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

[yoknapatawpha]

He raises his eyebrows.

"No, no, I don't mean actually give me a whipping, just..." That's the sort of thing that's left to Granny and Father; it's very rare and somewhat taboo for someone to give another white man's son a beating. "I wouldn't want you to let me off easy. If I make a promise to do something, or be something, I need to keep it and not slide by unaccountable."

He pats at his pocket. "I ain't showed you Sartoris, have I? I mean, my token, in the Arena."

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden's noticeably relieved when Bayard clarifies that it wasn't a literal request. "Oh, good," he says with nervous laughter. "Some of you Offworlders come from such different places that I had to wonder, but... that really does make me glad, that you don't actually want a beating. Let's agree that won't happen. Promise, if you like, because I like to be accountable too."

He cants his head sideways. "No, I can't say you have showed me. Are you going to? You can't talk it up like that and then not let me see it."

[yoknapatawpha]

"No, sir. Father and Granny are the only ones allowed to lay hands on me like that, or Louvinia at their orders, but they say I'm a decent enough boy I don't often merit it."

Bayard grins and pulls his token from his pocket. It's a small wooden box, simple but lovingly carved, with a tight metal latch on the front. Bayard holds it as if it were an egg, delicately and protectively, and hands it over to Linden with evident care.

Inside, there's dirt, unassuming and plain, dried and with a few pebbles and pieces of hay or dead leaf. And yet Bayard speaks about it as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

"It's the earth from my home. It has- it has all the memories of the soil we tilled and the animals we raised and it likely had Father's footstep in it- I can even smell home in it. We even made sure we got the dirt from the patch where Ringo and I played war games, so I reckon it's got some of the glory of combat in it too."

[dead_black_eyes]

"I can't imagine you would often merit it," Linden confesses, leaning toward the boy to better see the item he's drawing out of his pocket.

"May I...?" If Bayard allows it, he'll take the token in his spindly fingers and carefully examine it as its meaning and contents are explained to him.

"How did you get this? Did the Capitol secure it for you, did you bring it from your home...? This is the first token of its type I've seen, and I've seen a lot, over the years."

[yoknapatawpha]

"I met get up to devilment sneakily. You don't ever know." Bayard grins even wider, handing over the box of earth. He beams with complete pride at it, not even in the presenting of the token but because of what it means, with the pride in his family and his homeland and the very territory that created him and the man he'll grow to be.

"I had it on me when they took me, I suppose. I always carry it, so I'll always know where I've come from. Ringo has one too, although he don't have earth in it so much as the badge we shot off a Yankee once, me and him. Your home ain't an object but it helps to have one to help you remember, right?"

[dead_black_eyes]

That impishness gets an answering, if slightly reluctant, smile from Linden. He vacillates between feeling like Bayard could be a Districter and being struck by the innocence that comes through him, a luxury that's only truly afforded to Capitolites. He turns the box of soil, glancing up at the way the boy is smiling like is heart is full to the brim and overflowing.

Linden's heart has never brimmed that way. He doesn't know if he feels jealous, or simply empty, and tries to let the matter rest within his own uneasy heart.

"It does help," Linden says. "Do you want to see my Arena's token? I still carry it with me because despite the bad things, it does remind me of home." He reaches into his pocket, handing Bayard what looks at first glance like four painted beads looped together and connected with smaller, colorful beads and twine. Each has a given name on it, etched in lettering that is cramped and clumsy.

"Two... Shawford, and Karem, died in factory accidents. They were my friends; those are the ones I took with me. These other two I added after the Arena. This is my District-mate, Arta, and this is the person I killed to win, Scorpii."

Closer examination will reveal them to be painted knucklebones, if Bayard knows how to identify such things.

"In my District, some of us make these. The older you are, the longer yours tends to be."

[yoknapatawpha]

Bayard handles them with utmost respect, recognizing them not as fingerbones but at least as totems for the deceased. He keeps them between his palms as if they were a baby bird, then looks up at Linden, trying to find the common ground to tell Linden that Bayard understands the depth of their importance.

Bayard will never know deprivation like that, will always be part of the ruling class of that small patch of land that his father based a homestead on, and yet there are some hardships a Capitol child wouldn't understand that Bayard does.

"We still keep the baby clothes from my two sisters in the study. I don't think my father could bear to part with them, no matter how long they've been dead. I never met the older one, Louisa, because she died of fever even before I was born. My mother, either - her veil is in the wardrobe still, even though she died giving life to me."

He gently hands the beads back and takes his little box of soil. "I reckon it's the most important kind of token, since it has someone's spirit with it. Your memories of them, I mean."

[dead_black_eyes]

For a farmboy, Bayard is being exquisitely careful with Linden's bones. A small smile cracks his face to see something so deeply personal respected to an extent that Linden couldn't really expect from an Offworlder. But he understands; that much is clear, even if their upbringings and their definitions of "plenty" are very different.

"I don't know about spirits, but they're reminders. Like the clothes," he says, tilting his head. "You spoke of the older one you didn't know, and your mother, but what about the younger one? How old did she get?"

His interest is as genuine as Bayard's respect; the objects mean little, but talk is the catalyst for the spirits of the dead to actually find a place to nestle and live again, if only briefly.

[yoknapatawpha]

"Seven years old. I remember her somewhat." But more, Bayard doesn't say, as a sort of communal memory than as a human being, as a frame upon which anecdotes were affixed. He was young when she passed, and he hears more about her from the slaves on the land and from his cousins than he does from Granny or Father.

"She got herself kicked by a mule and her leg took bad when she was healing. It's the risk of being around animals, I reckon. Father's always made sure I'm careful when I'm around a beast's hindquarters."

He tucks the box of soil back into his pocket, giving it a pat like he's sealing it in there with a kiss.

[dead_black_eyes]

Seven's old enough to be a person, even in Districts with high infant mortality rates and cynical views of when it's considered safe to "count" a little being in such a way. "I'm sorry to hear that," Linden says, it being the only really appropriate response. "Your father had the right idea, I've never liked or felt safe around large animals. I guess you're braver than I for going near them at all, brave or not."

[yoknapatawpha]

"I think to be brave you've got to have fear first to overcome, right? I'm not brave when I ain't scared of horses or mules. There ain't courage in that, just ease, I think." He puts his hands in his pockets and purses his lips, thinking on that. Looking out at the city, in those spires that may as well come from an alien planet to him except his concept of alien would probably be so restricted by his limited imagination to just look like his home with funnier-looking people.

"Do you feel your head's collected now, Mr. Lockhearst? Or should I leave you to dangle some more?"

[dead_black_eyes]

"Of course. No one without fear can be brave; they're just missing something that's inherently part of the human condition or too accustomed to it to consider it anything but mundane," Linden shrugs, casually philosophical. "When you put it like that, I suppose you have a point. And on that note..."

He stretches, glancing back toward the door.

"My head's as collected as it's going to get. I think that we should both be returning to our respective suites."

[yoknapatawpha]

"Yessir." Bayard stuffs his hands into his pockets, not to slouch but because the fabric in them is warm and softer than any he's ever felt back home, and gives Linden a tight nod before shuffling off. He casts a smile over his shoulder as he goes, although it's fraught with just a bit of concern.