[Open] Find my way back

[metalicarus]

Who| Jet and open
What| Jet's going through the motions because that's better than crumbling
Where| Jet's apartment, the training center, the city, just about anywhere you'd want to run into him
When| Roughly four days after the crowning and all through the next week.
Warnings/Notes| Sad cyborgs and cute shenanigans

Jet had been a complete mess when Sam had found him and now, a few days later, he wasn't much better but he was sober. That was an improvement. Every time he thought about what kind of person he'd turned into, avoiding his friends and family, drowning himself in a bottle like his father, he felt sick to his stomach. But he hadn't touched alcohol in days and he didn't think he'd ever touch it again for the rest of his life. This meant he had some free time now that he wasn't spending it drinking, so the hunt for something to distract himself began.

The Apartment) Those first few days were mostly spent with him trying to talk himself into leaving the apartment and not succeeding very well, but he took steps. He showered, brushed his hair (forgoing the hair gel) and actually got dressed. And that was about all he could claim to have accomplished that day. The next, he managed to do the same and then add straightening up the apartment to his list of accomplishments. It wasn't much, but it was more than he'd been doing before. The greatest accomplishment over all of these days was the fact he left the door unlocked for the first time since he'd woken up in the Capitol. It wasn't an open door, but it wasn't a barred one either.

The City and Park) Once Jet had managed to venture outside of his apartment, he decided to try and go for a walk out in the city (during the daylight hours for once). The hustle and bustle was soothing in it's familiarity, even if the people around him were just as ridiculous and irritating as before. He soon found the 'distractions' he could find there weren't distracting enough, they were all food and clothes and entertainment and things too shallow to hold his attention. The Capitol was too shallow. So the next day, he turned to running and running became what he did every early morning, waking up at hours that would have impressed Albert and taking off the minute he was outside. He'd run as fast as his cybernetic legs could take him and keep going even once his organic lungs burned and ached in protest. It was a distraction and it became his new addiction.

The Training Center) The running could only last so long before he'd have to admit his lungs had limits he was close to breaking and had to stop. Usually, this meant retreating back up to the apartment and showering and sleeping for however long he'd sleep. But once he woke up, he'd be faced with an empty room and a full head and nothing to do. This lead him to the training center where he was left with the options of painting the walls for the hundredth time (surly someone would learn some day and simply take the paints out. Until then, he'd take advantage of their stupidity) or actually training. Depending on the day and hour, he could be found doing either.

When he painted, he was careful to avoid faces and stuck to inanimate objects and animals, some of them from home and some of them from around the Capitol itself. Sometimes he didn't paint anything specific at all and simply chose to smear paint along the wall for the hell of it. It was a healthier distraction. When he trained, it was with all kinds of weapons. He'd practice his archery and marksmanship for as long as he could before the memories of who taught him how to use it caught up with him and made him stop. Then it'd be on to knives and slicing up programmed enemies, his movements more often than not as graceful as a dance. He'd occasionally try his luck at throwing the knives instead of fighting with them with mixed results and even picked up a sword when he thought to, though it was clear in his movements and form that he was still learning. This was probably when he felt most open to connecting with others again. At least here he didn't avoid eye contact; fighting wasn't a distraction, it was a comfort.

The Downstairs Kitchens) Approximately two and a half weeks after he'd woken up to an empty apartment, Jet felt a twisting in his stomach he almost didn't recognize, it wasn't a feeling he'd had in so long, even before the arena's end. He was hungry. This wasn't the insatiable appetite he used to have, the one that often made Albert comment about how Jet would eat them out of house and home some day, but it existed and that was new. He'd eaten in the past few weeks, but sparsely and only the couple bites it took to make him feel sick. This time the idea of food actually seemed pleasant and a few things came to mind that Jet realized he'd probably be able and willing to finish. Of course, it also happened to be after midnight.

