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thecapitol2015-08-03 09:41 pm
dead_black_eyes) wrote in thecapitol2015-08-03 09:41 pm
Entry tags:
Our Lives Between... [Open]
Who| Linden Lockhearst and OPEN
What| Encounters and conversations post parental death, Stephen-firing, and partly during his Victor Reel. These last few weeks, man.
Where| D6 suite, a bar, camera stalking in the streets
When| August 3rd, afternoon and into the night
Warnings/Notes| Creepy and potentially disturbing funeral rites, mentions of alcohol and drug use. ALSO the third prompt involves some rebellion-related activity, so PM me if you want to do something with that aside from just bumping into him and talking to him so we can figure out where to go with it!
a. D6 suite
Linden used to know how to spend his time in his District suite. Usually, it wasn't with any greater point or purpose in mind, just the general aim of getting as far away from the world as possible and leaving his tired, numb body behind in bed or on the floor, when even that was simply too much effort. Now, he feels and sees everything in sharp relief and focus. He hadn't felt any hesitation or regret at personally emptying and dumping every one of his stashes, watching his old escape methods slipping and trickling away where they can't do his new liver any harm. If he couldn't protect his mother, he can at least protect the second chance she gave him, whether or not he would have asked for it had he known where the organ was coming from in advance.
His first thought is to talk to Stephen, but Stephen is no longer there. Something turns sour in his stomach at the thought, and he tries to put it from his mind and focus on more productive things.
He could go out, check on the locations of the existing or changed blind spots again and begin the process of relying that information to District 13. Maybe he will once night's fallen proper and he can rely on at least a little cover. For now, though, he sits by the coffee table, and instead of poring over a bottle or pills, he's carefully shaping and pressing cream-colored clay into the rough shape of something that looks like a knuckle bone. He has four real ones strung together with twine beside him for reference, their yellowed, weathered color showing through the paint covering them, with names written in a cramped, spidery black hand.
Shawford, Karem, Arta, Scorpii.
He never learned his mother's name, but at least stand-ins for the real thing are not so uncommon in District 6. Factory accidents can be horrific and frequently mangle hands, sometimes entire bodies. Usually it's left to the oldest surviving member of a family to take this uncomfortable step, one who's too old to work anyway and doesn't need the use of their fingers, but Linden's the only one left in his who can, and he's sure that his mother deserves this much for her sacrifice. Before he can go further with crafting the fascimile, he reaches to open the coffee table's drawer, aware that he needs to make it at least appear to be an accident. He slips the smallest finger in the gap, taking a deep breath and exhaling as he presses the drawer shut with his knee until he hears a soft crunch.
He withdraws his trembling hand, breathing and gritting his teeth through the pain until the endorphins temporarily dull it. As the knuckle swells and turns vibrant, he continues to work on the details, more slowly and clumsily. It's another ache he can't run from, and another nagging reminder that his days of trying are at an end. If he can't live in a cage and he can't anesthetize himself until it no longer feels like a cage, there are only two options left: escape, or die trapped.
b. The Tower Bar, During his Victor's Reel
Many Victors avoid their recaps, revisitations and reels. Linden knows better not to, because to do so would make events like this even more painful to relive. The televisions in the bar are lit up with a wide-eyed face that's his, if younger and fresher, going through the recorded motions of what much of Panem would call his finest moments. Even if the narration states with regret that he is not one of the "shining star" Victors, not one of the "best", he has his fans, and everyone in the Capitol loves a trainwreck. What better place to export them from District 6, cradle of mechanical wonders and addiction alike?
The shabby creature at the bar is not larger-than-life as he watches the footage from the background; these are images he's seen hundreds of times, intentionally growing callous to them while nursing his obsession with Scorpii, and he's glad for it. This most recent set of reels, for every Victor, seems tailored to get reactions and punch holes hard and deep in the leftover human husks, and Linden can't afford many more hard punches. If there's anything at all he's relatively immune to, he's grateful. He holds up a hand when he's offered a drink for the third time, insisting that he'll stick with tea as the reel continues to blare throughout the bar.
He blows softly across the surface of the hot, herbal water, moving his swollen, bruised knuckle away from the heat and adjusting his grip to accommodate it. The reel makes him out to be weak, washed-up and likely not someone the odds will favor much longer. The Capitol sees a different Linden than his contacts in the Rebellion, and he's never been more glad of it.
c. In the City Streets After Dark
Linden doesn't look like himself with the hood of his dark jacket pulled close over his face, and he doesn't want to. He's on his usual rounds, and he hasn't been caught or questioned yet. There's a small signal disrupter he carries with him, painstakingly and secretly built over weeks in other blind spots, strapped to one of his ankles and hidden by a sturdy, soft-soled. If all goes well, the nearby cameras will wind up jammed and scrambled, and there will be a few new blind spots to report to the rebellion.
