I Ran So Far I Could Hardly Breathe [Open]

[clotting]

WHO| Temple Drake-Stevens and anyone in or visiting D8!
WHAT| Temple gives the D8 Tributes a very Temple gift.
WHERE| D8 Suite
WHEN| Before the reaping for the mini-Arena.
WARNINGS| Underage alcohol use, classist idiocy, Temple's special brand of stupid. Sexual assault topics will be warned within the thread subject headers.



Temple Drake would have hidden under the covers at the Mentor highlight reel that went up about her last night after she got off work. She would have stayed there all day, chewing on her fingernails until the manicure came off between her teeth, snot-nosed with her knees together and her hair in a mat of red curls and dried tears, knowing that every person who sees her on the street tomorrow will be thinking of how she was there on the television, helpless and violated and pathetic and scared.

But Temple Stevens, Temple thinks, that woman that the girl emulates more than she actually is, isn't fazed by the violence of the Games or anything that happened in them, and she has a job to do, or at least to pretend to do in valiant Capitol fashion. And so Temple, the person she is and the person she wants so badly to be together, gets out of bed in the morning and dresses in something not even a Mentor could afford on their own dime. Pearls drip down the dress and the fur feels as if luxury itself is giving her an embrace. Her impossibly high shoes, which with six-inch heels bring her to a grand total five and a half feet, click as she walks from her car the valet has parked to the elevator, and her five year-old son, on a leash and tended to by an Avox nanny, keeps the pace. She politely grins and waves at the few people between the curb and her workplace who tell her they saw her on TV last night.

Temple Stevens isn't fazed at all. She is the protective armor, fortified by wealth and fashion and charm, that no past can break down, no matter how many times it's regurgitated for the media.

However, for the sake of having something else to talk about when she gets to District Eight, she's had a gift for her Tributes (some of whom she hasn't even met!) installed in the Suite living room: a fondue fountain that, split into tiers, provides a constant stream of cheese, chocolate and bourbon, with Temple's favorite being the last one. It's not enough to keep burly men fed, but hopefully it'll cheer them up a little.

Throughout the day, Temple can be found letting her kid (who mostly sleeps and plays in Temple's private Mentor suite) sample bourbon-soaked angel-bread from the fountain, dropping little nuggets of wisdom like "I noticed when you make an Avox get down on all fours they have the same number of legs as a table - don't you think that means they were made to serve?" on anyone who wanders in, and very occasionally trying to order Sponsor gifts for the next Arena in between testing new pairs of shoes and trying out different earrings in the communal bathroom.

Comments

[foundafamily]

Firo tries his best to avoid all the Arena footage and reruns he can, playing up his status as a technologically impaired foreigner to avoid offending his hosts. All the same, it’s a little hard to remain completely ignorant when the damn screens are everywhere, so he did catch a few snippets. More than enough to be even more nauseated by the Capitol, because he definitely needs that. He figures the best he can do for her--and given that she’s a Districter, he’s actually inclined to be more charitable--is to forget about it all.

Master of repression and denial that he is, even that task is a bit difficult, so her distractions are almost welcome. He pauses to nod his greeting when he steps out into the common area the next day, eyes widening perceptibly at... well, the whole thing. His garb is as plain as it always is, the closest kind of thing he can find to what people wear back home; in his mind, he's not underdressed, everyone else is overdressed.

There's a lot to wonder at, but the one his eyes happen to fix on is the kid leash. To a guy who spent his childhood running wild in a slum, he can’t conceive of a single reason to do that to a child, unless perhaps they’re being punished for something.

He meanders to the bourbon fountain. “Hey. What’s the matter with your kid?”

To his credit, he asks it about as politely and mildly as such a question can be asked.

[clotting]

"There's nothing wrong with him," Temple says coldly, suddenly more defensive than even that tactless question should warrant. She has her reasons - her daughter with the congenital defect, the what-was-wrong-with-her that no one, supposedly, could have helped - was cremated only a few months ago, and it's not the meaning of the question so much as the wording that makes Temple's eyes go sharp and icy, pupils constricting down, or her voice drop from that flighty melodic wisp to something sharp and low. She says this all even before she turns and sees who it is who's joining her.

