Proclaim the truth [OPEN]

[knittingbackwards]

Who| Merlyn and OPEN
What| The Capitol finally does something about that grumpy old man who keeps arguing with the staff.
Where| Central Commons
When| Directly after Snow's post last week (backdated because LOOK I WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF EXAMS OKAY?)
Warnings/Notes| An old man getting publicly beaten up. If that isn't enough warning, well... shame on you.

"...happen to feel that whatever the benefits in subjugation, they must be grossly outweighed by the socioeconomical cost to the nation. It's the height of bureaucracy. Bolshevism, I say, sheer Bolshevism!" Merlyn glared ferociously at his communicator, as if he could stare President Snow into submission via hologram, and swatted at the Peacekeepers again. "Oh, go away, do. Can't you see I'm trying to have a conversation? Ah! And that's another thing, Mr So-Called-President! Do you have any intention of teaching debate skills at this school of yours? Philosophy? The premises of logic? Surely you cannot fill an entire curriculum with... hey!"

This was to one of the Peacekeepers, as she grabbed his arm none too gently and pulled the communicator away from him. Merlyn pulled back, with surprising strength for someone so skinny and elderly, and got to his feet. "Show a little decorum!" he demanded, raising his free hand to wag his finger at her. "Do you really mean to make such a scene in a public place?" As if he wasn't making just as much of a scene now, his conical hat askew as he struggled with two Peacekeepers in the middle of the common room.

She backhanded him across the face, almost casually. Deceptively strong or not, Merlyn clearly hadn't been expecting that; his head snapped to one side, his hat spilling papers and fishing flies across the floor as it went flying, and he felt his lip split. Wiping the blood away with his sleeve, he tried to regain his dignity as best he could. "Police violence," he started, in a rather heated tone, "is a sure sign of a government in..."

"Shut up, old man," the other Peacekeeper suggested, and struck him in the stomach. It was at least an effective way to shut him up, since it drove all the air out of his lungs, leaving him wheezing. He rather lost track after that, to his shame. They took the communicator off his bony wrist ("Two weeks", the woman said shortly, so presumably not permanently), locked a Traitor's Cuff in its place, and gave him a couple of kicks for good measure. One part of him was already composing a sternly-worded piece on bystander's syndrome, looking around at the commons at the significant number of people not raising a hand to help. The other part - which for all his pride and education, was rather more significant - was busy trying to avoid breaking a hip when he fell, and protect his face from being too badly-beaten.

And then they were gone, and he was left in an undignified puddle on the floor, his face bloody and his stern, professorial appearance gone. For a few moments, he just lay there, wheezing and feeling more damnably old than he had even in the worst days in his cave. At last, wincing - he was pretty sure the female Peacekeeper had sprained his wrist, if not broken it - he started groping for his glasses. One lens was cracked. He'd have to get that seen to.

"If someone could get me some raw meat to draw the bruising," he croaked, rather less loudly than he'd intended, "I would appreciate it."

Comments

[ka_sera_sera]

Roland has been one of those bystanders for a couple minutes. He's standing back, face wearing no particular expression, and watches with the rest of the gossip-mongering crowd until the peacekeepers are gone from the room.

Only then does Roland pace forward, squat next to the old man - the great Maerlyn, or some version of the one whose stories Roland'd grown up on. A man who'd defeated evils untold, who must've once struck a figure awe inspiring and terrible. A small, quiet figure twisted on the floor. Roland holds out a hand. "No need for that," he says, in a tone that exactly matches the even, unremarkable look on his face. "This place's got poultices and packs that'll do the job much better. Can you stand?"

[knittingbackwards]

"Perhaps?" Merlyn's voice is rather thick, his lip swollen and seeping blood into his beard. He takes Roland's hand with some gratitude, carefully pincering his broken glasses into the pocket of his robes, and with an obvious effort, struggles to his feet. His chest aches abominably, as does his stomach. Still, a little beating isn't enough to stem his righteous indignation. "Thank you, Roland. Good grief. Somehow, I didn't expect quite such blatant..."

He pauses, partway through smoothing out his beard, and looks down at his fingers. There's blood on them, but that's not what he's looking at. Rather, he's focused on the little piece of dark-speckled eggshell clinging to his fingertip, sticky with egg-white and strung through with little threads of blood.

"Oh," he says, more quietly, and his large blue eyes begin to mist with tears. "Oh, dear."

