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
no subject
"No she did not. The same way you would never sing praises about her. Why "Orc" speaks kindly of either of you is beyond me at times."
She took a cake and slid the plate closer to him in silent offering.
"You have potential. I've reviewed some of your performances in the arena, and I can see it clearly. Your vague connection to a tribute I am actually obligated to take care of is what makes your potential interesting to me. And you may be worth investing in."
no subject
Keeping his hands over the coffee mug, he leans forward over the coffee table. "I have potential?"
no subject
"There are many different kinds of intelligence after all. What you lack in some areas you make up for in others. But given your age, and all you've been through at this point as I see it? There is still some potential yet to be had in you. With luck and co-operation you may win your way out of the games once and for all simply by being you."
The unspoken words in that sentence were "Manipulative, cautious, selfish and ruthless."
no subject
But he also knows he's not the smartest person here. He's just one of them.
"But you don't want me to win. You want me to get Diana to the end. Or another District Fiver." He gives her a level stare. "And what's in that for you, anyway? More vacation time?"
no subject
Her eyes watching his every movement. Deciding if he was going to be honest in his answer or simply tell her what she wanted to hear.
"She's a smart enough girl on her own. I'm sure if you did right by her she would do right by you to a degree. I can't foresee either of you making any huge sacrifices to save one another. But I would reward it."
no subject
For the most part, that's true. Howard knows how Diana thinks. Better the devil you know than that you don't, and where Diana goes stashes of supplies are sure to follow. She's an asset up until the point she tries to kill him.
"Up until the end, we have a mutually beneficial relationship. I'm smart, she's smart, together we're double-smart."
no subject
She popped the last piece of her little cake into her mouth and chewed it gracefully.
"I'm so pleased to hear that, I won't even rescind my offer of assistance based on the fact that you were already planning on doing that."
It was nice to know that there was at least a little bit she still had control over despite how weak she'd felt since waking up again. She would almost take back all the pain from her injuries in the arena if it meant her mind could be running at full speed again.
Speaking of...
"You look tired. Despite your stylists best efforts I presume. Have you been getting enough sleep at night?" A purely theoretical question. No one involved in the arenas slept well at night.
"There's a tea that is particularly popular for such issues."
no subject
He's already got a prescription, and some nights it's the only thing that keeps him from clawing his own skin off when the nightmares and waking moments start to cross into each other.
"I can take care of my sleep cycle myself, thanks."
no subject
"What can I say? I'm a people person. I see a fellow insomniac and I can't help but offer my sympathies."
Of course the things that kept them up at night were different, in Azula's case it had less to do with the arena and more to do with everything outside of it.
no subject
A willful display of weakness always means something. Howard shows vulnerability because he can't hide it, but Azula's being strategic, he bets.
no subject
"Why do you suppose?" She challenged. "What purpose could it serve to share such information?"
no subject
no subject
"But you figured that out right away. Could it really be so simple?"
no subject
no subject
"So, how will you determine if I've done it for a complicated reason, or a simple reason? And how much does it matter the why if you gain from it?"
no subject
no subject
After all, with how much attention she'd been giving Diana she was sure to see him again, even if he wasn't aware of it.
She still flashed him a warm inviting smile just to further confuse him.