Never Seen the Ocean, Never Seen the Tides [OPEN]

[clotting]

WHO| Temple and OPEN; Temple and Clint
WHAT| Temple hits the town and goes to a spa.
WHEN| Week 6
WHERE| All over the Capitol
WARNINGS| Temple, so mentions of rape may happen, although anything in-depth will get its own warning.

I. OPEN

When rabbits are cornered by predators, they freeze. Some theories say they go blind from fright, too terrified to even see the escapes before their noses. This would be an apt description for Temple's current state, with her best friend labeled a traitor and the Peacekeepers more than willing to drag her son into the political mess of Mentorhood, but the paralyzing, myopia-inducing fear only constricts her ability to think, not to party. Not to hit the town with a child leashed to an Avox or shopping bags laden with enough goods to dress an entire District for a week.

She's aggressively friendly if she meets you on the street, trailing her Avoxes behind her like a wedding train. Something about it is almost desperate, as if the doll-like facade that she so buries herself under is cracked and brittle and she's just trying to patch the leaks with her palms and her handshakes. She's liable to get your name wrong, since she's been drinking since six a.m. this morning, although these lapses in memory are the only indicator that she's that inebriated. Sometimes she just approaches people she knows and hands them a shopping bag of expensive wares, insisting that she was thinking of them as she was shopping and knew they had to have it. She does this especially to Tributes, although occasionally to other Staffers.

Sometimes she cruises the local restaurants and clubs eyeing up those she might be able to take to bed with her with no concerns, no witnesses. Few people know as many blind spots in the Capitol as Temple Stevens, adulterous to a fault but discrete enough to never have anything caught on tape. There are, of course, clips of her kissing, canoodling, placing her hands in places that daytime airings of the Games would censor, but never anything enough to terminate a marriage on principle. Besides, there are enough open marriages in the Capitol that no one ever bothers to truly look twice at a District hussy in Capitol clothes.

By the beginnings of most nights, she's bubbly, fashionable, charming and more than willing to buy friends and strangers alike a drink. By the end, she tends to be a bit more maudlin, still spending money haphazardly but less out of generosity and more as a prophylactic to feeling poor.

Find her for company, or she'll find you.


II. Clint

If there's a better cure for loneliness and sorrow than a fresh coat of paint, Temple doesn't know what it is. She doesn't believe in the therapy that is prescribed to Victors of the Hunger Games, and she dabbles in medication and psychic enemas only occasionally, when they come back into vogue every other year or so. The only way she's ever known to feel better about anything is to obliterate her woes under an aggressive spotlight, to cover them in makeup and hairspray, jewels and manicures, with liquor and sedatives as the fixative.

And naturally, she's noticed that all Clint's friends are gone. She may be morally opposed to inter-District alliances in the Arena, but she can respect that he must be sad and lonely, so instead of shuffling him off to a photoshoot today she gets Swann's permission to pack him into a car and take him to a spa. She doesn't tell him where they're going, just grins and says it's a surprise, and when they arrive she presents him with what must be the most shi-shi getaway in all the Capitol.

The entire spa smells like heavenly cinnamon fragrances, positioned over a natural waterfall with Avoxes tending to the hot springs at the base. There are steam rooms, sensory deprivation chambers, seal-fur robes that have never before touched human skin that will be discarded after a single use, ornately-carved wooden chairs and benches and masseuses at hand with entire carts of lotions and incense. The tessellated tiles along the floor are myriad colors, and the lights warming them from beneath cast the entire scene in stained glass. Some Capitolites in the far corner are receiving truly decadent manicures and facials.

She clutches her hands together in little fists under her chin and then checks them in. "Would you like to do the steam room first? You look so tired, lately. Maybe get changed into a robe and let one of the masseuses take out your tension? This is a high-end spa, those are professional masseuses, not just Avoxes trained to rub out a knot."

As she says that last array of words, she starts to undress, entirely without shame.