Her sudden sharpness tempers itself a little when she realizes it's one of her Tributes, one of the ones she hasn't met yet. She hands Bailey a shot glass with a few spoonfuls of bourbon and melted chocolate in it and then returns to paying attention to Firo.

"Well, you certainly didn't dress to impress, did you? Never mind that, Jolie will get you set up in something lovely when she gets back from vacation." She holds a hand out, giving Firo a smile that is generally considered pretty charming. "I'm Temple Stevens. You probably know I'm here to help you win, right?"

[foundafamily]

Firo raises both eyebrows, as if Temple is clearly the strange one for getting offended. Even when she seems to soften, it doesn't even occur to him to apologize or otherwise make nice. "He's bein' yanked around on a string, lady."

The comment about his clothes makes his scowl twitch into an even harsher scowl, but he doesn't respond. Jolie, at least, got him accustomed to insults about his fashion sense.

He shrugs. "If that's how you wanna put it." He has no intention of winning--at least, not until he's done all he can to help his friends win first and he's pretty sure that work won't end soon. He returns her gesture, his handshake hasty and gentle as opposed to the tryhard grip he gives most men. "Firo Prochainezo. What's all this for?"

He assumes she's following the Swann strategy of staffing and the fountain is some sort of trap to lure them into talking Arena stuff and the like. The booze is appealing at least, though he can't say he cares for the excess that's so common here. There's something embarrassing about it.

[clotting]

"Yes, that's so he doesn't run off while I'm working." Temple's aware, as a Districter, that the practice of leashing one's child is something that strikes some people as strange, but Temple has long stopped caring about what people like Districters think about Capitol habits. There are some people she's trying to fit in with and impress, and no one who still has a chance at participating in an Arena, or having their kin do so, is among that number. This is as much justification as she'll give him.

"Firo," Bailey says, pointing at Firo, one of his favorite Tributes, with a huge grin on his face. Temple pats his head and holds him back from getting his chocolatey hands all over Firo.

"This," she says, gesturing to the fountain, peppy and polite again, "is because it's dreadfully boring in this District Suite, and I didn't want to have to keep sending the Avox down to refill my flask. Of course, you can have some too. I was hoping to lighten up the place around here, since everyone's so sullen and brooding all the time."

Also, she hates her husband, and leaps on any chance to put a dent in his bank account.

[voiceinthephone]

Hearing a lady speak so callously about human beings unnerved the hell out of Phillip when he got off the wrong floor from training. That kid was barely out of diapers and the indoctrination was already taking over and- is that bourbon!?. More than just his old manager self coming out, Gray was pretty damn sure the instincts he had when taking care of Vivi came out in strides. He shouldn’t meddle, he really shouldn’t but he had to say something.

"Uh, I suppose...but then how do they serve if they're not on their feet?" Why is he questioning the logic of this Capitolite, he will never know but it'd be rude to ignore her. He also can't let his own feelings about Avoxes get to him...lest he be called seditious. "Are you sure your son should be having that? Is he teething?" It's not until he remembers some of the latest Mentor reel that he realizes who this person is. Let's just say that while Phone Guy's ready for Freddy but not quite ready for Temple Stevens-Drake.

[clotting]

"You could use them as a footrest!" Temple says cheerily, taking a shot glass from the tower next to the fountain and getting herself a little bit. She looks over at Phil with a broad smile, as if all of television hadn't just shown her painful history last night. There's something not quite manic about her, but disconnected, as if she's operating on a slightly different plane than reality.

"You're one of Linden's, aren't you? He's said such nice things about you. I'm glad he has a District that's treating him well instead of fighting him every step of the way." She takes her shot of bourbon and sets the glass down, then holds out her hand. "Bailey's fine, he teethed three years ago. I'm Temple Stevens, staff for District Eight. Linden's a friend of mine."

[voiceinthephone]

To say that Temple operated in a time and space that was not Gray's seemed to be accurate as he could see her down the glass and not feel a thing. It's impressive to say the least. Phil takes her hand and gives it a good and firm shake.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Stevens, miss!" he does try to give Temple the benefit of the doubt when she says she's Linden's friend. His mentor spoke at length at how this particular mystery friend enabled their mutual addictions and allowed themselves to get this bad.