It's treason, plain and simple, and things will go badly for him if he's identified and his passage is associated with cameras going on the fritz. Things will go worse if he's questioned and searched, but he moves softly and quickly without looking overly suspicious. He moves with enough purpose that he seems to be going somewhere, and he's not loitering or lingering, but that might change depending on who (if anyone) hails him.
What| Encounters and conversations post parental death, Stephen-firing, and partly during his Victor Reel. These last few weeks, man.
Where| D6 suite, a bar, camera stalking in the streets
When| August 3rd, afternoon and into the night
Warnings/Notes| Creepy and potentially disturbing funeral rites, mentions of alcohol and drug use. ALSO the third prompt involves some rebellion-related activity, so PM me if you want to do something with that aside from just bumping into him and talking to him so we can figure out where to go with it!
a. D6 suite
Linden used to know how to spend his time in his District suite. Usually, it wasn't with any greater point or purpose in mind, just the general aim of getting as far away from the world as possible and leaving his tired, numb body behind in bed or on the floor, when even that was simply too much effort. Now, he feels and sees everything in sharp relief and focus. He hadn't felt any hesitation or regret at personally emptying and dumping every one of his stashes, watching his old escape methods slipping and trickling away where they can't do his new liver any harm. If he couldn't protect his mother, he can at least protect the second chance she gave him, whether or not he would have asked for it had he known where the organ was coming from in advance.
His first thought is to talk to Stephen, but Stephen is no longer there. Something turns sour in his stomach at the thought, and he tries to put it from his mind and focus on more productive things.
He could go out, check on the locations of the existing or changed blind spots again and begin the process of relying that information to District 13. Maybe he will once night's fallen proper and he can rely on at least a little cover. For now, though, he sits by the coffee table, and instead of poring over a bottle or pills, he's carefully shaping and pressing cream-colored clay into the rough shape of something that looks like a knuckle bone. He has four real ones strung together with twine beside him for reference, their yellowed, weathered color showing through the paint covering them, with names written in a cramped, spidery black hand.
Shawford, Karem, Arta, Scorpii.
He never learned his mother's name, but at least stand-ins for the real thing are not so uncommon in District 6. Factory accidents can be horrific and frequently mangle hands, sometimes entire bodies. Usually it's left to the oldest surviving member of a family to take this uncomfortable step, one who's too old to work anyway and doesn't need the use of their fingers, but Linden's the only one left in his who can, and he's sure that his mother deserves this much for her sacrifice. Before he can go further with crafting the fascimile, he reaches to open the coffee table's drawer, aware that he needs to make it at least appear to be an accident. He slips the smallest finger in the gap, taking a deep breath and exhaling as he presses the drawer shut with his knee until he hears a soft crunch.
He withdraws his trembling hand, breathing and gritting his teeth through the pain until the endorphins temporarily dull it. As the knuckle swells and turns vibrant, he continues to work on the details, more slowly and clumsily. It's another ache he can't run from, and another nagging reminder that his days of trying are at an end. If he can't live in a cage and he can't anesthetize himself until it no longer feels like a cage, there are only two options left: escape, or die trapped.
b. The Tower Bar, During his Victor's Reel
Many Victors avoid their recaps, revisitations and reels. Linden knows better not to, because to do so would make events like this even more painful to relive. The televisions in the bar are lit up with a wide-eyed face that's his, if younger and fresher, going through the recorded motions of what much of Panem would call his finest moments. Even if the narration states with regret that he is not one of the "shining star" Victors, not one of the "best", he has his fans, and everyone in the Capitol loves a trainwreck. What better place to export them from District 6, cradle of mechanical wonders and addiction alike?
The shabby creature at the bar is not larger-than-life as he watches the footage from the background; these are images he's seen hundreds of times, intentionally growing callous to them while nursing his obsession with Scorpii, and he's glad for it. This most recent set of reels, for every Victor, seems tailored to get reactions and punch holes hard and deep in the leftover human husks, and Linden can't afford many more hard punches. If there's anything at all he's relatively immune to, he's grateful. He holds up a hand when he's offered a drink for the third time, insisting that he'll stick with tea as the reel continues to blare throughout the bar.
