Jack Atlas (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
akingalways) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2014-01-12 01:15 am
akingalways) wrote in thecapitol2014-01-12 01:15 am
Entry tags:
this sandwich
Who | Jack, OPEN to District 8 characters
What | Jack is not having the best time being home.
Where | Throughout the areas District 8 Tributes are allowed
When | Throughout the District visit
Warnings/Notes | n/a
Jack hated going home. Returning home brought back so many memories of the boy that he was. A person he could never be again. And yet he was here, again, forced to face his past in front of the Tributes - and the ever-horrible present. District 8 looked even worse than it did a mere six months ago. The smog was even denser than it had been, and the streets, usually filled with people, were almost completely empty. At least, the parts of the streets he could see before he was unceremoniously escorted to the civic center.
He'd requested to take a trip to Satellite. His home neighborhood. He'd managed to see it the last time. His request was flatly denied, as was his request to send at least send a note to the one person he knew to be alive there. True, he'd not written to Martha or even seen her in ages, but surely a missive to his foster mother wasn't too much to ask?Especially given she was his last, definite link to his home? The one he knew to be alive?
He wasn't given a reason why. No one seemed willing to explain.
And so Jack was left to stalk the halls of the civic center, trapped like an animal in a cage. He'd been given a speech to look over so that the Tributes would know what to say to the important people who would be coming to see them, so at times, he brooded over that as well, scribbling out lines and adding in notes of his own, but it wasn't much. Once in a while he'd end up in a discussion with a factory owner, inquiring about what the Director - who oversaw their operations from the Capitol - intended to do about the factory upgrades, or adjustments to output quotas, or finding new workers to replace their rapidly depleting manpower. All things that were needed, but not getting done. Otherwise, he was simply left alone to his thoughts. Staring out of the civic center windows at all of the decay and silence and smog outside.
The only comfort he had during his time in the increasingly claustrophobic hellhole was the fact that the chef of the civic center, knowing Jack's tastes, managed to make him his beloved bisabito for his meals a few times. It was far blander than even the sparse versions the street vendors in the District made, yet when he was served one, he could be seen slowly eating one, savoring it as if he'd never have another.
Not that it was a big bonus in any way, and it was like eating cardboard.
But it was something.
What | Jack is not having the best time being home.
Where | Throughout the areas District 8 Tributes are allowed
When | Throughout the District visit
Warnings/Notes | n/a
Jack hated going home. Returning home brought back so many memories of the boy that he was. A person he could never be again. And yet he was here, again, forced to face his past in front of the Tributes - and the ever-horrible present. District 8 looked even worse than it did a mere six months ago. The smog was even denser than it had been, and the streets, usually filled with people, were almost completely empty. At least, the parts of the streets he could see before he was unceremoniously escorted to the civic center.
He'd requested to take a trip to Satellite. His home neighborhood. He'd managed to see it the last time. His request was flatly denied, as was his request to send at least send a note to the one person he knew to be alive there. True, he'd not written to Martha or even seen her in ages, but surely a missive to his foster mother wasn't too much to ask?
He wasn't given a reason why. No one seemed willing to explain.
And so Jack was left to stalk the halls of the civic center, trapped like an animal in a cage. He'd been given a speech to look over so that the Tributes would know what to say to the important people who would be coming to see them, so at times, he brooded over that as well, scribbling out lines and adding in notes of his own, but it wasn't much. Once in a while he'd end up in a discussion with a factory owner, inquiring about what the Director - who oversaw their operations from the Capitol - intended to do about the factory upgrades, or adjustments to output quotas, or finding new workers to replace their rapidly depleting manpower. All things that were needed, but not getting done. Otherwise, he was simply left alone to his thoughts. Staring out of the civic center windows at all of the decay and silence and smog outside.
The only comfort he had during his time in the increasingly claustrophobic hellhole was the fact that the chef of the civic center, knowing Jack's tastes, managed to make him his beloved bisabito for his meals a few times. It was far blander than even the sparse versions the street vendors in the District made, yet when he was served one, he could be seen slowly eating one, savoring it as if he'd never have another.
Not that it was a big bonus in any way, and it was like eating cardboard.
But it was something.
no subject
no subject
Because that's what Johanna did in her free time. Clearly.