Comments

I - on the streets

[lionhearted_victor]

It was a matter of time before Leonidas would run into the clusterfuck that is Temple Stevens though it's an achievement that he's held his tongue for this long. To see Temple parade around is like seeing a Capitol Parody of the Districts. Or vice versa if he felt patriotic enough. To see her is a cautionary tale and the moral is: therapy is very important.

Leo was merely getting something to drink, now that his strongest Tribute, the Batter was eliminated and no way of knowing if he'd return. Aemila's disappearance weighed much heavier on him than the fact that Cullen was still alive and well, sans Adella. He cares about the Districts, not dismiss them like last week's fashion attire. But he's been watching her, hearing her laugh and picking out the cracks and inflections. Bailey may be the Capitolite but his mother reaps the status, soaking it up like a sponge because she was too ashamed of her origins.

These are the people that make a proud former Career feel ill. Her and Emily, who would rather tear out their District skin and wear the Capitol's garments, never really considering the red mess that stains their new clothes.

"Good to know you're watching out for your District's well-being," he speaks from her slightly mistaken greeting.

[clotting]

"Of course I am," Temple says, too boozy and winsome to be offended even at the obvious shade Leo's throwing her way. She knows how to deflect a barb, how to pull back and allow wicked words to sail past. She's certainly suffered worse, and mostly at the hands of other Districters.

"Here." She dips her hand into one of her overladen bags in her Avox's arms and pulls out a scarf in District Two's most popular blues and slate greys. She hadn't grabbed it with Leo in mind, but she's never knows a gift to go amiss. "Here, did you want something? I know this is a bit over your pay grade as a coach..."

[lionhearted_victor]

"Thanks," Leo accepted the gift, might as well appear to have some respect for her husband and her status but he's quick to smirk, "Oh you'd be surprised at what I can afford with a coach's salary. Working here has been a boon to business and the Capitol is gracious enough to give me a salary."

Even if District 2 had yet to produce a victor. The point of the matter is that he's here and while sometimes, the flash and the insipid nature of Capitolites do get the best of the coach, he has a privilege here. He won't squander it, he didn't have to leave his soul behind in the Arena for this gift.

[clotting]

"That's cute, dear." Temple giggles, like Leo just told her a fantastic joke. "But I know what coaches make, and I know what my husband pulls in in an evening, and they're about the same."

She can't actually do math, can barely count past thirty, but she hardly needs to when everyone's so willing to help her with it without even realizing they're doing it for her. She's turned helplessness into an art, asking for aid into an imperceptible vibe wafting off her like a pheromone.

She pushes the scarf at him again.

I - Shopping

[talltaleteller]

Felicity's outlook and mood had taken a sharp dip when Uncle Torin had nearly died in that arena, and it had never found a reason to improve since then. She could pretend to be smiley and happy when she went about her daily business, sure. You had to do that in the Capitol, didn't you? Mom had caught on, though. And while Candy Yoshida's own personal philosophy was quite literally "Keep Smiling!", she knew when her own daughter was forcing the smile. Her knowledge didn't extend with how to fix the underlying problem, and perhaps that was outside of anyone's power... but in an effort to cheer her daughter up and give her a little treat, she gave her a generous gift card and told her to go and get some nice things.

Which is what brings Felicity to a boutique popular with the Capitol's younger set, her smile plastered on, ready to try to and bury her troubles under a little pile of pretty things. A boutique that she would really like to go into, but that is an astonishingly large train of Avoxes streaming on out of it and blocking the way. And at the head of it all, is that... is it... oh wow, that's Temple Drake. If there is anyone that she has wanted to write a nice Happy Nothing Wrong AU fic for, it's that lady. She's at the top of the list. Right on up there. And right on heading towards her with her shopping and her entourage.

"Wah!" She leap-stumbles back out of the way with a startled shout, giving Temple and company room to pass. And also staring on after her with astonishment. Lady's living pretty large. Maybe happy fix-it-all stories aren't that much in order, now. Maybe.