He blows softly across the surface of the hot, herbal water, moving his swollen, bruised knuckle away from the heat and adjusting his grip to accommodate it. The reel makes him out to be weak, washed-up and likely not someone the odds will favor much longer. The Capitol sees a different Linden than his contacts in the Rebellion, and he's never been more glad of it.
c. In the City Streets After Dark
Linden doesn't look like himself with the hood of his dark jacket pulled close over his face, and he doesn't want to. He's on his usual rounds, and he hasn't been caught or questioned yet. There's a small signal disrupter he carries with him, painstakingly and secretly built over weeks in other blind spots, strapped to one of his ankles and hidden by a sturdy, soft-soled. If all goes well, the nearby cameras will wind up jammed and scrambled, and there will be a few new blind spots to report to the rebellion.
It's treason, plain and simple, and things will go badly for him if he's identified and his passage is associated with cameras going on the fritz. Things will go worse if he's questioned and searched, but he moves softly and quickly without looking overly suspicious. He moves with enough purpose that he seems to be going somewhere, and he's not loitering or lingering, but that might change depending on who (if anyone) hails him.
no subject
It's a small sound and can't contain the enormity of what Linden has just told, but his face does what it can to back it up: irritation bleeds out, softening him and making way for a weaker set to his eyes. He may not know what having human parents is like, but he lost his lusus in a way he put to his own mistakes. And his mother - he has seen her, as Linden's further explanation confirms what he'd suspected.
He trails after him into the kitchen.
"I'm sorry," he says first. "Your culture is still fucked up, don't get me wrong--" Especially now that he knows Linden broke the knuckle himself. "--but that's awful. I saw them around before, but..."
He motions emptily, at a loss for how best to convey it. Linden should know; they're both constricted by the Capitol's eye.
no subject
"Don't be sorry," he says softly. "It is what it is, and it can't be changed. I appreciate your empathy, but... this is unfortunately just one more example of things being the way they are."
He leans against the counter.
"I didn't even know her name. I regret that."
no subject
"What was it like?" he asks, tone similarly softened. "Having a parent who's..." He motions. "You know. Tell me to screw off if I'm asking anything weird, but so long as everything's depressing and you've got a maimed hand to distract yourself from. Trolls just don't have parents, let alone like that."
Besides that, baking the false knucklebone is sure to take some time. Sitting around silently won't make it pass any more quickly.
no subject
He sits against the refrigerator; ordinarily he'd fold himself up like a fortress with his knees tucked against his chest, but his entire torso area is rather tender at the moment, so he settles for stretching them out in front of him.
"They were taken away when I was a child, but they weren't celebrated and remembered like most of our dead. A wealthy family adopted me, pretty customary for children too young to work who've lost their parents. I was a servant and playmate for the other kids in that household, and then when I was old enough to work in the factory, what wages I was allowed to keep went to that family. So it was like being an orphan, which isn't uncommon in 6, but... also not, because when our festivals came around, no one had anything to remember them by. I didn't know their names, or who their friends were, just that they were engineers, one of the best jobs you can get and reserved for the smartest and most ambitious. Otherwise people were tight-lipped, and I guess that's what got me interested in uncovering the truth and finding lost things. If it was a puzzle, or a difficult question, I was in heaven."
He presses the heel of his hand against his temple, which harbors a different kind of ache.
"When I came to the Capitol after getting Reaped I saw them in passing when I was getting off the train. They looked like me. I couldn't have mistaken them even under all that mess and makeup, and they recognized me too. I saw it in the way they looked at me. I thought that if I could win, just... maybe I could do something to help them, but that's the answer to the most difficult question. There's often very, very little that can be done to help. And that's hell," he says quietly. "Knowing the answer, and knowing that there's nowhere else to go."
It's an immensely heavy sentiment, but something about voicing it makes Linden feel lighter, less like it's trapped in his chest and crushing him.
"Thank you," he says to Karkat, without really understanding why.
no subject
He blinks and looks up when Linden thanks him. "What for? I'm just some alien kid who doesn't know what to say after all that, beyond a generic, inadequate, 'holy shit, that sucks.'"
no subject
"You know, sometimes there's nothing to say, and that's all right. Listening means the world. It means that someone actually cares that those things happened, and I'm not crazy for feeling like I've been gutted even more than I literally was."
no subject
He might say more if they weren't being monitored, things about possible rehabilitation or finding ways to communicate. It's enough to talk about missing Avoxes like they can count as people at all, in this place - and that's hard enough when so much of what makes them them is gutted out by the conditioning.
