Howard Bassem (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
iselldrugstothecommunity) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2013-11-29 12:57 am
iselldrugstothecommunity) wrote in thecapitol2013-11-29 12:57 am
Entry tags:
I Have Been Known to Surrender to Anything That Stands [Open]
WHO| Howard and open
WHAT| Howard returns to Capitol life. He's not very good at it.
WHERE| A small cafe in the Capitol.
WHEN| End of Week 6
WARNINGS| Mentions of starvation and a stress disorder.
He has to win next time. He's never known this before, not like he does now. If he doesn't win this next time, he's sure he'll either die for good or lose himself completely. There is a point when forging the iron where blows stop forming it and start to distend it, and he's crossed over into the second half of the process.
He returns to Panem the same way he has every time. He returns to schedule, to letting his Escort point him politely in the right direction so she can get him out of her hair and focus on her more promising Tributes. For the most part, she's fond of him, but not about to invest too much energy. Even if he wins one of these days, he'll hardly make a useful Mentor - she predicts he's the type to self-medicate - and so she generally gives him a free reign these days. "Don't do anything gauche, dear." "Make sure your clothes are clean before you step out". "Curfew's at eight p.m., remember that. I want you sleeping in your bed tonight and not in some alleyway again, dear."
He hates that she calls him 'dear'. He hates that she reminds him of a mother - not his mother, but one nonetheless. But he doesn't have the will to hate her, so instead he just hates pieces of her personality as some proxy for the whole. To tell the truth, he doesn't even remember her name beyond 'the Escort'.
Back to scale, he thinks as he weighs himself in the morning, and he laughs at himself without humor or regard for anyone who might hear him. Seventy-two pounds again. Like always, after he dies. Seventy-two pounds and jaw sore from where they ripped his rotting teeth out and replaced them with shiny white straight ones between him dying and him waking back up in Panem. He's back to padded clothing to hide the way the bones jut from under his skin like fingers through latex. Once again he has to sit patiently before he goes anywhere 'people might see him' while his Escort pats makeup on his cheeks to hide their gauntness and pallor, and to distract from the dark circles under his eyes.
He makes sure all his allies are still alive, and he makes sure to set money aside for Wyatt, which comes in handy soon enough. And then he slips back into the life outside the Arena that he's arranged for himself as delicately as dominoes. Get food, get coffee, training center, lunch, training center, dinner, find a quiet spot in town and sleep for a few hours, wake up and read a survival guide or a first aid manual or watch Games footage on his device, sneak back into the Tribute Center before dawn and hope his Escort doesn't give him too much shit in the morning.
Being a creature of habit, he's soon found himself a favorite tiny cafe. Capitol citizens with their inquisitive stares and loud outfits that jab at his eyes and grating, hiccuping voices tend to ignore it, preferring more bombastic locales than a little hole in the wall. Tributes occasionally come in, and Mentors. No one stupid enough to poke and prod about how exciting the Games are and how did it feel to die, how did it feel to choke on your own blood? Isn't it so much nicer, now that you're back?
Well, isn't it?
From a cozy armchair, he can read his book on field-dressing different wild animals while watching the sun go down over the tips of Capitol skyscrapers. He parks his feet up under his butt and shakes the hood from his jacket off his head, not willing to let go of his large mug of hot, creamy coffee even long enough to leave it on the table next to him. He cradles it to his chest like a nursing infant. The warmth from it radiates even through the cotton padding over his concave gut and makes him feel, for a moment, like he's holding a small star inside his core.
He still startles as if he's about to leap out of his own flesh whenever the bell on the door announces visitors and catches him off-guard. Sometimes when someone walks in, he spills his drink on himself and dissolves into frustrated swearing right in front of them.
WHAT| Howard returns to Capitol life. He's not very good at it.
WHERE| A small cafe in the Capitol.
WHEN| End of Week 6
WARNINGS| Mentions of starvation and a stress disorder.
He has to win next time. He's never known this before, not like he does now. If he doesn't win this next time, he's sure he'll either die for good or lose himself completely. There is a point when forging the iron where blows stop forming it and start to distend it, and he's crossed over into the second half of the process.
He returns to Panem the same way he has every time. He returns to schedule, to letting his Escort point him politely in the right direction so she can get him out of her hair and focus on her more promising Tributes. For the most part, she's fond of him, but not about to invest too much energy. Even if he wins one of these days, he'll hardly make a useful Mentor - she predicts he's the type to self-medicate - and so she generally gives him a free reign these days. "Don't do anything gauche, dear." "Make sure your clothes are clean before you step out". "Curfew's at eight p.m., remember that. I want you sleeping in your bed tonight and not in some alleyway again, dear."
He hates that she calls him 'dear'. He hates that she reminds him of a mother - not his mother, but one nonetheless. But he doesn't have the will to hate her, so instead he just hates pieces of her personality as some proxy for the whole. To tell the truth, he doesn't even remember her name beyond 'the Escort'.
Back to scale, he thinks as he weighs himself in the morning, and he laughs at himself without humor or regard for anyone who might hear him. Seventy-two pounds again. Like always, after he dies. Seventy-two pounds and jaw sore from where they ripped his rotting teeth out and replaced them with shiny white straight ones between him dying and him waking back up in Panem. He's back to padded clothing to hide the way the bones jut from under his skin like fingers through latex. Once again he has to sit patiently before he goes anywhere 'people might see him' while his Escort pats makeup on his cheeks to hide their gauntness and pallor, and to distract from the dark circles under his eyes.
