thecapitol | [closed] A dark eye is watching you

It's tempting for Linden to turn back to some of his old, favorite vices, but there are some powerful sleeping pills in the Tribute Tower. This has always been true; anxious young sacrifices about to be led to the slaughter tend not to go to sleep swiftly and naturally, after all, and Linden has taken advantage of this supply. Downing them as needed with a shot of whiskey seems to be just what the doctor ordered, and it sends him sinking through his mattress into a black and greedy slumber. The price for that is a groggy and off-kilter morning; waking up is a trial and error process, and from there, just mustering the motivation to get out of a soft and comfortable bed is another set of challenges and obstacles. He remembers how sore he is as soon as he sits up, and he hobbles across the room for a dressing gown to wrap around his scrawny shoulders. Several vitamin deficiencies and an almost unnaturally pale skin tone result in bruising pretty easily, and even under areas normally covered by clothing, rough treatment has left him black and blue.

It's fine. He's a Victor. He'll put on some makeup, hold his head up, and dare anyone to say anything with his hard eyes.

He's working on concealer when he hears a soft, stammering, familiar voice. Setting aside the makeup, which is the wrong shade on top of being applied by unskilled hands to begin with, he goes to the door, unlatches the deadbolt and cracks the door, peering through. Confirming it is Phillip, he opens it slightly wider, looking a touch self-conscious about the fact that he's wearing a soft blue dressing gown instead of his characteristic sharp, black ensembles.

"Yes? Do you need something?" he asks, drawing it closer around his thin frame, putting his Mentor face forward even if it a mess.

The mess is definitely noticeable and if Phil had any less tact than what he had, he'd ask if Linden lost a fight with acrylic paint. Instead, the Tribute focused on what he came for.

"I wanted to check on you, you looked and felt like crap last time I saw you, sir," if there was a trait Gray had, is that he was doing his best to be direct without being insulting or blunt. God, he felt ridiculous asking this to a man who survived one of the previous Arenas. Linden could take care of himself just fine ~~except that's a lie on the sobriety front~~. But there is a genuine concern for what happened to the Mentor in that fateful night.

Maybe he could get some answers today? Or get a door slammed to his face for meddling. They weren't friends or equals; Linden had a right to be tried by his peers should he be judged, Phil would get the punishment up front, guilty until proven...less guilty.

Edited (whoops! Why autocorrect...) 2015-05-06 05:53 (UTC)

Linden notices immediately that the makeup is not having the intended effect whatsoever. Even if Phillip is careful to specify that he looked like crap the last time they saw each other, it's not really enough to conceal the man's true feelings, and Linden leans against the door frame with a shallow sigh. At least Phillip actually is adept at being direct without being insulting, something that Linden could afford to accept some pointers on for his own benefit.

"Yes, that's true. Thank you," he says earnestly, nudging the door open enough to allow the other man to enter if he desires and turning to head back toward his desk. Mentor's suites are particularly lavish, with built-in kitchenettes and private marble bathrooms, couches and armchairs and even a fireplace. They seem to be designed for entertaining... or cloistering away from prying eyes for days at a time.

"Close it behind you, if you could...?"

If Phillip follows him, he'll notice that there's a crumpled pile of towels outside the bathroom, some of which are bloodstained. Not even an Avox has been in here since Linden's return, and no one's really had the opportunity to straighten up the suite, the disheveled state of which reflects directly on the fractured thoughts of the Mentor inhabiting it. Further glancing might reveal that there's an ongoing project in the corner with the heavily lopsided nightstand in it; apparently, Linden's been working at turning one of its legs into a heap of sawdust with a nail file.

"Do you want a drink? I have drinks," he offers automatically, probably providing information that's ultimately redundant at this point.

Gray wasn't about to refuse the offer to step inside and he nodded along, "Sure, of course."

Compared to the Tribute suites, in no way spartan and for a man like Phil downright luxurious, the Mentor suite decadent.. But none of that mattered when he saw the bloodstained towels and the filed away table leg. A very interesting and maybe disturbing insight into a man who for years had been addicted to this world's equivalent to heroin and morphine.