He looks outward, motioning loosely as he speaks. "Like... It's not the same thing, but before I came here, I had some friends I met and knew for about a day. Just a day! But shit went down, to say the least, and because of convoluted reasons I couldn't talk to them for three years, let alone get the chance to meet them in person. But I still missed them, you know? It's a different scale and a different relation, but what I'm saying is I get you, as much as an alien can."
no subject
"They're Avoxes," he says steadily, even though his eyes say that he agrees, that he wants to say it but has to play the part of the politically correct Capitol Mentor. It's true, they really can't talk about them as people. "While you're right, in ways, it's... really more like losing an old photograph than it is like losing a parent. I lost them twenty years ago."
He listens as Karkat relates a story that's similar enough to relate, even if it's loose. "You get me," he repeats, nodding briskly. "Yes, I... think so. That's what I thanked you for, because even without what you added, it's been clear for a little while. I can't imagine how that empathetic streak must have been received by others of your kind."
no subject
He pauses at the last, though, thinking over the comment and how to address it.
"... It wasn't, not always. Trolls aren't supposed to be softhearted and nice, so I played up the asshole streak," he starts in. "If I acted too weak or easy, it would be like inviting someone to take advantage. And I'm a mutant, you know? I would have been culled if that pouncebeast ever clawed out of the carrying sack. So I had to keep people at a distance until I felt like I could put trust in them."
It's a more open admission than he'd normally opt for, but it used to be that even using his own blood color to type with was too much for him, even in a conversation with himself alone. Here, blood doesn't matter. His mutation is public knowledge between the media and the Signless's victory. There's no point denying his empathy after he just doled it out willingly, either.
He motions broadly, indicating a group. "That kind of happened gradually once I started leading my team - my friends - in this game before I came here. And a lot of them had romance problems, and hey, romance is my fruity breakfast condiment. I was there to listen and sort their shit out, and it kind of became a regular deal. It... didn't last indefinitely." A frown crosses his face. "But I steadily laid off some of the more overt douchebag act, because who knew it's easier to keep friends if you aren't being a thorny frond whap to the face all the time?"
no subject
"I know that you like romance..." he agrees, latching onto something that he personally finds entertaining about the Troll. It's not even mean-spirited, just unexpected that the small, loud, crude Troll would be so fascinated with something so sappy and delicate. It's not even sex, it's romance, something that Linden more associates with blushing, grinning girls like Torin's niece Felicity.
"I'm glad that you were able to find some people that valued who you were, and not who you had to pretend to be to fit into the world you came from. Living a lie isn't natural, and an aversion to that might be something that our two races have fully in common."
no subject
That phrasing draws his thoughts even still. Things in common, talk of races... It's obvious that here Linden would have to act a way to fit in, given the disparity of hating the games but not wanting the Capitol to know it. Karkat's been through the whole song and dance himself. But Linden is a human still, and a Districter at that.
He almost nudges him with an elbow, then thinks better, turning the movement into no more than a gesture.
"Tell me about your culture, then. Getting reaped is the same as culling, and you've got your weird bone necklaces and whatever--so what else?"
no subject
"My culture?" he sounds tired and uncertain. "Hm. Well, there are a few things... I probably shouldn't be telling you this so soon, but I don't see the harm in it. I've been selected as August's guest speaker for the Youth Programme, so... I suppose you'll get to hear all about it then, and it'll be a version of it I've actually had time to put together and make coherent. It can be difficult to talk about 6 without going off on a lot of disparate tangents."
whoops, I meant "isn't the same as" above, not is
His eyebrows lift. "You are? I'll look forward to it. Even if it's all..." He trails off, motioning loosely. Complete propaganda wouldn't go over well with whatever security is listening in on them. "You know. School-appropriate stuff."
His gaze slips away again as his arms cross. "It's weird as hell going to schoolfeeding like this--the Youth Programme, whatever. I didn't think we would need to be educated for the grand go off and fight to the death thing, but surprises never cease in the Capitol, and I can't say I've learned nothing. And there's these letters we can write. My--what do you call them? Pencil friends? One of them is from District 6."
o/
"Even if it's all," he agrees flatly. "I don't know. You might be surprised. Maybe not. I think you'll certainly learn something useful, though, so don't make any judgments about my chance to teach the Capitol's youth until you've actually heard what I'm going to say."
He's quietly thoughtful about it. With Linden, that frequently hints at trouble, but he doesn't say more on the subject.
"You have a District 6 pen pal? Who is it? I might know them."
no subject
He nods next. "Maglev. She's 18, just started working in the factories. She was worried about... about losing her hands, but she's kept them so far." His lips press flat for a moment. "There's a boy, too, Cable, around her age, but I only wrote to him because of her."
no subject
"Maglev?" he squints, staring straight ahead and trying to match the name to a face. "Cable... hm. Unfortunately, I haven't been in District 6 sober for quite some time. If she's 18, probably not since she was around four or five years old. I regret that more than ever now, because I wish I could tell you something about them."
no subject
With a sigh, he lets his posture slump. "But here I am, talking about inane junk while we wait for your thing to bake." His gaze slips over. "Obviously we're killing time here. What about your past? Want to leave me to see the Capitol take when your Victor Reel comes up, or can I ask? I never did bother to watch your arena. Not beyond maybe a glance that time before the snowy one."
