumping at shadows. Not that Mentors can truly be blamed for such a thing.

He tilts his head sideways, brow knitting as his expression shifts. It's subtle and gradual, but he's seeing Gary in a different light and it's happening right before their eyes.

"Those things all matter to you very much, then... and why shouldn't they?" he muses, ashing his cigarette on the ground before replacing it between his lips. "They're nice things. Certainly no shortage of them when you win... and if you see and appreciate those things diligently, what happened to the Initiate won't happen to you. Do you see?"

Gary starts again in mild surprise and fixes Linden with a wary stare. He's a nice guy and all, but Gary can't help but feel like he's being...examined. Dustin does it too sometimes, and it's no less uncomfortable in this situation than it is with the kid he's usually much better at ignoring. He starts to noticeably fidget.

"Well...yeah," Gary nods and bites his lip. "I gotcha. I've been kind of heading in that direction anyways? But, like..." He shrugs, gestures helplessly. "...Nobody else wants to? Just--so many people got in on this last run. What was I supposed to do? Tell them it's dangerous, then sit back and watch? I can't do that!"

That fidgeting causes Linden to focus like a pike that's caught sight of a smaller fish darting through a patch of sunlight, but the intensity at least is short-lived. Gary's probably not wrong to be uncomfortable with how much the Mentor stares and how little seems to escape his notice, but despite that sharpness, nothing predatory is truly in play here.

"You'd probably be looked down upon and reviled to some extent if you petitioned out," he admits. " I assume that's what you mean, at least, when you say that you've been 'heading in that direction'. Camaraderie is a big issue among Tributes. In the old games, any perceived advantage given to a Tribute usually came around and bit them in the ass. High scores got sponsors, but also became big fat targets. Petitioning out of the Arena would be seen as betrayal by some of your peers, but... not by Panem as a whole, and definitely not by the Capitol. Though it's an honor to compete in the Games, I wouldn't begrudge someone the chance to be a citizen... I even want it for some of my Tributes."

Gary winces slightly and locks his eyes on his hands. Linden's logic is sound, but harsh, at least to his ears; being ostracized is just about the worst thing he can imagine happening to him, above going back to the Arenas, above dying in them, above being punished like the Initiate was. Losing his social standing is the end for him. There's some hope in maintaining followers native to Panem, but Linden is right about that sense of camaraderie--Gary's made good friends in the Tribute Center, and having to alienate them and starting over sounds almost too painful to bear. He frowns, threading his fingers, before anxiously taking another long drag from his cigarette.

"I--I dunno," he sighs, then coughs out a weak lungful of smoke. "It's too complicated. I just wanna help and for everyone to be happy. If I petitioned out, maybe...maybe I could help? I could put in a good word or whatever for people." Gary shrugs and shakes his head and turns back to Linden, eyes wide and pleading. "Would they understand, d'ya think? Like, could I make that work?"

Linden gives a soft snort that is just on the edge of dismissive.

"You want to help, and you want everyone to be happy."

He says it slowly, tasting each word.

"Is that all, then?" he asks dryly. "Not to be a bastard about it, but... I think everyone wants that, and how many people do you see with it?"

Gary's motivations aren't terribly complex, no. He laughs nervously at first, perhaps hoping to encourage the same in Linden, but he quickly realizes that this isn't going to work out and Linden's logic sets in once again. It is all he cares about. But having it presented so bluntly really isn't helping him come up with excuses to support it.

"Well..." Gary bites his lip and vaguely gestures with his cigarette-holding hand. "...That's the point, right? Maybe I could help more people get there. Or something. Whatever."

Linden's not much for laughter, not the ringing and hearty kind that releases pleasure chemicals in the brain and leaves a person breathless and satisfied. It's not that his amusement is mean-spirited, as a general rule; it's that there isn't a lot to laugh about in Panem, even after surviving the deadliest reality show in history.

"You don't sound like you have a very clear concept," he says, keeping his points blunt. "Not that there's anything wrong with that, but... if that ever comes up in an interview, you should have an eloquent canned response prepared. Trust me on that."

Gary seems to only hear Linden halfway, as his response is quick, a little flustered, and definitely not at all eloquently presented. "--Yeah, but maybe it's not something that should be clear. Or rational. Or--fuck, I dunno."

He sighs dramatically and sags forward on his knees.

"I'm just doing what feels right. What feels good, y'know? That's easy to understand. Everyone should understand that."

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