"Yes, I would like one...not gonna do any training or anything," Phil answered, slipping that comfort that he wasn't going to handle weapons while drunk. Because at this point, he knew that something had gone completely array in that bid, in that paid date for a Capitolite to relive a fantasy And that was more terrifying that going back to Freddy's: the bots had the decency to kill the victim, this was an ongoing basis. Alcohol would be the midway point between confronting things directly or feeling so numb that the words wouldn't stick.

"How did things go with Stephen?" A safe question, relatively speaking.

Most people involved with the Hunger Games eventually discover that it's like being in a cage, and once you've managed to win, you don't leave, you just upgrade to a bigger, fancier one.

He turns his back quickly; he has no problem existing here alone, but when others are present he's reminded of how strange and scary it might look. All the more reason to pour something hard and fast. He heads toward his liquor cabinet, which is always well-stocked, even if it's a bit of a challenge to keep up with Linden's intake. This is especially impressive considering he's a scarecrow of a man who's usually blackout before he can even take in his daily recommended calories.

He returns shortly with two scotch glasses filled with the familiar acrid liquor from District 6, one of which he hands to Phillip before returning to his desk. "He was pissed," Linden replies, "but not at me. So I guess we were both right. He took some pictures and he's going to try to get Claudius blacklisted from bids and definitely from bidding on me, but in truth, there aren't really laws in place to protect Victors. Not even after Cyrus' amendments."

"That was his name then? The man who attacked you, I mean," Phillip asked in with concern, having learned his lesson from the last time he had Motor Oil and paced himself with a sip. One thing to note about the Phone Guy was how he could go from distressed to professional at a drop of a hat, a tone he used at that moment to talk to a man who wasn't all there. Keep Linden grounded...keep him away from morphling, don't let him slip.

"I thought those Tribute amendments applied to the Victors as well. Especially the, uh, trial part." If Claudius was anything like the Capitolites Gray had seen, the case might have an uphill battle. "I-It stands to reason. What kind of problem did he have with you?" Those bruises went beyond problem and went into death wishes. There wasn't any sort of respect in those wounds.

As terrified as Phil was about the bidding process, he had to ask, "What DO Victors have then?"

Linden's brows raise when he hears the word "attacked"; it seems to surprise him, and he's quickly tipping back a mouthful of Motor Oil as a result. "He didn't attack me," he clarifies. "And there wasn't a problem... it's what he paid for, more or less. If I see him a week from now at a Capitol party, he will greet me as a friend who has given him great pleasure."

He says so steadily and with some conviction, but the way his blanched, bruised face strains to hide what he really feels about it is noticeable.

No respect. No dignity. No great revelation.

"For offworld Mentors, maybe. Native Victors are held to standards similar to what the Capitolites adhere to, with fewer privileges. We're still Districters, we just have... fans. Sometimes like Claudius, with his developed appetites."

The phrasing along brings a shiver down Phil's spine, as if he were face to face with an animatronic all over again. That something so inhumane, so degrading, swept under the rug...and then he remembered what he used to do for a living. Cover up the mess, patch yourself and put up a smile, you're the face of this place, Fazbear's CEO would have a place in the Capitol, as the words gained uncomfortable familiarity with Linden's situation. "Uh huh...great pleasure," there was no humor to that statement, just a long resigned acceptance before another drink of the potent booze.

"Developed appetites or not," and the word felt like the bog water down Phil's throat, "You're here and r-right now...I hope you're not planning on other bids." Not that he'd be able to stop his Mentor from doing them but he can try.

Linden and Phillip have more in common than the shared vice they're both all too happy to succumb to in each other's presence. That kind of understanding runs deep and devastating, and every twitch and tic that Linden can hide from a Capitolite is likely one that Phil can pick up on all too easily. the robotic detachment from the circumstances likely doesn't help the way the soothing, mechanical complacency usually tends to.

"I'll do what I have to," Linden says dully, and that means so much more than simply being forced to take bidders. Access, especially intimate access to Capitolites, means information that the rebellion might be able to use. "But there are some things I can't, and I'm not 15 anymore. I'm not as strong as I used to be, especially since..."