[clotting]

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Temple lurches forward to grab Felicity, thinking that she's falling as she stumbles. She reaches to grab Felicity's wrist, honest concern on her face as she treats the people around her with so much more consideration than she treats the servants dragging her belongings. "I almost feel as if I need a palanquin, at least that way people could dart under me-"

She prattles a little bit, covering for how she doesn't actually remember Felicity's face for an instant. "Y-Yoshida, right? You're Torin's daughter? No, niece! I'm sorry, I don't tend to spend much time with other Mentors. You understand, don't you? They don't like me too much."

To apologize for nearly running Felicity down, Temple reaches over and grabs something from a bag her Avox is carrying. "Have you tried the new eyeshadow from Caesar Flickerman's line?"

[talltaleteller]

The grab could have possibly been necessary. Felicity's still getting used to heels being a nigh-mandatory part of her wardrobe. Their combined efforts ensure that both are standing, though, and the whole palanquin thing gets a chirp of laughter out of the girl. "Aaah, they'd have to duck! That'd be a thing!"

And if there is rambling and not quite getting it right, that is okay. She's been there. She has done that. "Yes! Ah! I mean, no! I mean... Felicity! Felicity Yoshida! Torin's niece!" And both her hands are up, waving here and there all dismissive-like. "It's fine, it's fine, it... it is what it is!" ...what was it? She somehow couldn't imagine Uncle Torin disliking Temple. Or anyone who wasn't about on the level of awfulness as that Compson guy.

More chattering of her own is cut right short as an eyeshadow palette is shown. She gasps. "Aaaah! No, no, not that one, I've heard so much good stuff about it! You can do the perfect smokey-silver-plum eye with it!" Well. That's what everyone was saying, anyway. Which sounds pretty nice.

[clotting]

"They wouldn't if I only used extremely tall Avoxes!"

Temple's rarely spoken to Torin, preferring to avoid Mentors from Career Districts when she can, even more than she avoids the other winners. It's nothing personal, nothing Torin could help, but for all she knows he was Mentoring one of the brutes who took her hostage in her Arena. But that shouldn't extend to Felicity, who has always been, as a peripheral and nebulous blip on Temple's radar, a benign and even charming presence.

"That's what everyone's saying, but of course, Caesar has an olive skin tone and mine's decidedly more alabaster," Temple says, flitting her fingers at her freckle-specked cheeks. "It makes me look like a ghoul and, well, it would be a shame for it to go to waste."

It's a crack in the veneer, to not just toss the makeup away wantonly. It's a Districter thing, to default to preserving rather than disposing.

"You don't mind, do you? I just want to see what it looks like when it's put on right."

I. in a club

[beckstitch]

This is only the second time Beck's been out dancing since that disastrous night when she almost lost Emily. It's weird, trying to go clubbing without hitting on anybody. More than once tonight, she's said "I'm sorry, I have a girlfriend," as much for the novelty as anything else.

She's been out for several hours when she sees Temple, but she isn't all that drunk. She doesn't trust herself to be, not after everything. Still, she takes a seat next to the Victor, giving her a little smile and gesturing over the barkeeper. "You look down in the dumps. What're you having?"

She doesn't necessarily like Temple, but she does feel a certain kinship with her. Beck spends a lot of her time feeling like a Districter playing dress-up, for all she's Capitol born and bred, so she has some sympathy for Temple. Besides, call it maternal instincts, but Beck Scordato never can resist someone who looks like they need helping.

[clotting]

"Ahh..." Temple squints at her drink, tipping it one way and another to look at it and try and remember what's in this one. "Schnapps, I think?"

She sits back, looking at Beck with a sort of perplexed familiarity, as if she's staring into an inverted image of herself, a Capitolite who aligns more closely with Districters while she's a Districter who's entirely shed her Capitol past.

"I'm not down in the dumps. I'm just tired, you know?" It's a point of weakness, a crack in the facade, to actually show sadness in the guise of a Capitolite. "Raising a child is so much effort."