Jet wrapped himself in a robe that was too big across his shoulders but a bit too short in the sleeves for him and snuck his way downstairs. Well, it wasn't really sneaking, he didn't anticipate running into anyone, but he moved silently anyway. Once he was in the downstairs kitchens, he began rummaging through the supplies for something he could sling together that wouldn't end in setting off the fire alarms.

Comments

Training Center

[walking_dead_walker]

Kieren, recognizing Jet from their short encounter in the arena, started to head over, when he noticed what he was doing. Curious, and interested due to his own artistic endeavors, Kieren paused, watching him as he worked, but staying out of the way for the time being. He remained silent, too, not wanting to break the man's concentration until he reached a point where he wanted to stop of his own volition.

[metalicarus]

Jet had gone from planes to abstract to shapes and was now working on a small square that seemed to be a swatch of sky at sunset. The colors ranged from blue to yellow and red and orange and while it was hardly a professional job, it still looked pretty good. Jet supposed it ought to since the visual was etched into his memory.

He noticed Kieran about the time he was applying some clouds to the sky. "Hey. There's other paintbrushes and plenty of wall, you know." It was an invitation. Whether the guy took him up on it or not was another thing.

[walking_dead_walker]

Smiling slightly, going up and grabbing his own brush and paints before heading over to a blank bit of wall. He stared at it for a bit, contemplating it before he began to work. Thinking of what he wanted to paint, and moreover, thinking of how he wanted it to look, imagining the lines and curves of it before he began to work, not wanting to make the sort of mistake that could be prevented by simply knowing what he wanted to do.

Normally, he preferred painting portraits, but in a place where people could be 'avoxed' for 'rebelling', he didn't want to risk drawing attention to anyone who was either here, or had the risk of being pulled into this world just as he had. Instead, he painted a forest, where the trees were sparse and blackened, and all the plants were dead. The scene was mostly painted in greys, the only splash of color was the red hoodie of a figure curled up at the base of one of the trees, his hands covering his face.

[metalicarus]

At first, Jet ignored his new company, content to let Kieran have some wall and some paint and generally ignore his existence. But the subject and skill shown in the painting catches his attention and Jet stops his own meaningless work to watch the other man.

It gave Jet a sense of sadness -which he supposed was the point- and he couldn't help but ask. "That's pretty good. There a story in it or just something random?" It seemed like the kind of thing to have a story, but he also knew sometimes you just made crap because of a feeling you were having. Maybe the scene was sad because Kieran was for whatever reason. Jet wouldn't blame him in a place like this.

[walking_dead_walker]

"It's just..." he paused, thinking about it. "It's just how I felt during the last arena. When I was stuck out there, waiting to see if I'd die or go rabid or both."

In the end it was both. Not that that made any difference during all that time and dread and anticipation. Realizing he wasn't going rabid after a day, but also realizing he had no idea what he should do, since he certainly didn't want to kill anyone, but that was the only way to survive in that place.

Training Center

[tookthewheel]

"Jet."

Bucky waits until Jet is taking a break, sitting down in a corner of the training centre, to approach. He's here frequently enough to pick up on how Jet's presence in the room has increased exponentially, either painting the walls or working out at one of the many stations. It's easy enough for him to connect the reasoning behind it, even as he struggles on how or if he should try and say anything about it.

Eventually he decides just to go ahead and approach, with a cold bottle of water in hand (retrieved from a store outside the Tribute building, because Bucky is still paranoid over that) and offer it out to his friend. "Here."

[metalicarus]

Today had seen Jet practicing with both the daggers and his own regular fighting skills, taking that vague desire to punch something and putting it to good use. He'd worked hard to tire himself out and the offer of the water bottle was more than welcome, although seeing Bucky caused a twist of guilt in him. He'd outright avoided his friend for a while there and even once he'd started coming to the training center every day, he'd largely been in his own head.

"Thanks."