He pauses before carefully pulling his dressing gown open at his collarbones, revealing a deep but precise scar running down his sternum. It's not an Arena scar, but a surgical one, recent enough to still be rosy pink against his ashen skin.

"Please try to understand that this is Panem. Bad things happen here," he says, eyes widening, again saying more than he is allowed to in spoken words. "Stephen wants to keep Claudius away, but even if there are more like him... this is not something that Victors are unused to. We bleed, we heal, and then we do it all over again."

Gray had the discretion to see the tics but mention a word in public, a terrible sort of intimacy between two people from different worlds and whose circumstances warped their sense of self. It was like watching a dog be abused and forced to wag its' tail to its' master while it nursed its' wounds in the comfort of the nearest closet. Linden had been through this for decades now, far longer than the Tribute dared to think about.

For a second, Phillip thought his Mentor had been vivisected or something when he saw the scar on Linden's chest. He couldn't help the question that slipped out of his lips, "Wh-what happened to you?" Bad things happened everywhere, that was a given. But here bad things happened for the sport of the Capitolites. "But you're not immortal," Gray stated it outright, that Victors deserved more rights than the ones they had. That one day, a bidder will cross the line.

And for a Victor, immortality would probably be a punishment worse than anything Snow could throw at them.

Linden chews his lip before quickly closing the dressing gown again.

"Morphling's better than alcohol, food, sex, and the satisfaction of achievement combined," Linden says. "...that being said, it's not so great for your heart. Back when I had to take my hiatus from Mentoring, before this Quell started, I was at a party and took too much. My heart stopped on the floor. It was like being weightless. Then I woke up sober, with my ribcage cracked open, and I've never felt gravity that strongly. Like the floor was on me and not the other way around."

He reaches for his glass again.

"Mortality is gravity. It's a force that ties us to this life, and it's friends with the Capitol. I'm not going to die until they're done with me. Neither are you; it'll just hurt a little more every time you come back."

Gray would find it hard to believe that something like Morphling could be better than the release of being with someone or the comfortable numbness that came with alcohol. He'd never experienced a true high, and by the way Linden turned out, he wouldn't dare to. Things had to be grounded.

"I'd rather it hurt, the coming back process. Lost my lunch the first time around...it means it's real, that I'm not in a dream," Phillip argued with the same level of somber acceptance as his Mentor's own. He then added with a drink, "That I died for something."

Because in his mind, he deserved every minute of that pain. He deserved all this and more.

"And I do think that now more than ever."

Two images ran superimposed in Phil's mind: one of his mentor dead for a few seconds and the other, an infamous scene from a movie in his world in which a needle was jabbed into the chest of a dying addict. "Did they tell you how they brought you back?" Morbid curiosity.

Linden would have found it hard to believe once, too. As someone clever who took pride in his cleverness and relished chances to flaunt it, he was baffled by his District's addiction problems. He'd learned too late that it had nothing whatsoever to do with cleverness, and little to do with the drugs itself. It has the most to do with what a person's running from, and Linden's been running almost ceaselessly for years.

"There's no doubt that it's real," Linden says softly. "Whether you feel it or not, that damage comes around and makes itself felt eventually. As for dying for something..." his tone falters, and he lets the statement hang like an executed thief. He doesn't have the energy to try to pretend that the entertaining firing squad that is the Games has a reason.

"You think you died for something?" he asks doubtfully, before Phillip switches gears and has him squinting. "Why?" he asks guardedly. "I mean... I don't remember obviously, but I would assume that electricity was involved. I think that have a device that goes directly on the heart that works with relative success..."

The caution would be put at ease by Phil's sigh, "Uh, a movie I watched when I was younger, had this really intense scene of a dying pimp lord's wife dying of an overdose and...well, our times were very behind compared to this place...shot her heart full of adrenaline or nitroglycerin." Something he'd keep in mind for any emergencies, probably discredited by now.

"As for your question," with that, he held his head a little higher and nodded, "You know what I went through, I felt...I felt like I died doing what I should have done back home." He shrugged, "Before I met you, of course." As if that, a feeble but sincere thank you from a Tribute to his Mentor for helping him find a new focus. "I realized the guilt will never leave me," he swallowed the remainder of the glass and scrunched his face to it. "But I could do something more." Don't worry Linden, he can do the pretending for both of them.