[beckstitch]

"I guess it would be," Beck agrees, although there's a raw bitterness hidden under her easy smile. Raising a child isn't something she's had much experience of, except that she suspects that exact attitude is what left her raised by Avoxes and a TV screen. Still, she shakes off the instinctive dislike that brings on, and keeps her genial smile on. "Can't be that often you get the night off to go out, am I right?"

She orders schnapps for Temple, and, after due thought, a cocktail for herself. She can risk one drink more, she thinks. Especially if she's just going to talk to Temple, who, frankly, she has no sexual interest in and who is therefore safe to be around.

I - club, early evening

[voiceinthephone]

If there's one element of Mentoring Phil hasn't nailed down quite like Temple, it's the appearance of being so flighty and privileged. He's in one of the many bars as the sun sets and the wolves in haute couture come to play, destroy their livers and other organs. The fact of the matter is that Gray moves and behaves like a fox in comparison, doing his best to blend into the environment and sneak up on the nearest opportune sponsor.

Phil was fully aware that Temple and Linden used to enable each other through sex and vice, with Bailey probably being the product of their past. So it's no surprise to find her in here, drinking alcohol worth more than his past salary. The way she just dismissed Lockhearst as soon as he disappeared is disturbing but then again, Mrs. Stevens portrayed herself as a Capitolite: toss the mangled toy away and get a new one. Gray still remembered her remark about District children and always wondered just how broken does a mother have to be to regard other children like that.

Weren't you a District child too?

Back in the present, he gave Temple a wave and a slight bow, showing his manners as an offworlder and a native. "Hello-hi, Ms. Temple!" he does his best cordial smile, that face anyone who has worked in retail has, "Fancy meeting you here!"

[clotting]

"Ms. Stephens, please. I'm not divorced yet." She reaches forward and grabs his hand to shake without asking for permission, verbally or otherwise, casting aside that obsequious bow of his. "Or just Temple, no need for a Miss."

She pats the seat next to her and gestures for him to sit down, hiccuping slightly but other than that holding a sideboard's worth of liquor with remarkable poise.

"Do you smoke? I smoke." She pulls out a pack of traditional tobacco cigarettes from her clutch and has the bartender light it for her (Avoxes aren't to carry lighters on them). "How have you been?"

[voiceinthephone]

"Nah, I, uh, I drink," Phil shook his head at the offer, and sat down with Temple. He shook her hand and studied the way she was, slightly inebriated for being so early in the evening. Wait, divorced? Anyone saw that coming if they read the news he held his tongue on that front, everyone had their flaws.

"Well, uh, I've been better, all things considered," he began as he sipped along his drink, "Adjusting to this Mentoring job. It's not been the easiest, um, still stuck in the Arena mentality. What about you? How's Bailey?"

For the love of everything that's good in this world, don't let that boy be in here. He made a promise to Linden to keep an eye on them both in that last hacked communication.

1 - Shopping

[whittlingnickels]

Sinclair should not be surprised that Temple is out and about, spending money that was only hers through a marriage certificate. He wasn't one to miss on the finer things in life, fake humility is almost as bad as pretending to be rich. The last time the venture capitalist saw Mrs. Stephens (a title used very loosely), Temple promised him a win. It's been one mini-arena and this one wasn't looking like any better for his investments.

"My, my, I do hope these gifts boost morale, Mrs. Stevens. Or else, I might consider withdrawing some of my support, you've had two chances to prove you're capable of delivering a win," he greeted her with a grin that bore no warmth.

Because you promised me a good mentor and a victory. Didn't your mother not teach you not to make promises you can't keep?

Re: 1 - Shopping

[clotting]

As far as Temple's concerned, District Eight is doing well for itself this Arena. Jack and Maxwell both have a shot at finishing in first, and her Tributes are the most supported only second to District Seven's. There's no reason to fret yet, not until her heavy-hitters start dropping out of the Arena.

Temple knows when she's in danger, though. Her pupils go wide, her eyes black as a dog's, but the smile she adopts is blithe and guileless. "Would you be saying this in front of Swann Honeymead, Sinclair? She'd be hurt to know you think we aren't trying our very hardest."