"I'm honored he'd speak so positively..." Gray's face gained a slight pink hue in actual pride before he spotted the drunk boy. "I think the little mister over there would use a nap before he goes out to play again. Is he in school?" Kids were an easier topic for Phone Guy to talk about than himself.

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden drifts toward 8 as he tends to on slower days when his duties as a Mentor aren't as pressing. While his District scrambles to get by without an Escort, he's admittedly had less time than usual, but after the Victor Reel featuring Temple, he knows that he has to make some. Just because he has willingly watched his Arena's tapes dozens of times just to see Scorpii's face and guard himself against the vulnerability that comes from having the scenes sprung on him unexpectedly doesn't mean that every Victor has, and who has a reason to be avoidant about their Arena if not Temple?

The scene that greets him when he enters District 8's suites is like something out of a manic, disjointed dream after too much wine. He walks past the fondue fountain but is distracted by a leashed little boy standing next to it popping a bourbon-soaked piece of angel's food cake into his mouth alongside... another bourbon-soaked piece of angel's food cake. He thinks he can hear Temple in the bathroom and the click of shoes or jewlery.

"Bailey..."

He swiftly grabs and dunks a larger piece of cake in the chocolate part of the fondue, hoping that it will serve as an acceptable distraction and replacement as he works to pry the more adult refreshments away from him, kneeling to wipe his face, talking softly and reassuringly in the rambling and uncertain way characterstic of people who are more accustomed to making messes rather than cleaning them up.

"You don't want that. Trust me, you want this one, it's better." He scrabbles for another piece to soak in chocolate and pop in his own mouth, noting the slightly unfocused way Bailey's eyes follow his movements. "It's really good, see? Oh, for fuck's sake, where is your mother?"

Though Linden was more muttering to himself rather than asking for an answer from Bailey, the boy points to the bathroom, happily chirping "Shoes." Then, grinning, he repeats "Fuck's sake!"

"Don't say that." He grapples for a moment with whether to leave Bailey with an Avox, but he picks him up and carries him to the bathroom, wondering if Temple can even see past the dazzling facade she wears to hide her trauma.

"I've something of yours, Temple," he says, standing in the doorway. "His breath doesn't smell like Gowan's, which should please you."

[clotting]

"Oh, Bailey!" Temple whirls around in a shimmer of pearls and mink and clicks over to grab her child, who's getting nearly too big for someone her size to tote around. She wipes away some of the chocolate and alcohol-soaked crumbs from around his face. "I thought I told that Avox to keep an eye on him. I'll have to get Fairweather to come around and do a tune-up."

She sets her son down, frowning at the wet splashes on the sleeves of his shirt. "Oh, look, Bailey, I thought I told you to use the toothpicks, not your hands. Come on, say thank you to Uncle Linden for the ride. Manners are everything."

"Did you bring me things, Uncle Li'dden?" Bailey asks, and Temple rolls her eyes and shakes her head, as if she has no idea where he got that materialistic streak from. She turns her attention back to Linden, a hand on the back of her son's neck as if she's guiding him from the base of his skull. When she looks at Linden, a little more of that self-awareness appears, because he's one of the few people who has the keys past the glittering exterior.

"I'm glad to see you today, Linden. How have you been, since your discharge?"

[dead_black_eyes]

The glare cast on Temple is very nearly blinding; Linden practically has to squint when she turns to greet them. He's taller and has an easier time holding the five-year-old, but he releases Bailey easily when Temple snatches him back and wipes at his face. He ignores the comment about the Avox, pushing down the lingering sensitivity toward the subject of Tower Avoxes and watching numbly as she fusses superficially over her tipsy child.

Almost automatically, Linden produces a small wrapped present that contains a small and relatively challenging jigsaw puzzle, handing it over without taking his eyes off the woman who is, to those who can see it, in a state of utter mental disarray. Bailey is spoiled, but Linden can't complain when he enables it just as much as his mother, but he at least tries to give him objects that are more than baubles, encouraging creativity and inventiveness rather than the passive entertainment so many Capitolite children expect from their toys.

"I'm supposed to take it easy, but I find myself rescuing more stray children from the destructive forces of alcohol than I've been formerly known to, for starters. It's as if the second I'm allowed to stop worrying about one thing, another rears its head and demands my involvement."