[ka_sera_sera]

Roland watches a moment, noting that the only thing that'd kept Merlyn speaking against the Capitol even more is the discovery of whatever it is he's looking at now, whatever else it is that beating had broken. He waits a second, giving what Merlyn's just discovered time to sink in, then jerks his head toward the elevators. "Come on," he says, businesslike, and starts toward them. "The training rooms'll have something for those bruises. Anything worse than that anywhere? Can you tell?"

[knittingbackwards]

Merlyn takes a deep, rather rattling breath, and dabs at his eyes with the hem of his sleeve. Maybe not all the eggs are broken, he thinks, without much hope. Maybe one or two may still be able to hatch. Or the hatchlings, if they weren't crushed, maybe they are developed enough to survive out of the egg, given close enough care and attention.

But it seems thoroughly unlikely. With a final dab at his eyes (in itself rather painful, since the bruising is already starting to rise over his eye and nose), Merlyn sighs and follows Roland towards the elevators, leaving his hat and its contents on the floor - he could bend to pick them up, but in his current state, he isn't entirely sure he could get back up afterwards. His back is sending dull, sullen throbs of pain out across his hips. He hobbles rather than walking, moving slowly and gingerly.

"My wrist may be broken," he allows, looking down at it. "At the very least, sprained. And I do believe I dislocated my hip. The perils of old age, when the falling does more damage than the beating..." Especially to the poor sparrow hatchlings. He looks at the egg white on his fingertips again, and heaves a sigh.

[weaintashes]

The Peacekeepers and Daryl cross paths with mutual indifference, his eyes not so much as flickering toward them as he makes his way through. What does catch his notice is the crumpled form on the floor, an ancient old codger by the looks of him, whom the majority of the gathered crowd watches as one might observe an especially interesting insect. Detached, apathetic. No one is inclined to help.

It's profoundly unsurprising.

"What's all this?" He moves toward the figure without hesitation, pausing beside him to take in the bystanders. Some are already losing interest now that the entertainment's over, returning to their inane chatter, their drinks. "Nah, lemme guess," he mutters dryly as he stoops to get a better look at the fellow, "you expressed an opinion."

And had the misfortune of presenting himself as an easy target, if he's truly as frail as he looks. Not keen on grabbing at him and potentially worsening the situation, Daryl refrains and instead offers an arm to help the man stand. "Unless you're hungry, let's pass on the meat. I can round up somethin' better."

[knittingbackwards]

"Multiple opinions. In close proximity." Merlyn winces, unfolding himself to take the proffered arm, and, steadying himself on it, carefully starts to get to his feet. At one point, he accidentally puts weight on his other hand, and sucks in a sharp breath, wincing visibly. "Dear me. Definitely some muscular damage, there. Ouch."

But he manages to get on his feet eventually, dusting off his robes and giving Daryl a little nod. "Thank you, young man. I - ah! - I appreciate the help. Goodness knows the milk of human kindness runs a little thin around here." Letting go of the younger man's arm, he reaches up to probe cautiously at his split lip, which is swelling at an impressive rate, and the bruises starting on his eye and cheek. "Be a good chap, would you, and get my hat? I'm quite sure I could get down there to pick it up, but not so sure I could stand again, you know?"

[weaintashes]

That'll do it. Having an opinion.

In a place whose main form of "entertainment" is children murdering each other in arena death matches — even if the death is no longer permanent or limited to children, now that they've captured offworlders — this is all simply par for the course. An elderly man thrashed in public, no one willing to step in. It's a sorry state of affairs. He wishes he'd gotten there sooner, consequences be damned.

"Yeah. Opinions. Those ain't popular around here." The hat (and its contents) is collected and passed to its owner without comment, though Daryl does look over the man's robes with muted curiosity. Definitely not standard Capitol fare, that. But, then, neither is his own attire — worn jeans, fraying sleeveless shirt underneath a black leather vest. And that's about the easiest method of spotting other Tributes in the tower: the lack of ostentatious clothing.

"Think we'd best get you to your room while you still have your tongue," he suggests with a gesture toward the elevators, and he remains beside Merlyn, again offering an arm, in case he needs assistance walking. He's certainly not looking too good. "What's your District?"

[knittingbackwards]

"Thank you." Dabbing blood off his lip, Merlyn carefully rearranges the contents of his hat and settles it back on his head. He takes a couple of steps, wincing, then gives up on pride and allows the younger man to help him. His back, belly, and ribs are all aching abominably, and the last thing he wants is to fall down again.