And as far as she's concerned, she's Mentoring the best she can, boosting morale with gifts and more importantly, with supplies to keep them alive. When she and Swann can't get the funds together from their Sponsors, Temple throws her own account into the mix.

[whittlingnickels]

"I've talked to her about this," Sinclair retorted with a quirk to his already smiling lips, he's not lying. Swann keeps him up to date with the Arena, but watching most of her tributes die on the first day of a Mini Arena definitely put the man in a bind with the more enthusiastic supporters of the Games.

"And I wouldn't have issue with talkin' with Miss Honeymead in the room. When I put my money in somewhere, I expect results. As far as keeping your Tributes fed, I applaud you for them carrying on."

But that promised crown might as well be a dream, if the fear in Temple's eyes is any indication. She hides it as well as she can in those blushing (or drunk-red) cheeks and her batting eyes but there is a desperation of a cornered mongrel.

"Do you want to revise our previous agreement?" Gus offered her, an out he doesn't use lightly.

[cognitived]

To say Clint's been having a good time would be a filthy lie. He's not so far from the Arena's grasp, not so far away from his latest death. It haunts him, teeth sinking into flesh, a revisited nightmare he cannot escape. But Clint is a SHIELD agent. He is trained to move past things that would stop a person in their tracts.

So he simply keeps on breathing, keeps on moving. There's the requisite interviews, the fittings and photoshoots and countless other little details that come with being a Tribute. And yeah, okay, maybe he's a bit lonely and a bit gutted with sorrow. At least he knows most of them are alive, at least he knows most of them are out of the Capitol's hands. He can handle this, he expected it.

But what Clint isn't expecting is Temple.

It's not that she's an unknown variable. He's got her pinged to rights, a Districter beneath her Capitolite veneer, peeking through the cracks she can't quite fill with bourbon and decadence. But this -- this is most definitely a surprise. Clint's eyebrows lift with decided surprise as she ushers him into the spa, gaze flicking over the opulence as his Mentor checks them in.

"You'd know better than I would." He murmurs smoothly, gaze flicking back, entirely unconcerned with her stripping. A corner of his mouth curls, easy amusement written into the lines of Clint's face. He's not sure of procedure here, but he can roll with it, he can.

[clotting]

"Oh, I don't get a chance to come here that often." Temple laughs, a high, melodic sound that's as affected as the rest of her. "I'm so busy raising a kid, you know, and Mentoring. It's an awful lot of work."

It's not a tenth of the work she did as a District child, hunched over a loom or a sewing machine or an embroidery hoop, but she has the appearance to keep up. A true old-money Capitolite can complain for hours about how a two-hour shift twice a week is cutting into their time preening, primping, shopping, drinking. Most Capitol Citizens work, but that's not the sort of Citizen Temple wants to be. She wants to be Gowan's trophy wife.

She shrugs on a plush robe and has a custodian hand her a lighted, scented cigarette. It smells like incense, like the New Ageyness of the entire place. She pats her bare stomach, not bothering to tie the robe and cover herself up any.

"Not that you could tell, of course. I had the best surgeon in Panem get rid of the stretch marks."

I - on the streets

[quiethumerus]

He'd been looking to acquire a gift of some kind. Something to make the District four house into something more of a home and perhaps even celebrate a potential win. He could've ordered, sure, but one doesn't get known by staying indoors all the time.

He spots her from afar. A woman who has him wondering like many Mentors do, if people notice his associations on him as well as they notice their heritage. Or perhaps her trail of Avoxes hide hers better than his stitches hide his. Some irony in that, he's certain.

With a sway in his hips, he walks to her, arms spread wide as though to express the dramatic exclamation of, Temple, darling. Like they're any sort of close at all. Temple Drake is one of those few where it was a gamble as to who of them would make the other look better, and that in itself could occasionally be a step up.

Finally in her midst, his hands clasp together as if she is only the most charming individual in the world. His head tilts in question to ask how it is that she's doing. At the very least, she could help to feed the ever-loved gossip mill.

