thecapitol | Dog Bait, Small Veins [Closed]

WHO| Temple and Peggy; Temple and Quintus
WHAT| Temple and Peggy have a horrible encounter; Temple sells out her fellow Mentors.
WHEN| After the mini-Arena.
WHERE| A bidder's house; the Peacekeeper Headquarters.
WARNINGS| Rape in the thread with Peggy. Graphic content, don't read if you're uncomfortable. Nothing yet in the thread with Quintus.

I. For Peggy

In any society but this one, Temple would be well within her rights to kick, scream, scratch or stab her way out of the situation - not only has she been bid on in retaliation for a stock deal gone wrong on Gowan's end, but she's part of a fetish package with her stronger, larger doppelganger, who also happens to be her murderer. But she is in this society, and acutely aware of it, and so any part of Temple that wants to put up a fight is submerged under pleasantries and rationalizations, until even Temple herself forgets that she ever had objections.

She plays along almost enthusiastically, giggling at all the jokes and cooing at their bidder's prowess with such conviction that any artifice would seem a projection on the part of the viewer. She doesn't cringe or whimper, even when the bidder runs his hand over that carved-heart scar on her thigh or when Peggy puts her hands around her neck only moments after the man did, at a command that Temple acted perfectly fine with. She doesn't even fake it because faking requires intent, but there's something off about the entire thing. She is like a carved eggshell, fragile and expensive and beautiful but hollow, aggressively hollow, as if to look at her is to be forced into acknowledging the serene emptiness of her expression, the humanity that doesn't exist behind her pale, pupil-heavy eyes.

She goes immediately to sleep after the 'rough and tumble', not because she's relaxed but because that is a foolproof way to shut out the waking world, and her ability to handle it is entirely expended. She rests so peacefully she looks dead.

When all's said and done, the bidder, who has paid for their services overnight, leaves them in the bed while he heads out to work as the head of some company that imports wheat from District Nine. He leaves in a three-piece suit, respectable, upstanding, a pillar of Capitol society, the image of a baron more than a robber. Temple gets up early, untwines herself from the bedsheets and takes some makeup from an Avox and sits in front of the boudoir, styling her hair and painting on a face.

She hums as she covers the bruises running over her neck, a spry little morning tune from far from the Capitol.

II. For Quintus.

Temple's never been discreet, per se, but she's always been careful to never leave any evidence that could be used against her. To be dragged in for questioning for a dalliance with a young man she's just met (not a Tribute, not a Staffer, not even a Districter) is embarrassing, but she already has firm beliefs in her ability to wriggle out of this situation without anything someone can send home to Gowan. He can't (won't) act on hunches, rumors, gossip, and Temple's ready to throw this young man under the bus if it means not having to spend the night in the sterile, boring Peacekeeper's offices.

And besides, there's no physical evidence of anything. Temple hasn't even given him a kiss yet.

"I'm Temple Stevens, Gowan Stevens' wife, you can't just hold me without telling me what I'm charged with." She tips her nose up (it would look comical on someone her height if she weren't in heels) and pouts and huffs until she's led to a seat in the lobby.

As usual, the waiting room is empty. The Peacekeepers have done an admirable job keeping the riffraff out of the Capitol city's borders, much less their own custody. Temple takes a seat and yelps as an officer handcuffs her to the chair.

"Excuse me!" she hisses, kicking her feet aimlessly out. "I have a kid to get home to. Make this fast."

"Mr. Falxvale wanted to have a word with you. He'll be here to take you to interrogation shortly."

"I demand cameras," Temple huffs. "I want everything he asks of me recorded."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I mean, I'm never seen anything. I don't actually know anything. Mr. Falxvale, you're asking me to remember what happens on nights I'm bid on in a group, and, well, I usually lubricate myself with quite a lot of alcohol for that, you understand."

She lowers her voice, not because she's talking about treason but because she's talking about bidding, and to pretend it's anything other than high-society dating is taboo in the house of the Capitol.