"Two," he says after a moment, clearing his throat. "District Two." With a bitter smile (which reopens the split in his lip, and makes him wince), he adds, "I suppose someone thought it frightfully funny, to assign the pacifist to the District which trains the state's hit-squad. That seems to be about the level of wit around here." He frowns, limping towards the elevators.

[conifer]

Emily had seen the Peacekeepers round the corner, smirking to themselves in smug satisfaction, a spray of crimson staining the white of their uniforms. Her blood runs cold, and while she freezes and turns her eyes to the ground as they pass her, the second they're out of sight she follows the direction they'd come from, bracing herself for what she might find.

Merlyn's the last person she expected to see, though given the way he'd criticised the Capitol so openly before, she supposes she shouldn't be surprised. And if the Capitol had been happy to send children to their deaths, beating up an old man shouldn't shock her as much as it does, but she feels sickened. She drops to her knees next to him, finding her hands are trembling as she places them on his shoulders to help him stand.

"Let's get you out of here."

[knittingbackwards]

"I think the eggs are broken," Merlyn says, wiping blood off his lip, and looks up at her. One of his mild blue eyes is already swelling shut, bruises starting to mottle his papery brown skin. "How on earth does one explain that to an expectant mother? She was so glad to find a nest, and now she'll be heartbroken, poor thing."

He smiles sadly, although it looks more like a wince, and lets Emily help him up. When he straightens out his spine, something goes click loudly, and he lets out a little yelp of pain and dismay. His back's always been good to him, considering his age. Now it aches bruisingly all around his hips, a tight knot of pain in his coccyx and another in his gut. He gives up on standing straight, instead bending forwards and holding his damaged wrist against his stomach.

"I would consider it a kindness," he says at last, coughing into his hand, "if you would pass me my hat. Thank you."

[conifer]

"Okay, just hold on here." She guides him over to the wall so he has something to lean on, then wanders back to retrieve his hat. She bites down on her lip, breathing slowly and heavily to try to quell some of the rage she feels, knowing it's the last thing that will be helpful right now. "District Two, right?"

[knittingbackwards]

"Quite right," Merlyn agrees, leaning on the wall and catching his breath. The pain in his back and gut hasn't subsided yet, and so he continues leaning forwards, even as he takes his hat from Emily and settles it carefully back on his head. "Thank you," he repeats, for good measure, and clears his throat. "Yes. Thank you very much, Emily. You won't get into trouble for helping me, will you?"

[lionhearted_victor]

"Raw meat would do nothing, old man," Leonidas stood along the strange old Tribute, eyes locked and strong. "Come on, you're in worse shape than the staff tells me to. You're in District 2, correct?"

Merlyn had been one of those Tribute arrivals that the coach thought to be a joke, a flight of fancy by the Gamemakers. But even he, a man raised in the system that nearly broke the old man, could see that the Peacemakers went too far. But if there was proof that underneath the Career there was a somewhat decent man, it was in the way that Leo handed all those papers and how he sent an Avox to get the lens fixed. "They tell me you had birds in your beard. As stupid as that Offworlder tradition is...are they all right?"

Offworld or not, animals got a free pass from Cora: they were bystanders in this lunatic's mistakes.

[knittingbackwards]

"It isn't a tradition," Merlyn retorted, his huffiness rather spoiled by how thick his voice was, his fat lip making him slur. "She needed somewhere to make a nest, and your stupid city is rather short on those places." But Leonidas' words reminded him of the nest, which in the heat of the moment he had forgotten, and with a sick sense of dread he looked down and started probing at the tangled mess of his beard.

The change in his expression was slow, but immediately obvious; the hardness melted out of his face, replaced by a look of immense grief and guilt as his fingers found, first the sharp edge of a broken shell, and then something slick and warm. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he drew out the crushed sparrow egg, and the chick it had held, limp and bloody in his hand.

"Oh," he said, quietly. "Oh, dear. I'm rather afraid they aren't."

[lionhearted_victor]

The coach sighed and gently took the dead bird from Merlyn's hands, "I suppose you can give it a little funeral or something." He had a bandage come and wrapped the tiny corpse in it, before handing it back, "Even if it never came to be the bird it could have been."

Cora then had two Avoxes help Merlyn stand, not caring if they were too rough, "You've been here long enough, old man, to know that was idiotic. This is not your forum to squawk your opinions, and if you were so intent on making a scandal, there are better ways. You're lucky you're alive."