This shouldn't be my responsibility, it should be yours, even if things are going pear-shaped and you are both permitted and expected to be a little bit psychotic tonight.

"Temple... if you needed help, you should have asked. Not everything can be handed off to Avoxes, there are certain concepts they just don't grasp. Who should and shouldn't imbibe is one of them, they're too strongly programmed to give people what they ask for and not stand in their way. That extends to children."

Another contributor, no doubt, to why Capitolite kids are spoiled so filthy rotten.

[cigne]

Swann is, for lack of a better term, exhausted. She's flicked back into her bad habits of not sleeping or eating, first because she's so busy, and second because she doesn't feel like doing either without Jason. She drops by his house as much as she can, but with her Escort duties, helping to pick up some of the slack from Seven, and planning Caroline's funeral, Swann's already stretched thinner than usual. Even her dressing has taken a toll, becoming simpler to ease her morning routine (although no less stylish or precious).

She's been at the desk in the Escort suite all day, working across multiple screens at every task on her list, jotting notes down in leatherbound notebooks of varying colors. Rick's photoshoot schedule for Ultio, florist quotes for the funeral, questions to ask Jack about the captain's quarters of the miniature ship that's being built for him. No one else will be able to read her writing or understand her shorthand.

Finally, she dozes off sitting up, for just a second, then realizes that she can't put off a nap any longer, and she needs someone to cover the calls. Swann rubs her forehead as she heads out toward the common area, only to find Bailey alone and trying to scoop bourbon out of the fountain with his hands.

"Oh, no no no, sweetheart, we don't do that," she says, scooping the child up and handing him off to an Avox before hunting around for Temple. It's not that hard to follow the sound of shoes hitting the floor.

"For Snow's sake, Temple," Swann sighs, standing in the doorway and rubbing her forehead again. "Can we not put liquor where small children can get to it? And can you not do this at home? Aren't your personal Avoxes better for this?"

[clotting]

"Oh, Swann!" Temple smiles at her coworker, peppy and benign and clueless, and sets down the diamond-studded heels she was checking for scuff-marks (a slight tear along the stiletto, which means they'll have to be replaced). "Don't worry about Bailey, he doesn't even like the taste of alcohol. Doesn't take after either of his parents, thank goodness."

The fact that she actually believes that, while her five year-old is hiccuping on the couch the next room over, shows how incredibly little attention she's been paying.

"You look exhausted, dear. Do you want me to cover the phones for you?" It's one of the tiny, almost imperceptible tells that Temple isn't actually a Capitolite that when she notes that Swann looks tired, there isn't a hint of condescension or judgment. Temple's whole world looked tired until she came here, and her instinct is always to react with sympathy before revulsion, no matter how many years she spends in high society.

[cigne]

Even Swann, sweet and kindly and complimentary, has it programmed into her to have that small judgment in her voice, that backhanded comment just as natural as breathing. If she were less tired, she'd notice the lack of it in Temple, but as it is, she's ready to drop where she stands, and she's also distracted by and worried about the drunken toddler in the living room.

"Well, be that as it may, he's still playing in the liquor and getting himself covered in it," Swann answers, hoping that Temple might at least care about Bailey's appearance. "He smells like he bathed in there."

She sighs and leans against the doorframe. "I just... Just for an hour or so, okay? You don't even have to do anything except take a message and tell them I'm in a meeting. I just need to take a quick break. Is that okay, Temple?"

[whittlingnickels]

Augustus Sinclair was merely making his visits to the tower, to check on Swann and maybe some tributes in actions. Delta, his personal Avox was back at the office, cumbersome pup couldn't come lest he trips on something.

Seeing a young child try their hand at bourbon isn't nearly as surprising for the man who, for a time, served the upper families of the Capitol. He merely takes the sweet treat away and gives Bailey one that isn't going to smack a grown man to a brief coma. "Child, yer gonna grow up into a drunkard like your mother or a medical miracle," Augustus chuckled, his brand of humor poking through, "I pray it's the latter." There's no way to avoid District 8's mentor if he's already got money with Swann...

Spotting the bent Avox, he uttered something about Fairweather's patience being infinite or Temple's attention span to be minuscule.