Linden's eyes widen slightly. That kind of brutality sounds in-line with what happens in the Arena, but not outside it. At least in the Capitol. "When people overdose in 6 they do something like that, I think," he says. He sounds confused and unsure, because children weren't necessarily knowledgeable on what happened after someone collapsed and was carried out on a stretcher, sometimes to be seen again and sometimes not. "But I overdosed in the Capitol, where they can break people apart and put them together again like it's nothing. Maybe my heart's a replacement entirely. Parts of it likely are, but..." he shrugs, casually indifferent to what's keeping him alive. He's the Capitol's property, after all, and property doesn't examine what it's made of.

It seems to surprise him that he had that kind of influence on someone's outlook. From the moment of the revelation, Linden's quieter, more attentive, and he might be hurting. It's difficult to tell, given the very nature of this conversation and the dark turns it's taken. Maybe he's glad he could help; maybe that kind of responsibility inherently terrifies him. "Dying for a cause isn't a bad thing," he murmurs softly. "But guilt's a terrible cause. Maybe the worst. It solves nothing."

He pauses to drink, before adding a soft "I'm sorry."

That breakdown of Linden's heart is actually disturbing to think about for Gray but even more so that apology. "Why would you be sorry, sir? I'm not aiming to throw the Games away because I still have somewhat of a wish to punish myself." A very deep wish but it has since lessened with the change in times.

He sets aside his glass, for now, he didn't want to refill and feel number than what he has at the moment, "Maybe guilt isn't as great a motivator as it used to be." The less Phil talked about himself, the better.

You might find out someday. Having certain focuses in Panem right now is very dangerous, and if I lit that fire, of course it's on me and something to be sorry for if you burn.

"It's nothing," he says quickly. "I'm... glad you're not going to throw the Games away just because you feel like you deserve to lose, or die. Surviving is hard enough without taking on that burden."

Phil caught that sudden verbal distance between him and Linden, so he assured if misguided, "I may not have been born here, in Panem, but if it gave me a home when I was supposed to be dead, in exchange for keeping District 6's kids safe and having m-more time-" he strained to say this, because he could hear a mother's wail echoing in his mind, "With their parents, more chances to be children, but you knew that, didn't you?"

Linden nods slowly in confirmation. Already the alcohol is starting to go to his empty stomach and his light head, and it makes his thoughts simultaneously weightless and monumentally heavy. He leans an elbow on his desktop and uses the heel of his hand to prop his cheek against.

"There's some irony in that, you know. You couldn't save kids from getting torn apart by machines where you came from, and even if you think you're saving kids, here... District 6 children spend more time with machines than their parents, and factory accidents are extremely common. My job, because I was always small for my age, was to climb inside the big assembly machines and clean them. There were some close calls. Everyone knows of someone who was still inside when the foreman powered everything on again."

Gray swallowed hard at the thought of children in machines, spritely ghosts who did their part. But it just made him question Panem's structure further, "Why can't children be allowed to pursue those sorts of jobs? Are they just...stuck?" A simple word with so many connotations, not just to the kids' future but to Linden as well. The man seemed to finally come out of a dark place only to be put back in it by the Bid.

"I mean, heh, being in a town that went the way of the dodo once the factories clothes and tourism dried up, I can see why parents to try push kids to do lucrative work. But that's not the case here, is it?"

Linden shakes his head slowly back and forth, glassy eyes distant and thoughtful. "We all start working early in 6," he says. "There's not really school to speak of, so... I mean there's not much else to do. Children tend to do cleaning duty in hard-to-reach places, teenagers and adults on the assembly lines, and... the really talented people get to be engineers, that kind of thing. My father was an engineer, but I wasn't talented. A boy I sort of knew named Shawford Mell was, but he got caught and shredded because the foreman wasn't. They hosed it down first and said to pretend it was wet sand, but even with the tinted glasses they gave us no one wanted to go scrub it out. That's what's happening in 6," he says, tone overbright. "Arena or no Arena, death lives there."