He glanced up for a moment as he took a drink, but then his eyes found the floor again. What was he supposed to say? Should he apologize for vanishing? Did Bucky even notice enough to need to? He'd seemingly missed the step of finding out how Bucky was doing after the arena since he'd died a while before Jet, besides if he asked how Bucky was doing, that could prompt the question being turned back on him and Jet didn't know the answer. But still...

"I...Haven't seen you." Except that was a lie because Jet had seen him at the Crowning and done his best for the opposite not to happen. There was that guilt again. "Sorry. How're you?"

[tookthewheel]

Bucky knows what it's like to try and work yourself into exhaustion just to try and get through the day, though he has never had the same reason to do so that Jet now has. learning that Albert hadn't returned from the arena had been difficult for him but for Jet whose connection to the other cyborg is so much stronger it can only be infinitely worse.

The only way Bucky can imagine it is how he would feel if Steve did not come back, a concept that his mind shies away from anytime he tries to think about it.

"It's fine. I... understand." he says, a little gruffly and shaking his head as Jet apologises. He doesn't want him to apologise for this. Bucky runs his thumb across the knuckles of his metal hand, uncovered because he'd been taking both fists to one of the punching bags while he waited for Jet to take a break. "I'm fine."

[metalicarus]

Jet wasn't sure if that was true or not, but he wasn't in a place to question it. He knew Bucky must have been reset again and considering how he'd taken it last time, Jet couldn't imagine it was any easier now that he knew it was happening.

It would be so easy to let it drop, to let them both shy away from things that hurt and were hard, but Jet felt that care and loyalty to the man in front of him flare up. Sam had reminded him there were people to care about who were still here, people who Jet would only hurt if he ignored. Bucky was one of those people.

"Yeah? You...you wanna do something? Either here, like train more, or somewhere else. Anything else." Before, he might have said he didn't want company, but now that Bucky was there, Jet didn't really want him to leave anymore either.

The City/Park

[a_minute_younger]

It's later in Jet's run that Gary appears. He doesn't have any reason to be out early, and in fact he prefers sleeping in as late as possible, if only so that once he does wake up he's filled with restless energy to go out and explore. He likes that feeling--it motivates him, drives him to push himself to new and interesting limits, and makes him feel less like he's just looking for distractions from his increasingly mopier friends. Which he totally is. But that's beside the point.

The point is, Gary is bundled with energy at this point in his jog and he's happy to find some kind of outlet for it. Jet he recognizes (how couldn't he, after that huge wedding he had?); more importantly, Gary recognizes that Jet is running very fast. Is he going somewhere? Somewhere exciting? Maybe he's in a race? Gary likes all of these options. With a small chuckle, the teen puts on a determined grimace and sprints ahead, coming up quickly from behind.

"Passing left, chump!" he teases. Gary angles himself to pass right.

[metalicarus]

Jet hadn't necessarily been enjoying his run, he didn't enjoy much of anything right now, but it sucked less than most things...at least until some brat spoke up behind him. 'Chump.' Yeah. Okay. He has a strong urge to trip the kid as he passes out of spite -which is strange since strong urges to do anything but lay around were rare- but he was going to fast to be able to pull that off well. He also supposed he could stick his metal arm out and clothesline him for his own bratty good.

He goes with neither. It would be too much effort and too much emotion to expend. Instead, he shifts his stride slight so he suddenly darts right to dodge the kid. Except dodging right sent him right into the guy's path and there was no way Jet could shift the weight of his metal limbs to get him out of the way with how close they were.

[a_minute_younger]

"Woah!" Gary cries, as if this is completely different from what he expected to happen when he decided to fake Jet out. That, he had anticipated (as soon as it came out of his mouth--this was hardly a premeditated plan); what he does not anticipate is how much weight Jet has behind him when they collide. Gary stumbles, pinwheels his arms, takes several ungainly strides forward and finally manages to regain his balance. All things considered, that could have been much worse.