He makes sure all his allies are still alive, and he makes sure to set money aside for Wyatt, which comes in handy soon enough. And then he slips back into the life outside the Arena that he's arranged for himself as delicately as dominoes. Get food, get coffee, training center, lunch, training center, dinner, find a quiet spot in town and sleep for a few hours, wake up and read a survival guide or a first aid manual or watch Games footage on his device, sneak back into the Tribute Center before dawn and hope his Escort doesn't give him too much shit in the morning.
Being a creature of habit, he's soon found himself a favorite tiny cafe. Capitol citizens with their inquisitive stares and loud outfits that jab at his eyes and grating, hiccuping voices tend to ignore it, preferring more bombastic locales than a little hole in the wall. Tributes occasionally come in, and Mentors. No one stupid enough to poke and prod about how exciting the Games are and how did it feel to die, how did it feel to choke on your own blood? Isn't it so much nicer, now that you're back?
Well, isn't it?
From a cozy armchair, he can read his book on field-dressing different wild animals while watching the sun go down over the tips of Capitol skyscrapers. He parks his feet up under his butt and shakes the hood from his jacket off his head, not willing to let go of his large mug of hot, creamy coffee even long enough to leave it on the table next to him. He cradles it to his chest like a nursing infant. The warmth from it radiates even through the cotton padding over his concave gut and makes him feel, for a moment, like he's holding a small star inside his core.
He still startles as if he's about to leap out of his own flesh whenever the bell on the door announces visitors and catches him off-guard. Sometimes when someone walks in, he spills his drink on himself and dissolves into frustrated swearing right in front of them.
no subject
Howard holds out his hand and retracts a finger each time he lists an Arena off, ending with his thumb. "Nuclear wasteland. FroZone. Disneyland. Lisa Frank Hell. Jurassic Fuck-This. Next one will be my sixth."
He's lucky that he barely remembers the first one. Four deaths remembered is awful enough.
no subject
She frowned, leaning back a little in her chair. His sixth one. It looked like he aged a year every time he ticked a new one off. Wasteland, Snow World, Disney, Candy, Raptorzilla... Cindy had only gotten here for Candy Land, which would make this one her third.
"Hey. I know this is getting a little... deeper, and not as funny. But how much have you changed now, from back home? Physically you've told me before. But." She sighed, straightening up. "You know what I mean, right?"
no subject
He pauses. It's true, he's changed, but not in any way he wants to advertise. He's scared and vulnerable and sick in places he doesn't know how to treat. It doesn't matter that he likes Cindy - he's not going to start telling her about his nightmares and moments of blinding panic in the middle of a crowded room.
"I think it's kind of impossible to not change after five of these, right?" He shrugs. "I trust people less but that's really not saying much. And I have people feeling sorry for me, so I guess I can benefit from that. It's not like I come from a happy place anyway."
no subject
Changing. It's something she's intensely familiar with, and something she actually likes. You compare to who you were, to who you are now, and while some people might hate it, she couldn't think of one person she knew (one Fable) who wasn't pleased with their change.
Changing here is different, and she doesn't need to know anyone to let her imagination run wild. "You and trust aren't besties anymore? I'm shocked." She felt bad putting him on the spot with the tough stuff, so it was perfect timing that their food arrived. Sometimes she got lucky.
no subject
He laughs, but it's weak and distracted, and a slamming door back in the kitchen makes him startle so hard he knocks over a (thankfully empty) glass on the table.
He practically shoves the food down his throat. "You changed since you got here?" he asks, trying to turn the conversation back to her. If it was ever on her.
no subject
She twitches at the glass dropping, instead of the door, but it's for the same reason. A sudden sound, and Cindy paused before picking up the first danish and taking a bite.
"Mhm." She nodded, swallowing. "Sure. Having to be a more public person? Where everyone knows your name, and the way you look like when you die, and what your bra size is? You might not believe it, but I don't usually get my face recognized everywhere I go."
Cindy shrugged. "Maybe more nervous then before. And just..." She waved a hand. She didn't know how to say it, what words to use, for this tired feeling. But not a tired feeling. A feeling of just being worn down; not to Howard's extent, not in the same way. But sleeping for a few days with the lights out, the blinds closed, and no interruptions? Sounded like heaven.
no subject
He watches her hand wave like a banner in the wind. Watches it fall back to her thigh.
"Anyway. It's better than home. That's all that matters."
no subject
"Then, after those beta fish attack and eat most of the other fish, you're then taken out of that aquarium tank and put back in your little goldfish bowl. Repeat that a few times, and you request a castle in your bowl, just so you can scream by yourself." Cindy shrugged. "But yeah. some of that is better then back home."
Not that she knew much of his home, beyond the little bit he's let out, and the assumptions she's had to make (his home sucks). But she liked the world she'd made for herself, and it slowly made her more upset the longer she was gone. She liked change, she did. Just on her terms.
no subject
"It was the only pet I was allowed to have when I was a kid. I named her Carrie Fisher, you know, like from Star Wars? Anyway, we tried to get another fish, Lawrence Fishburne like from the Matrix, but Carrie destroyed him." His laugh is grim. "So more like Stephen King Carrie."