[knittingbackwards]

Merlyn grimaced, letting himself be helped up, and tucked the dead bird into his sleeve. Although he was struggling to see out of one eye, which was swelling quite impressively, he still managed to fix Leonidas with a sharp glare. "It doesn't seem," he said rather sulkily, "that there is a forum for one's opinions. And I happen to believe it is the duty of every inhabitant of a land to hold opinions, and make them known. That doesn't justify police brutality. Which, by the by, is a sure sign of a government lacking control over its people."

[somegrimshit]

It kills her, really, to have to do nothing to help him. She looks away, but that's the extent of mercy that she can show. She's not heartless, but she's damned practical, and Rochelle is aware that trying to step in would do no one any good. They might give her the same treatment, then do worse to him, just to show her what for. So she does her best to keep a calm, neutral expression on her face, though perfectly manicured nails dug into her hands.

She liked being here. She liked it a lot more than her old world. Here, all she had to do was stay quiet and respectful, and she got comforts beyond even before her world had been driven into a post apocalypse wasteland. She was a survivor, and while she had to be just as careful to survive here as she had in her world...there was something to be said for running water. But damn, then things like this happened, and reminded her that what she saw day to day was nothing but a shiny veneer.

She doesn't come over until the peacekeepers have left, but when she crouches down, it's with a trained eye. She'd never been much good at first aid before, but...Well. She'd learned. Her hands go to his nose, gently pressing against the cartilage, and then pressing her fingers to his side, feeling his ribs. "You really know how to stand out, huh," She murmured to him, voice low. "Can you walk? I can patch you up, but not here. We can go to your suite if you want a little privacy, but the training center is closer."

The urge to lecture him rises up, but she's pretty sure that he got the memo. She'll keep her peace unless he proves otherwise.

[knittingbackwards]

"Oh, privacy!" Merlyn snorts, then winces, because snorting with bruised sinuses is a bad idea. "What I wouldn't give for a little of that around here." Still, he gets slowly to his feet, not without some support from both her and the chair nearby, and leans over the chair back for a moment, wheezing. Something, he's fairly sure, is seriously bruised in his stomach, and his back, where they aimed for his kidneys. His eye and lip are already swelling visibly, as is the line of his cheekbone. He can't say it's a particularly enjoyable experience. It makes him feel drattedly mortal, and drattedly old.

Sighing as he regains some sense of equilibrium, he turns to give his rescuer a rather strained smile. "The training center," he says at length, "ought to do quite well enough. Thank you, young lady."

[somegrimshit]

"Wouldn't we all. But at least the other Tributes wouldn't see." She replied reasonably, helping him up, and to the chair. He was beat up bad, she could tell. She was used to seeing people beat up pretty well, this wasn't too far off from what it was like if a witch caught you. However...Healing here was a little different. Nick and Ellis made it pretty clear to her that there wasn't any chugging down bottles of pills around here.

"Training center it is. Please, lean on me." She said, putting his arm gently around her. "And...if anyone asks and you don't want to tell them, you can say I beat you in training. I could use a few people thinking I'm capable of doing anything but lookin' pretty around here." It was a mild joke, but she threw it out there with a brief smile. Despite her joke, she could feel anger burning in her core, quiet but strong. Children in the arena, not even teenagers, and now the elderly were being thrown in here, too?

But she was used to things not being fair. The Green Flu had come for everyone, too. It didn't discriminate between children, elderly, or anyone else. And those who hadn't gotten turned, well. The people who couldn't fight, they were gone pretty soon. But...she'd hoped this would be somewhat better. Stupid idealism.

"I'll get you an ice pack, and we'll see what we can do for your nose. If anything's serious, we might have to call in a doctor."

[walking_dead_walker]

Kieren stared in shock as the 'peacekeepers' left, leaving the old man in a crumpled heap on the ground. Such an ironic name. After all, he wouldn't call any place where people had to fear that sort of sudden brutality 'peaceful' by any stretch of the imagination. He headed over, nearing the man just as he was asking about meat. Well, Kieren didn't know how good raw meat was for wounds, but he was sure they could get something for him.

"I think they have ice packs in the training center," he said, reaching a hand out to help him up. He might notice that Kieren's hand is cold, as a corpse's hand would be, if he takes it, though Kieren is wearing a thick layer cover-up over his rotting flesh to make his appearance less startling. "I could walk you there if you'd like."