The other guy, with how much inertia he had, is probably fine. Gary keeps running on the assumption that he is. "The one that makes an 'L' is your left!" he calls, and holds up his right hand in the shape directed--twisted so it makes the correct shape. Gary, of course, plays this off with complete innocence.

[metalicarus]

Jet manages to catch himself, largely thanks to the very cybernetics that had unbalanced him. At least he hadn't taken the kid out or anything. Of course, then he opened his mouth and Jet kind of wished he had mowed him down.

"That's your right hand, brat." His tone clearly says what Jet is thinking: how much of a moron are you? Even if he hadn't been in a bad mood, he would have had a fifty/fifty shot of finding the kid's antics annoying. It would have been annoying or amusing, right now it was just an irritation. Obviously, he'd called the wrong direction on purpose. And why? To be a punk.

Kind of reminded him of someone, now that he thought about it. Of course, that comparison just made his patience shorter. "What do you want?"

Training Center

[lionhearted_victor]

The last time Leo had any contact with this particular Tribute was in the long-ago network communication. Ever since then, the Trainer had kept a closer eye on Jet as he went through the Arena with his partner...no, the term was significant other at this point. It didn't matter to Cora what the Tributes did in there as long as they won. And yet, the mourning was there.

Albert died and by the looks of things, wasn't coming back for the next Arena.

Leo had taken to practice his choke-holds and kicks (for someone of a short stature, the trainer could deliver a devastating blow to the throat) that day until he saw the blond man step inside. He took this moment to study the cyborg as best he could, no comments for now.

[metalicarus]

Jet could feel the eyes on him and it unnerved him. Why couldn't he just drown in training in peace? A quick glance told him it was Leo, D2's trainer. He did his best to ignore the other man's presence, but now that he knew it was there, he'd become hyper-aware of the fact he was being watched.

He got as far as picking up the sword, trying it in both hands and getting through a few movements before he just stopped in his tracks, lowered the weapon and gave Leo a pointed look. "Just feel like watching or what?" He didn't hate Leo, the guy wasn't completely insufferable, but he'd caught Jet in the worst mood he could possibly be in.

[lionhearted_victor]

"I was hoping to study your combat in a more controlled environment," Leo replied as promptly as possible. He wasn't one to be petty towards people, even Tributes that earned his respect.

"You performed admirably then...but I'm guessing the Arena holds a bitter memory for you," he added, acknowledging Jet's loss as it was: a loss. He wasn't that big of a dick to rub salt in such deeply personal wounds.

[metalicarus]

The fact he wasn't being teased or tormented or bullied by Leo was a little surprising and reminded him of Torin, how not all of the support team was terrible. If it had been any other time, he might have actually expressed his appreciation, instead he simply loses any hostility and opens up a bit more to the idea of listening. It was the best he could offer.

"Yeah. But...sure, what do you want to see? Or I can just keep going and you can make whatever comments or stuff you want." It would be a distraction, at least.

The Training Center

[carnagecarnival]

Every day. Every single day since he's gotten here, he's painted. He used to paint all insanity upon the walls. Then those beautiful disasters because interwoven with trees of chalk, and the color grew. Things came clearer, faces, meanings. There weren't so many demons as before.

One day he started cleaning up after his mess, a quick lesson with Cecil the avox and he'd been determined that his art, what he claimed beautiful, would not be another's pain. And then, soon enough, there came a time he couldn't paint upon the walls anymore. It pained him too-- to do it, to not. Then Terezi came with her paper and boards that they could tape up in the Training Center, keep up their art together and without the drawn out scream in the back of his pan. He'd been grateful.

He'd been looking forward to Albert's promise of painting his and Jet's apartment. He'd been looking forward to having both his friends safe and well. Not leaving holes and being full of them. He didn't find out at first. It tore through later. He wondered why he wasn't there for Jet, how Jet managed not to cull everyone like he'd so very nearly done in similar loss. How many motherfucking times had he lost someone just to break down entirely. Maybe he really could survive it. Stand it, never, but...