He'd peeked through several back then, not stopping long enough to note participants, but looking more for environmental clues. The one time Linden had told him to look, they had been in the middle of an argument, besides.
no subject
"It's not inane. Honestly, the company's... it's better than this would be alone," he admits, voice tight as he looks sown at his hand again. "And my past..." he sighs heavily, breathing through the pain. "I guess you're one of the people who would care, aren't you? Even if you never bothered to watch the Arena."
He takes a second to gather and organize his thoughts. "My life wasn't really exciting before I was Reaped. I was small enough even as a teenager to clean machines in the factories, so that was my job. Because I was an orphan, I lived as a servant in a wealthy household and they garnished my factory wages in return for putting a roof over my head. I was kind of lazy... I read a lot. I talked to the Peacekeepers and asked them about the Capitol, the other Districts, pretty much anything they would tell me about anywhere that wasn't the desert. Then I got Reaped and... well, what happened between then and now is my Arena, obviously, and a whole lot of thinking about Him. There was someone in my Arena who meant something to me; it wasn't love, but it was some kind of completion, and I haven't felt that way since. His name was Scorpii. I guess, going by your absurd terms, you might say he was... Kismesis?"
no subject
The story is interesting in the uncomfortable way of knowing it's a real person's past and issues. He listens well, holding off comment, until at the end he perks automatically as Linden describes Scorpii. Even if not for the quadrant, he'd be curious.
"Suck my bulge. Our terms are amazing, and your romance is crap." He rings it off like something obligatory, no honest ire beyond the facade. "But maybe. Kismesissitude is all about rivalry, about pushing each other to just try and be better, to one up each other. It's something you can't get from a... I would say matespritship, but let's say standard human relationship for you stunted apes." He rolls his eyes and moves on.
"What did you feel about him? How did he act with you?"
no subject
As for Scorpii... well, given Karkat's known areas of interest, Linden would be lying if he said he didn't at least have a feeling that he'd latch onto this subject.
"I'll pass, as far as 'sucking your bulge' goes," he says dryly. "And that actually sounds about right. We met and I can't say that we were in love; I don't actually think I've ever been, even..." he shakes his head, not wanting to bring up Nill. What's the point? "He taught me how to play chess. He was everything I'm not but... I kind of wish I was. Smooth. Charming. Confident. The kind of person who can just wrap others around their fingers and toy with them without their realizing it. Not that I want that, but... just having the ability is so awe-inspiring. It's a kind of weapon, I guess, and Victors always want weapons, so I don't exactly blame myself. But while I think I would have slept with him, and definitely dreamed about it in my Arena in perhaps the most embarrassing way possible for a human, it wasn't hard to kill him either. It was like a reflex. We killed each other and I just lasted longer by a couple of seconds."
He looks down at the bone in his hands, just a part of the chain of other important people who have died in his life.
"I don't know if I really believed what he said about trying to get out together. Part of me definitely knew it was bullshit, but you know... it made being in the Arena a little less terrible, to hold onto that beautiful lie. We said we could be friends; we said we could be more. It eased a lot of things for awhile."
no subject
The rest is interesting, and he settles willingly into listening, considering each bit as it passes his ears. It's not standard, but that's expected, and the environment affected it in ways clear even to a first-time listener.
"The killing part isn't normal, but I can hardly bitch about that with the arena at your backs." It would have been inevitable, one way or another. "If you were trolls, it probably would have been black. You would have won sponsors for it and everything."
He pauses, thinking more. "I could say more if I had seen how it went down, but even I'm aware it would be pretty fucking weird to just sit down and go through your almost-death just to see how hypothetically shippable you might have been with what's now dead and buried. If you hadn't had the arena to worry about, who knows what might have happened."
no subject
"Well... in all fairness, we weren't normal. Not by any standards in this world or yours, I'd wager," Linden sighs. "And don't worry... everyone's seen my almost-death, including me. Many times. I've watched it with others and I've watched it alone and it's literally in the triple digits. I have my Games memorized... I've been accused of being obsessed with them, and while I don't agree with that, I think it's the most alive I've ever felt. Even if it's dead and buried... the memory of that excitement and vitality isn't and I think I've been trying to feel something like it ever since."