[knittingbackwards]

"Ah, yes. Yes. Ah." Merlyn frowned, taking Kieran's hand gratefully and carefully getting to his feet. He felt horribly fragile and old, as though his bones had chosen this moment to fossilise, or maybe bypass the process altogether and turn into chalk. "An ice pack would do admirably. Ugly haemorrhages, though, I daresay. They aren't a particularly gentle people here."

From the fact that he was still steadying himself on Kieran's arm, it was probably a safe bet that he meant to take the younger man up on his offer to walk him there. "Certain give to the flesh," he muses, as he starts towards the elevators, and looks at Kieran, one eye swelling significantly. "The oiliness of make-up, the faint smell. Are you ill, young man?"

[walking_dead_walker]

"No, they certainly are not."

It was quite the understatement. Kieren wouldn't consider the people back home to be particularly gentle. Here they were outright brutal. He gladly helped the elderly man as they walked toward the elevators.

"I'm not ill, precisely. I'm dead. Partially, anyway. I was dead, but I got back up, it's...something that can happen where I'm from. The make-up is to make my flesh look...well, a bit more lively."

[theflyingone]

There was no question about whether Altaïr would stand back or jump into the fray on the opposite end of the Commons area. Saving old scholars was what he did—well, apart from murdering corrupt officials. Yes, he knew that he couldn't save every person in distress, and yes, he knew that beating down a few guards was only a flimsy bandage on a much bigger problem. But he was arrogant and idealistic enough to try anyway.

Unfortunately for the both of them, he arrived on the scene too late. The Peacekeepers were already walking away and leaving the old man crumpled on the floor. Altaïr kept a steady eye on them and used the crowd as cover should they decide to double back and target him as well. He edged forward, pulling up the hood of his strange modern jacket out of habit.

He bent and offered his arm, dark eyes assessing what he could see of his injuries (past the beard).

"You may sit and rest if you wish, but so many eyes on you cannot be pleasant."

There was still a choice to stay or go, even if Altaïr didn't phrase suggestions in the form of questions. His instinct was to take him and hide, even if he knew that the far-seeing reading stones, the cameras, were always watching.

[knittingbackwards]

"No, well." Merlyn frowned, tucking the broken spectacles into his robes, and took the proffered arm gingerly. There was a dull, throbbing ache in his face, a sharper pain in his wrist and gut. When he moved, it was with great caution, but even so, several new bruises and cuts made themselves known as soon as he shifted. They'd been more thorough than he'd realised. Grimacing, he puller himself to his feet. "Thank you, my boy. I imagine I should... ah! Should find myself something for this dratted wrist, if nothing else. An ice pack would do a great deal, as would a proper poultice, but I should settle for cold water and some lignum vitae."

The Capitol, of course, had far more extensive first-aid kits than that. Merlyn knew that, having investigated them thoroughly out of scientific curiosity. But since the same regime which had orchestrated his injuries was the one supplying those first-aid kits, he wanted to be sure there was something else he could settle for.

Clearing his throat, he looked down at the mess strewn on the floor around him. "I would consider it very kind of you," he said, "if you would fetch me my hat. Perhaps some of the papers out of it, as well. Don't worry about the mouse. I was keeping it for a friend, it isn't important."

[theflyingone]

...Mouse. Right. Altaïr hoped he didn't have any other surprise animals about his person, though he could hardly fault him for befriending them. Altaïr had to be shooed away from the messenger pigeons as a child. He stacked and rolled the papers to fit into Merlyn's hat.

"Hold onto that then, and I will hold onto you should you fall." Lignum vitae? Wood of life? The translators mucking up their languages had left those words unchanged from the Latin, which meant Merlyn was asking for something very specific. But Altaïr was not a physician, nor were New World trees even discovered until centuries after his time.

"The sparring room should have the first things we need. Ice, bandages, a splint. We are captives, but we are also their prized athletes." This was said with a measure of undisguised bitterness, but he colored his words no further. It would be curt, practical sentences until Merlyn was situated.

Merlyn could stand, after a fashion, so Altaïr allowed him that dignity. He slung one of Merlyn's arms around his own shoulders, and wrapped an arm about his waist. As soon as he was stable, another problem presented itself.

"....You will have to tell me how to use the lifting chamber. I've only been using the stairs." He'd not been fond of either mechanical moving rooms, or being in a small space with more button-savvy strangers who could take him wherever they wished. Nevermind he lived on the 11th floor.