Jet's here. The Initiate's got paper under his arm, but Jet's already being wall-side when he walks on the fuck up. He doesn't know much what to say. He stares at the paint on the wall, opposing urges going to strife in his pan. He sits on down beside Jet, then with a deep shaky breath, puts the great piece of paper down. Out of the way.

His fingers dip into the paint no problem, just like always. It's bringing them to touch the wall that makes them shake and shake hard. But no matter the tremble, he forces himself to paint on as how Jet wishes on it.

"Didn't know you was being into this," He says quiet.

[metalicarus]

Another person nearby doesn't surprise him, but as they get closer, it's hard to misplace the presence of someone a foot taller than you, especially when that someone is usually a very comforting presence. Initiate was family, he was home...but right now he was guilt and pain and Jet couldn't look at him even though a part of him wanted to.

He missed his friend, his brother, but he'd actively avoided him for over a week and had wished at the darkest of times to never see him again because being with him would be comforting and remind Jet of being happy, both of which he didn't deserve anymore. He didn't even know if he could feel happy.

So with his eyes stubbornly glued to the wall but no longer seeing what he's painting, he doesn't notice how Initiate's hand shakes, not yet, but he can hear something in his friend's voice even just from how quiet it was.

"Yeah...not the best at it but I'm alright...it's calming. It's better than-" Than drinking everything away, than running out into the Capitol and charging head-first into Snow's mansion to do as much damage as he could before he was killed. Better than giving up and letting himself waste away like he almost did. He shrugged and put the paintbrush down.

He'd run out of things to paint, the only subjects he felt itching to come out hurt too much.

[carnagecarnival]

He doesn't blame Jet for keeping turned away. Not a little damn bit, he couldn't blame Jet for nothing. Maybe blame himself, but for once it doesn't come so easy. He remembers Albert and he swapping name of the ones they couldn't live without. He remembers telling Albert that he was just important too, not someone what all they could bear losing.

He wishes they didn't have to see it. He wishes he'd prayed a little more, done something more, something faster. But it's the futility of it what digs in this time.

Jet doesn't finish his words, but he doesn't make on acting like it's a big deal. He simply answers with, "YEAH. Right all motherfucking about that as to be gotten."

He notices when the painting stops. Half of him wants to let it. Let it all stop and he can get the cleaning supplies out, wipe this place down as what is compulsion in him to do. He's silent for a long time, fighting with himself, daring himself to speak or not.

"I'VE BEEN HERE, WHERE YOU IS AT," He says at last. "We don't gotta talk about it. BUT I'M HERE IF YOU'RE NEEDING. When you're needing. AND IF I MIGHT BE SUGGESTING..." He reaches his clean hand over to lightly touch the top of Jet's. "...just feeling it can be a sorts good. S'WHAT I DO. S'what I've always done, get the digits up in them colors and go. IT DOESN'T HAVE TO LOOK LIKE MOTHERFUCKING NOTHING. Sometimes the colors make work for what you're needing out." And with that, he goes back to his unsteady strokes.

[metalicarus]

He doesn't think he can talk about it, not without putting on an emotional display he didn't want the Capitol to have any part of, but he appreciated the offer and that Initiate was willing to offer the same back that Jet would likely throw at him. "Thanks, 'nitiate."

He looked over to watch his friend's painting and finally noticed the quiver to his strokes. Concern lanced through Jet and he debated asking what was wrong, but the words didn't come out. Slowly, he dug out the pair of gloves he kept with him -a page he'd taken out of Albert's book from when his partner had kept a pair with him- and slipped them on. It would make painting with his fingers easier so the metal didn't scrape along the concrete and would make it less uncomfortable when he reached out with his other hand and laced his fingers with Intiate's clean ones.