"I take it you're takin' full advantage o' the Center's resources, Mrs. Stevens?" There was Dynasty stupidity and then there's this. He was already sending a message to his assistant to cancel his lunch meeting with the Northern Panem Bank, he was going to be here a while.

[clotting]

"Oh, the fountain? No, I paid for that on my own dime. Well, my husband's. It was a little much for a staff salary." Temple looks up from where she's examining the Avox's posture and bats her long, feathered lashes at Sinclair before getting up from one of the District Eight floor pillows.

"Mr. Sinclair. I've heard plenty about you, but never had the honor." She holds a hand out to shake, which she knows would be a faux-pas for most Districters to do to a Capitolite, but Temple radiates an aura of being exactly where she's supposed to be, a certain confidence or brashness that makes her seem so at home among high society that to remember she's actually from the Districts seems an odd triviality rather than a gamechanger.

[whittlingnickels]

Sinclair may be from the lower families in the Capitol but even he knows that, as much as Temple may try to brush away and hide it in high fashion, she's still a Districter. A Districter who married into big money and now paints herself as the top of the crown. Victors come and go, but it seems this one's here to stay.

The entrepreneur took his damn time shaking that hand, mostly because he had to set an example for the half-conscious child that was more Capitolite than her mother ever wanted to be. Treat those lesser of you with respect, make them feel important, Grandfather Marcus used to say, his altruism marked with the ebb and flow of Capitol charity. Augustus would add, But remind them of their place.

"I'm sure it's an honor to have a Victor in my presence as well. I'm charmed to make the acquaintance of Stevens' darlin' wife an' child."

[drinkupmehearties]

Jack wanders into the Suite's living area with that well-known and ever-present swaying step of his, pausing to consider the scene laid out. There's a lightness to his eyes that's a touch faded and frayed, and a cheerfulness that's striving to fully make it's way to his face as the pirate approaches the fountain.

He's not distraught in the least over the kid sampling from the booze portion; it wasn't uncommon for children to take a sip of wine or beer back in his time, and thus Jack didn't have much of a problem with it now. He'd plainly just never seen a fondue fountain before, and so leaned a bit forward to, yes, experimentally prod a finger in the waterfall of alcohol then give it a taste.

"Blimey. What manner of madness is this?" It's spoken with mild amusement, and Jack's gaze slips over to Temple.

[clotting]

"Oh, Jack!" Temple turns around from where she's been leafing through a magazine, causing a flash of glimmering from the hem of her skirt up to her waist. "This is a permanent addition to the District Eight Suite! Oh, I'm sorry, I should have put rum instead of bourbon in it, I know that's your favorite-"

She rushes over to him with a few clicks of her high heels, leaving the magazine on the floor for an Avox to clean up, and (straining even in her heels to reach his face) gives him a quick kiss on each cheek. They haven't seen much of each other since their ill-fated first encounter, but she's already fond of him, as she is of most of her Tributes her. Maybe it's the chance at resurrection that allows her to feel more than guarded pre-emptive grief with this batch of Tributes. Maybe she's just reaching out towards anyone with a pulse in the wake of burying her daughter.

"Do you like it? Oh, and you haven't met my son, have you? Bailey, this is Captain Jack."

"You're on my bed," Bailey says, jamming another chocolate-covered piece of cake in his mouth.

"He has a pillow with your face on it, he means," Temple clarifies.

[drinkupmehearties]

The motion of her skirt draws his gaze, and there's a few seconds as his attention openly lingers. But then Temple sweeps up to greet him, and when she pulls back his mouth is spread into an amiable grin.

"Aye it's beyond lovely, darlin'. You've done a fine job." Rum would've been better over bourbon, of course, but Jack isn't about to complain when she'd just had an easy access fountain of booze installed in the Suite -- especially since the Tribute credit lines had been cut off and he'd had to be more cautious with dumping his money on alcohol. The tighter money became, the more Jack tried to convince himself that food wasn't so important.

"Is there reason for it?" He snags a shot glass off the nearby table and slips it beneath the stream, filling the glass as Temple introduces her son. "And not as of yet, I'm afraid." Jack replies, smoothly downing the shot. He doesn't have much experience with children beyond brief, forgettable encounters, and so doesn't do much but eye the kid curiously with a perk of his brow.