[clotting]

Kurloz is a Stylist, which means that he and Temple have often traveled the same spheres, rubbed elbows if not exchanged words. Temple's probably spent more time with Escorts and Stylists than other Mentors anyway, eschewing her peers for the people she pretends to be, the ones who have no blood from someone like her on their hands. They've sat in the same booths at clubs, probably, or shaken hands in dispassionate courtesy while trying to sauce up a Sponsor.

Floating alone even surrounded with the mutes, Temple latches onto any attempt to feel as if she has friends that haven't disappeared into the ether, aren't working themselves into a stupor every day. When Kurloz greets her with a pretense of familiarity, she responds to it like a sunflower to light.

"Kurloz!" She throws her arms around him, into that friendly hug that she quickly follows with a kiss to each cheek. "How wonderful to see you out here. Shopping or just looking for inspiration, my dear?"

[quiethumerus]

If he held any real disdain for her at all beyond what came inspired by the world around, it doesn't last. Seeing a true and genuine smile, even if for reasons made up of falsehoods, it hearkens back to days spent elsewhere and people who actually preferred his company and likewise. There's a moment of homesickness for a place he'll never again, and then he's back into his role.

He brings his arms around her as well, giving one surprisingly warm for everything he is. He pulls back and matches her kiss for kiss, quicker than hers lest the feel of his stitches inflict distress. He steps back and beams.

So follows a twirling wave of his hand. Oh, you know. He gestures out, palms up, with one hand then the other, before bring them back up to clasp together. A little of this, a little of that. Both, as the usual. He gestures out at her then. And you?

I. some bar somewhere

[fusshionable]

Honestly, it's been a right moment too long since Porrim's treated herself to a good, solid night out. Lately, work has left her so exhausted that she goes straight home, has a stiff drink and falls into bed. But tonight, she's determined to do something fun. To forget about her problems, of which there are many, and allow herself to get smashed without repercussion.

Most Capitolite diversions don't much pacify her these days; her ever-increasing desire for more, to see the outside world and live a normal life like those the Offworlders live keeps her from enjoying things the same way. But one thing she still can do is drink, which she does propped up at the bar wrapped in a long, sable fur that she doesn't feel the need to take off quite yet. Her hair is loose, for once, cascading outward in a halo of black curls, giving her a look that's a sight less polished than the way she usually looks at work. Still, she strikes a cutting enough figure that she's recognizable.

She's got a little notebook in hand, and she's frowning down at it as she sips her white wine spritzer, making a thoughtful little sound at some handwritten note before glancing up to look at the woman next to her.

"Do you have a pen?" Only then does it strike her that she knows exactly who's beside her, and it's not just a random stranger. Shit.

[clotting]

The juxtaposition of the two of them is almost comical; Porrim is tall, dark, statuesque, while Temple is small enough that her feet can't hope to touch the ground when she sits on the bar stool, even with her platform heels. They seem like an illustration of variation more than anything else.

But their purpose here is the same: to drink and fuck their problems into a booze-soaked sweaty oblivion, to banish heartache and exhaustion with the wand of wealth and privilege. So in a way, they're sisters here.

"Of course!" Temple paws around her clutch (she's already a drink or two in) and retrieves an ivory pen and slides it over to Porrim. "What are you writing? I hope you don't mind me being nosy, I promise I'm not trying to get an edge over your Tributes."

[fusshionable]

The momentary "oh shit" dissolves as Temple replies and Porrim realizes that the Mentor is actually amenable to a friendly interaction. Well, that's refreshing. Not all of them are, after all. Not that she can exactly blame them; poor souls have, well, seen some shit. But Temple--well, given the things she's heard, Porrim's pretty sure she's found a kindred spirit.

"No, not at all," Porrim replies, taking the pen and making a few scribbles. "Just making some notes on Arena performance and potential Sponsorship targets, that sort of thing." She snorts. "It's not hard to get an edge on Five these days, I'm afraid. Especially since Eight is looking so very...muscular lately."