Phillip closed his eyes and slapped his hand on his mouth, as if to swallow down that familia dread of finding, of cleaning the remains of a body. Shut it down, check the power, hose it down, disinfect it, put it back together he pictured it all. And Linden put it best: death lives in District 6. A friend that no one wants in their home, or a drinking buddy that never left.

"There has to be something better," his voice lost all the joy for that moment, a bitter taste in the Phone Guy's mouth, "Th-those kids deserve better. They...they should have a chance to be kids."

No matter their age, children shouldn't face their mortality at such tender ages. They deserve to be in the arms of their father and a kiss on the head from their mother. Down the hatch did another glass go.

Linden watches impassively, wondering if Phillip is going to vomit. He knows that while they have many of the same traumas, they carry them differently, and this particular one was almost two decades ago for him.

"Something better..." he muses over the words, tasting them like brandy that's surprisingly sweet but has an unpleasant aftertaste. "Capitol children have what I think you're describing. You mean a frivolous number of years without work, when their parents are the ones worried about money and their names don't go into the Reaping?"

He shrugs, going for another glass of his own. Might as well, since Phillip has essentially given him nonverbal permission by imbibing himself.

For the record, Phillip nearly did throw up at the thought but didn't because it was so painfully familiar. At least Linden's friend died from an accident, not premeditation.

"Yes, exactly that. Children were allowed to play, to explore, to go to school, and to live out mostly without worrying about the parents, only the boogeyman. No names in the Reaping...that's how I grew up back home." Though not as luxurious as the Capitol, Phil's childhood was mostly full of him running around the nearby clearing and singing along to his favorite mascot. Gray didn't judge his Mentor for drinking as he too refilled his own glass. He never got the chance to be a father himself, so there was a sense of emptiness that came from the concept of Reaping. Of Parents having no choice but to put their child's name in the list that would one day, be as good as signing off their death certificate.

That brought on a question, "As long as these Games continue, District children live on, right?" It was a first step, "I know not every Tribute's on board with that, especially kids, and the burden's pretty heavy, uh, but I'm okay with this." The unspoken words were so they never go through a bid like you did.

It doesn't sound much like childhood to Linden, but it strikes him, again, that they are from very different worlds... even if they've left very similar scars.

"What's the 'boogeyman?' Must have been bad, with so little else to worry about."

He swirls his drink for a second, knowing that it's going to his head too fast.

"The ones that would have been in the Games do, yes," he says carefully. "That's 24 a year, nationwide. The ones that would have died in their Districts? They still die, and no matter what happens in life, death is... would you call it the 'great equalizer?' Yes, it would have to be."

"The boogeyman's mostly everything kids fear in the dark, in the world. Where I come from, parents coddle them, make them believe they're practically immortal as long as they're around. They have no concept of what to fear and what to keep away from, so their parents instill it. 'Don't run out in the dark or the boogeyman will get you'...a way of censoring the world until the kid learns otherwise," Phil explained as a long forgotten echo of his mother rang in his ears when he tried to sneak out to the clearing at night, "Sometimes the boogeyman turns out to be real and then there's a news report about a corpse in an empty lot." The way Gray spoke, it was as if he was talking to a dear old friend about the situation at large, intimately acquainted with the shared guest that never left.

He then looked at Linden, "Violence isn't as mainstream as it is here, it's always behind closed doors and it's only when they find the body or the signs that you know it happened. I-It's still a spectacle of course." As for Death being the equalizer, Gray let out a sigh, "It always is. The Capitol just makes it glamorous to watch."

Linden listens, dark eyes intent on Phil's face as he relates something that sound like only what children in the Capitol can ever have.

"So it's... safety in lies?" he asks, tilting his head, seeming to understand even if there's no joy in that understanding. Hearing that others have had it so much better can only bring so much comfort, after all. But if it was real sometimes...

"But it's a metaphor for very real dangers, like... murderers and rapists, and whatever the hell you were facing at your job?"