Quietly, he dipped the fabric of the glove's fingers into the paint and spread it across the wall without any really attention given to what color or shape he was making. That changed as the words he was fishing for stayed just out of reach for his tongue but not for his hand. A moment later, a few words had found their way onto the wall between their 'canvas areas.'

'thank you for being part of my family'

He didn't know if he'd be able to say it any other way and, most days, he'd rather leave it unsaid as something simply understood. But, with the reality that any of them could suddenly no longer be there hanging over his head, he figured it was worth saying at least once. Just in case.

On the way to the training center - sorry this is so late!

[celebrityskinned]

In Albert's absence, Venus has felt some pull to tend to the piano he so loved in the front lobby. It doesn't make sense and she knows it - it's no more his than anything else in the Capitol, just because he loved to play it - but that doesn't stop her from feeling some draw to it.

She sits at the side of the bench as if sharing it with his ghost. She doesn't touch the piano keys, because somehow that still seems presumptive, blasphemous even, but she arranges flowers on the stand and convinces herself that they aren't funereal bouquets. Sometimes she reads a book, feeling like her presence here somehow brings her closer to the friend (the brother, even) she doesn't want to admit is missing. She's a sentinel at the instrument.

She's been checking on Jet once a day under semi-transparent excuses, making sure he's eaten and not remarking on the alcohol or on his apparent recovery. She leaves him alone when he wants solitude, which has been quite a lot lately, and she doesn't blame him for that.

She has a magazine flat on her lap and her ankles crossed demurely when Jet walks through the lobby from the outdoors to the training center. She glances up, face composed because she knows well as anybody that pity can be the last thing anyone wants, and sharing grief can just feel like theft from a more worthy party.

"Are you going to paint today?"

No worries! Better late than never <3

[metalicarus]

He wouldn't be surprised if someone had told him Delilah was one of the people to come by his new apartment while he'd kept the door tightly shut. He knew he'd have gone to see her if the situation was reversed. He felt as bad about ignoring her as he'd felt ignoring everyone else, but now it was worse. He'd practically been ignoring her even after Sam's intervention.

He loved her as much as ever, but that just meant it hurt more when he looked at her and he hadn't bothered to stop and talk to her any of the times they'd briefly crossed paths. He'd wanted to...but he also didn't know what to say to her. This time was no different...except for when she spoke to him instead of letting him walk by.

He paused, feeling that ice he hadn't realized had settled, break. "I don't know yet. Kinda just wait to see what I feel like when I get there."

He finally turned his eyes to her, his guilt in them along with that desire to apologize that was trapped on his tongue. He didn't know which words to use.

"...What're you doing?"

[celebrityskinned]

"Reading. Why, is my magazine upside down?" One half of her mouth quirks up and to the side, a perfectly-acted self-deprecating smile. The truth is that Venus doesn't know how much of her life is performance and how much is genuine. Every interaction seems to be about navigating her way above grief, walking a tightrope where if she falls, she'll plummet into a blackness of her family, of Albert, of Kankri and Ellie, of everyone she's lost.

But she can't be the one to grieve Albert unless Jet gives her permission, at least, not in front of him. There are some people who lay stronger claim to sorrow than she does, and she won't steal that from them.

"Mind if I come with? I haven't gotten a chance to see your art, just hear about it, and you know." They haven't seen each other much lately. She doesn't blame him. She knows what it's like to withdraw. She rises to her feet. "Just wanted to see how you're holding up."

[metalicarus]

"No, it's on your lap." He offers a small shadow of his usual smile in return. There was still something twisting in him, something unsure and maybe even a little scared. Scared of what he might feel when she was around. Would they feel better being around each other and having the other to lean on or would it just hurt more? Well, he'd never been one to run away from something just because it scared him.

She stood and he offered his hand out to her so they could walk there together. "You're welcome to, I just doubt there's much to see. I'm not some Picasso or whatever." But he wasn't bad and maybe they could find something to give a real smile for instead of practiced and half-functional fakes.

"I'd like to know how you're doing too."