Linden's been doing a good job sucking it up, so far. He's been as quiet as the furniture he's sitting with, not bothering with a safety belt, curling up and thinking about how much he could use rest while admitting privately that his heart is beating too quickly to allow his eyes to close for even a moment. He listens to the sound of Peggy's voice, pulling his knees closer to his chest and resting his cheek against them as her words blur and blend into a series of pleasant, meaningless sounds until they dwindle and fade back into a natural-sounding silence. While it's easy to feel the way the air around Jason seems to vibrate with his pent-up anger, the desperation in Peggy's performance also radiates. Linden doubts that he's exuding anything on this trip, but it's only because he's so blanched, raw and beaten, here only because Peggy cared enough to pocket the cooling, ashy ember of his will to live and take it away from the Capitol before it could finish smothering him.
When the car finally stops after what feels like weeks in the stifling environment, Jason starts typing a message, and Linden pulls himself forward so he can read the glowing screen. He quickly holds up two fingers, indicating that he'd much prefer that the chip was disabled. He'd not hesitate to cut it out, ordinarily, but at the moment he doesn't feel that he can afford to lose any more blood. After he's done whatever's needed to scan the information into the program, he slips outside the car, pulling the large suitcase down with some effort and unlatching it. He'll fit inside with room to spare, but he glances over his shoulder, expecting that one of them will follow to help latch and stow him since no one could do this alone.
He's so thin and wasted. It isn't even cramped once he's inside the suitcase, just uncomfortable, with the boniness and the scabs on his back that regularly tear and bleed every time he moves in a way that isn't perfectly careful and delicate. What remains of the trip will be very difficult, and if any dogs even come near them, that blood that makes his shirt stick to his back will draw them directly to his location. He tries to take comfort in thinking about safety in 13, but of course there's no guarantee that he won't be shot, or worse, rejected and left to fend for himself in the wild until he is caught or killed.
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When the car finally stops after what feels like weeks in the stifling environment, Jason starts typing a message, and Linden pulls himself forward so he can read the glowing screen. He quickly holds up two fingers, indicating that he'd much prefer that the chip was disabled. He'd not hesitate to cut it out, ordinarily, but at the moment he doesn't feel that he can afford to lose any more blood. After he's done whatever's needed to scan the information into the program, he slips outside the car, pulling the large suitcase down with some effort and unlatching it. He'll fit inside with room to spare, but he glances over his shoulder, expecting that one of them will follow to help latch and stow him since no one could do this alone.
He's so thin and wasted. It isn't even cramped once he's inside the suitcase, just uncomfortable, with the boniness and the scabs on his back that regularly tear and bleed every time he moves in a way that isn't perfectly careful and delicate. What remains of the trip will be very difficult, and if any dogs even come near them, that blood that makes his shirt stick to his back will draw them directly to his location. He tries to take comfort in thinking about safety in 13, but of course there's no guarantee that he won't be shot, or worse, rejected and left to fend for himself in the wild until he is caught or killed.