When Linden made reference to Freddy's, Phillip's face hardened up considerably. Once upon a time, that man had been a coworker, someone he trusted implicitly to keep the kids safe. Why had he not seen it sooner, that for all the talks about the bad men and even getting those face-recognition features on the toys...that the boogeyman had been right there with them all along? And for it to happen again while Dandy was around...

"Thankfully, the killer back home stuck to murder," he stated, temporarily lost in some very dark thoughts, "But yes, a metaphor for everything parents dreaded to think about happening to their children. I-I imagine the Capitol's got something similar, like getting reaped for the Games?"

Safety in lies was probably the unofficial motto for Fazbear's.

"Getting Reaped for the Games is... normal. It's expected. Every year, two kids from each District goes, and though there are some precautions you can take... like not accepting too many government rations and having your name put in more times... it's not a punishment and it therefore can't be a warning. It doesn't work for Capitol children, because they know that only Districters get Reaped."

He sets his glass aside, very nearly missing his desk. Fortunately, he catches himself before he can drop it.

"A lot of things are normal here, whether or not offworlders find them so. But that doesn't necessarily mean anyone's content."

By reflex, Phil reached to catch the glass, even with his incoming inebriation. He flinched for a moment after realizing his Mentor had it, once more crossing a line. Be professional, you're not this man's keeper, Gray scolded himself, or the mental image of Jeremy did, a not so pleasant reminder of why he needed to always be at arm's length. But how could he, when they enabled each other so well?

"So they get to live in the lap of luxury, no one questions it or you get your tongue or your head forcibly removed from your body," he wasn't that subtle about the fear he felt at that, that everything could fall apart with just a well-placed whisper. "So we try to make things easier for them."

Linden jumps slightly at the sudden movement, hand tightening around the glass to the point where it would break if his hand wasn't so skeletal. Instead, his knuckles just blanch to a lighter shade of white, and he makes sure to set it down well past where the edge of the table begins.

This time, he reaches for the bottle itself, forgoing the glass entirely as he tips it back and drinks deep.

"Everyone just wants things to be easier. That's human nature... the path of least resistance is the one that's ultimately the most appealing, even if it's on the backs or the silence of others. Victors know that better than anyone."

Another drink, more suicidally deep than the last.

Phillip had no ill will in his actions but he saw that even the best intentions had negative consequences. He reeled back a bit before he said, "I'd take the harder path." Even if it got him killed multiple times, but he's already on the right track, so to speak. The desperate way his Mentor swallowed down the liquor meant, in Gray's mind, that something was escalating.

"But I want to help regardless. There must be something more I can do...even if it's outlast everyone else in the Arena." He didn't like that course of action, because it implied the last step in the Games.

Linden chokes partway through his drink, setting aside the bottle and focusing his effort and energy on stifling a couging fit. When he speaks, he's hoarse and breathless.

"No, I think you're wrong. Everyone thinks they're the exception, that they'd take the harder road, but they neglect to consider that difficulty is relative and it's tailor-made to fit everyone. For you... living with your guilt and making peace with it is the harder path, and it's the one you're always going to avoid."

If Phil had met Linden before all this, he'd argue that he wasn't trying to avoid facing the truth, but then, why was he refilling his drink and swallowing it down like it was the last glass of water in the desert? Though he wore it on his sleeve, the Phone Guy knew that he didn't want to feel the overbearing guilt of those victims, he wanted to feel normal. He wanted to be the twenty-year-old dayshift manager just starting out on the new location or hell, the twenty-five-year old waiter again.

"One way or another, huh...I guess you'd be right, sir. "

The coughing fit is what gets Phillip back to reality. "Do you need medical assistance? I-I can get someone in here or, um, I get you some water.

It's another thing that Victors just understand, whether or not it's a pleasant or kind truth. One of the reasons Linden smiles so seldom is that he so frequently is right; as a cocky, clever child, it was reason to grin and be smug. Now, as a jaded, solemn adult who's had his throat slit and stopped his own heart, it's reason to feel hollow and to seek the heavy burn of alcohol to attempt to fill it for awhile.

"We... tend to treat hard workers like saints, but the truth is, it's not always bad or lazy to take the easy path. Sometimes it's easy because it's more efficient, or safer, or better suited to a person's skills or values. It is not an inherent sin when it is the saner option."