"Yeah," he acknowledges, feeling a twinge in the pit of his stomach at the mention--for a moment, Emily's face flits to mind, her teeth worrying her lip and cheeks burning with self-disgust. He had never approved of bidding, disliked the inconsistency of what was allowed here versus what he'd helped enforce in the districts, and hearing someone he'd cared about speak of it had stirred his feelings into deep disgust.

But that isn't relevant here, so in the space of a breath, he brings himself back to the task at hand.

"But if you do remember something useful, then I might consider that valid reason to put this matter behind us," he says, gesturing to Deciford's file. "Which would make things much easier for you and your son, wouldn't it?"

Temple's eyes dilate, some kind of subconscious reflex to fear. Her hand tightens over her knee, and for a moment she gapes, fishlike, trying to swallow what she knows to be a threat in the calm, passive language of the Capitol.

"Why can't you put this matter behind us knowing I didn't do anything?" she whines, her breath rising in her throat.

"I'm trying to uphold national security here, for your sake and that of everybody else. I can't do that if myself and my men are kept out of the loop."

He sits up to bring his other arm to the table, placing the tablet in his lap as though to communicate that he won't put her on-record as a source--or that he's willing to step outside of the boundaries of protocol here. Whichever way her anxious mind wants to take it, really.

"Besides, if you won't tell me anything, what reason do I have to believe you?"

"I don't know anything," Temple says, working herself up with only a little goading from Quintus. When he places the tablet down all she can think of is that those unoccupied hands are going to turn to fists. She chews her lower lip, then brushes her teeth against the back of her hand in case she's gotten any makeup on them.

"You probably already know that there are Mentors that sleep around for secrets. Everyone knows that. Finnick Odair did and didn't even hide it. But I don't, I just take my pills and a drink and I don't try to remember anything the next day. I'm a good Districter. I know my place."

For all her fripperies, for the fact that she wouldn't make this case to a true Capitolite, she hopes that Quintus can see that she's sincere.

Quintus watches those agitated movements, nodding at her words. Were he less experienced at this, he might be inclined to escalate his threats, but he's got her running scared and he doesn't want to lose her entirely.

Instead, he gets up, walking around to her side of the table and rests a hand against her shoulder, bending so that he's more at her level than towering over her.

"I believe that you're good," he says, softly and carefully. "That you're one of the good Mentors. But like you said, there's some bad ones out there. And what they're doing not only puts our nation in danger, but by association, they're endangering you and your son. I can't protect you unless I can show that you're on our side. Help me protect you. Tell me who the traitors are."

Temple stiffens like a board under his hand. It isn't comforting to her. It just adds to her unease, to the way her heart is crawling up her throat and her guts are tightening and knotting. He may as well not be touching just her shoulder.

"Why can't you protect me otherwise?" she whines, dropping her head and squeezing her eyes shut. Her pulse is pounding in her ears. "P-Peggy Carter. The Butcher Queen. I saw her once..."

The admission makes an odd little thrill shoot down his spine--the sort of feeling a predator might have upon catching the scent of blood. The practical part of him is necessarily cautious, recognizing that Temple might be just producing the first name that comes to mind, but with the trajectory their conversation has taken, that caution stands in opposition to his gut.

"What did you see her doing?" he encourages, keeping his tone gentle.

Temple worries her lip and rests her hands in her lap. Her fingertips seem to vibrate slightly.

"Snooping around. There's a bidder who wanted us both, because - he says we look alike. And I was sick that morning, so I stayed in bed and she just...rooted through things." It's partially lie by omission, partially honest recollection; Peggy had gone looking, first for alcohol and anti-nausea medication for Temple but then for God knows what else. It shouldn't have taken her time to track down the medicine, she could have just asked an Avox, but Peggy went looking.

That on its own is suspicious.

She's not lying. It's not an assertion he can confirm here, but a strong instinct, drawn up between the details and the pacing of Temple's words. There's some kernel of truth in that story, something worth chasing.

"Did she say what she was looking for?"

"No. But she could have used an Avox. An Avox would have already known where everything was." Temple wrings her hands and exhales deeply. "That's all I know, Mr. Falxvale, I swear. Please let me go home to my baby."

Dog Bait, Small Veins [Closed]

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