A pillow. With his face on it. Odd enough, but it's the Capitol so not incredibly surprising. "The lad's a fan, eh?"

[aintyourdad]

Joel has been around long enough to mostly be able to hide the what fresh hell is this? expression on his face whenever he enters the suite common area to find one of the mentors or escorts has done something outrageous.

But a child drinking bourbon is a new one, even for him.

It's with the long-held instinct of a father that he gently takes the kid's shoulder and steers him away from the offending fountain, a slight frown on his face as he digs around for something more productive he can do.

"I know there's some coloring books around here somewhere," he mutters, scooting papers off a table. He gives a glance to the woman who appears to have set everything up. "Is he yours? You wanna keep a better eye on him, lady."

[clotting]

"Excuse me?" Temple looks up from the fashion catalog where she's been marking down her next week of outfits and telling an Avox to put in orders for her. There's a coldness to her tone, an animal defensiveness that seems out of place for a Capitol woman, too brutish and vulnerable. It's a tone Temple would never use if she weren't in mourning for her other child, if her mothering abilities weren't in such question.

She turns her chair around, where she's perched like a caricature of a businesswoman, one leg crossed over the other, feet pointed even in their heels.

"I have an Avox looking after him. That's their job, not yours, Joel." She raises her chin a bit and tries to shake off the offense. "By the way, it's about time we met.

(Her son grabs one of the clothing magazines on the floor and starts scribbling on it.)

[aintyourdad]

"Then they're not doin' it right," Joel says with a scowl. "Booze ain't good for kids, last time I checked."

He glances at the boy, then at his mother, already judging her harshly.

"Yeah, yeah, you know who I am, I don't care who you are, the same old shit."

[cognitived]

In truth, Clint is not often in the District 8 suites. He splits his time between the rest of the Avengers, if he's not out and about, getting the scope of the Capitol and the people within it. That said, even when he is in his own suites, it's not that hard to edge around people. He's not a master assassin for nothing.

So maybe Temple hasn't met him yet, but he's seen her, and he's taken care to get as much information as possible. With the way the Capitol replays its Games, and Victor Reel last night, its not so hard to do.

Still, he isn't expecting the sheer impractical opulence she's draped in, or the massive fondue fountain, or way her son runs around sampling bourbon from it. Maybe he should have, because Clint's been here for long enough. Instead, he simply crosses the distance on silent feet, gets Bailey a piece of cake covered in chocolate instead of the bourbon he was reaching for -- "Here you go," softly. -- before eyeing Temple.

"Hosting a party?"

Mostly he wants to know so he can avoid the floor like the plague if so.

[clotting]

"Not at all. This is a permanent installation." Temple turns around, wearing a new pair of shoes that could fund an entire research facility off their sale, and doesn't seem to notice at all her son gobbling up the piece of cake or hiccuping the bourbon. "Consider it a gift from the Stevens family to my Tributes."

She skitters forward, everything about her ephemeral and giddy and flashy, her heels making noises like hailstones on the hardwood floor.

"Clint Barton. A pleasure to finally meet you." She leans in, grinning conspiratorially, but noticeably doesn't make any more of an invasive gesture than holding her hand out to shake his, the other fiddling with her earring to straighten it where some of the lengths of pearls are tangling. "And the biceps that wooed a nation. I'm Temple Stevens. I hope you received some of my gifts in the Arena. How are you feeling, dear?"

[cognitived]

The sound of her heels striking the floor is just a shade too loud, and his hearing bad enough, that he doesn't catch her words at first. But he knows the shape of his name on other's lips, and by the time she stops, they're close enough he can read her even if he couldn't hear her before.

Still, he tips his head to the side, amused, and takes her hand as she offers it. Steady, strong, he shakes her hand and doesn't linger, letting her pull back to straighten her earrings, to gesture. Thanks to Jolie, his outfit doesn't hide those aforementioned biceps, and Clint kind of just looks amused.

"I did," He nods, hands in pockets, body language purposefully languid. Lets that be his answer to her question. Doesn't mean he's forgotten about the kid tottering around hiccuping. "Certainly came in handy."