He shakes his head briskly, rejecting both offers. "I'm fine, just... misjudged. Too much, too fast."

Edited 2015-06-08 13:59 (UTC)

"Would you at least accept the offer of resting it off?" Gray wasn't going to judge, "You've been working yourself to the bone as of late and don't think I've forgotten why I'm here, sir." An enabler seeking another and trying in a futile attempt to get themselves back on the wagon. With three glasses of Motor Oil in Phil and God knows how many in Linden, he could mark this as a failure. Some of that clever child still lived on in Linden's rare smiles, at least as far as the former guard could tell, even if they were fueled by vice.

It's a failure, and the recognition of the fact is reflected in the glass-like surface of Linden's eyes as they flicker up to meet Phillip's. Or attempt to, anyway; they're frightfully out of focus, even the one not ringed by a dark bruise.

"I'd accept," Linden says after a second, pushing his tangled, dark hair back from his face. "I think I could sleep, the... alcohol really helped with the pain. Not like Morpling used to, but... it's something, at least."

Phil stood up, slowly as to not add to the stress that brought along, and offered his hand in a friendly gesture, "I'll take your word for it, sir. But I don't know if I should be glad that you traded that vice for this one." They weren't alone in this though if the tiny smile thank you was any hint.

"It was never a trade," Linden says, reaching out and taking Phillip's hand to lean heavily on the other man. "It was always there, just... stronger now. I need it more."

He starts back toward his bed, clearly not wanting to make any preparations before crashing again. He's moving less gingerly and painfully, but he's also far less coordinated because... well, he's been drinking motor oil.

Phillip did his best to overcome his own inebriation to keep their walk to the bed as stable as he can. "I'm probably crossing some line here by telling you to keep off the stuff for as long as you can. Can't say the same with booze, I'd be a hypocrite."

Never did he lose that sincere tone, that drive to help his Mentor in what he could. As soon as they're at the bed, Gray asked, "Do you need anything else? Water?"

The talk of crossing lines is relevant and there's probably something to it. Linden hasn't had a Tribute who cared this much since... forever? He certainly wasn't one. He, like all the otherwise, was too petrified and preoccupied after his Reaping to think about the pale, twitchy, sad man who was tasked with Mentoring him. Linden doesn't even know what happened to his Mentor; he thinks that he died, but can't even be sure. That's how little attention he paid to him during and after his Games.

He crawls onto the bed, pulling the covers over himself after curling up in a tight ball. The room's spinning, and it won't stop anytime soon.

"Water, and... maybe a bucket. I hope I won't be sick but it's hard to tell."

For all the mistakes Phil's made in his life, he's glad that he's able to help somehow. "Eh, safety precautions," he whispered, keeping his volume down as he goes off to find the items requested. As soon as he comes back, Gray set them aside.

Linden was broken beyond the patch-ups and quick makeup jobs that he'd attempted, or anything that the Capitol's PR team has tried. Then again, they love a good circus. "Don't need you, you know, dying. I'll be in my Suite if you need anything, okay?"

The lowered voice is surprisingly appreciated. For once, Linden actually seems like he'll be able to sleep, and get there with relative ease.

When Phillip returns with the requested items, he blinks blearily. "Dying?" he asks. "You... care about that?"

It seems to strike him as genuinely strange that an offworlder might.

"Don't worry. They won't let that happen."

"Yeah, I do. It's always in the back of my mind, you know?" Phil admits with a worn smile, as if the Grim Reaper was always a few steps behind, never really out of sight. "I know I'll probably be brought back and that I'm the Capitol's toy like everyone else not native to Panem. But sometimes, they get bored and some toys stay broken and discarded."

With that, he stands up and nods, "I'll see you in the morning then, you rest and get something in you."

Edited 2015-06-13 19:49 (UTC)

By the time Phil stands up, Linden's already asleep. He won't get anything in himself until he wakes up again, but at the very least he's getting some rest. He's even breathing deeply enough to not look completely like he's dead, but the hint of yellow on his grey-tinged skin probably isn't very reassuring.

[closed] A dark eye is watching you

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