A numb and glazed Linden is at least a familiar sight in the Capitol, and has been for years. Seeing him sober is probably like seeing an exposed nerve, which can't be helped by the careful, sore way he moves after a recent abdominal surgery without even an Advil to take the edge off. His eyes swivel back to the Avox, but he can't look at the man for long, and then he shakes his head in a brisk, truncated gesture of denial.
He won't. Of the two of them, he's the most broken and thoroughly programmed. She's the one who still had a trace of herself left.
"You're right, but I'm not supposed to eat this soon after the surgery."
It's a lie, and even though he doesn't even try to make it sound earnest, it's better than the truth, which is that he has no appetite, when his insides squirm to think about the death he directly caused with his health and his habits. When he thinks about the series of events that led up to his transplant, he's not sure he could keep food down, anyway.
"Is that what you do in 10, though? Bring food?" he asks, wincing as he leans back into the couch. "That's very kind. Can I see...?"
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He won't. Of the two of them, he's the most broken and thoroughly programmed. She's the one who still had a trace of herself left.
"You're right, but I'm not supposed to eat this soon after the surgery."
It's a lie, and even though he doesn't even try to make it sound earnest, it's better than the truth, which is that he has no appetite, when his insides squirm to think about the death he directly caused with his health and his habits. When he thinks about the series of events that led up to his transplant, he's not sure he could keep food down, anyway.
"Is that what you do in 10, though? Bring food?" he asks, wincing as he leans back into the couch. "That's very kind. Can I see...?"