thecapitol | [Open] Find my way back

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[Open] Find my way back

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.

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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.

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.

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.

"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.

That made Jet feel a little bad, he didn't regret needing to leave Kieran, that was just the reality of the arena when dealing with people who weren't part of your 'group' but he hadn't even considered asking how it had gone for the guy. Jet still wasn't sure about this 'zombie' thing, but if it was still a problem or if it was power-based like Jet's real cybernetics, it hadn't crossed his mind. Admittedly, he'd had other things occupying his mind and they were still there, but this was a good first step in trying to not live in his head.

"I'm sorry. How did that end up for you? I don't think I saw you at all after that." Not even in the sky, but some nights he hadn't watched, Albert had, and when Albert was gone...well, there'd been very little reason to keep watching.

"It went...well, it was strange," Kieren explained. "I didn't go rabid after a day, which is what I should have done if nothing was...influencing things. Or a week. In fact, I went long enough that I was absolutely convinced I'd be fine, until...well, around the time it warmed up I started to feel strange. Angry, violent. I went...well, almost completely rabid, but fortunately someone...stopped me before I killed anyone."

Well, killed him to be more precise, but he didn't feel like emphasizing that point.

"It certainly could have gone a lot worse, but at the same time it's not exactly promising that they can make me go rabid whenever they want."

He could guess Kieran's meaning, it wasn't that hard considering the arena. But that was somewhat good that he hadn't gone ballistic like he'd feared.

"That might mean they're suppressing your...condition or whatever it is like they do with people's powers and abilities here. The fact something triggered it could've been them flipping it back on like you said, or it could've just been the arena."

He paused and turned back to his own paintings and began spreading color on the wall aimlessly. He had to if he was going to think about the reasoning he was about to give, just because it hurt didn't mean he could keep it from the kid when it might make him feel a little better.

"Something kinda like that happened to...my husband and I." The words 'my husband' nearly got caught in his throat and tried to choke him, but he worked passed them to keep talking. Even if Albert was gone, it didn't make him any less Jet's husband.

"We were fine for a while in this one arena, but during this certain time, the arena would be affected by something and we'd turn ten times more hostile during that. We hurt more than one person during that time...but it was just something the arena made us do, we weren't really in control of ourselves then and it didn't happen once were were out of there." Hellarena, named that for how the whole place would turn hot and red and rotting, hellish in every since of the word and drove more than just the two cyborgs crazy. Not to mention the less than proverbial 'hell' Jet's death had been there. He nearly shuddered while trying not to think about it.

"Point is, don't let it get you down too much, it might've just been a coincidence. The times when you'll have to worry are when they flip the powers back on and shit goes more crazy, then you might be facing that zombie thing like you worried about."

Kieren noticed the way the man's voice caught when he mentioned his husband, and he wondered why that was. Still, from the way this man talked, he strongly suspected now that his sudden rage had nothing to do with being what he was, particularly since it was terribly strange to turn rabid after so long seeming to be stable. There was, of course, no way to be certain, and truth be told, he supposed it made no difference in the end if he'd been rabid or simply suddenly violent. Either way, there wasn't much Beth could have done but kill him. At least he didn't kill anyone. And at least for the most part, he wouldn't be more of a danger than anyone else.

"Well, I suppose that's a comfort, in a way. I'm not quite as much of a ticking time bomb as I'd feared." Though he still was, in a way. Everyone would be when that happened, or, from the sound of things, there'd be others getting powers back. There would be signs. "I can't imagine how much harder it would be, having someone you care about in a place like this."

He paused, imagining it. Jem would be great at surviving, he was sure of that. She was pretty much a badass. Despite that, he didn't even want to think about her needing to use those skills, to kill other people to survive. It had been traumatic enough for her dealing with all she'd killed during the Rising, but these would be talking, feeling people. And Simon...oh, Simon would be a disaster in a place like this.

"Simon would probably try to stage a revolution on day one." Which with what he knew of the punishments here...well, he didn't want to think about what would happen from there. Something worried Kieren about the way this guy choked when mentioning his husband. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he just hesitated before coming out to a stranger, but in this place he wasn't going to dismiss the possibility that it could be something much worse. Worried, he asked, "Your husband...is he all right?"

Jet smirks a little hearing about Kieran's friend. That had been Jet's thoughts on day one too, when he'd talked to Enjolras. He'd been ready to storm the President's house. Now he'd be one of the first people to tell someone off for being that hasty.

And then there was that question. Jet could tell it was out of concern and part of him appreciated it, but his throat still felt thick and he had to clear it before answering. When he did, his attention was back into painting.

"He, uh...he didn't get revived after the last arena." He was quiet a moment, but then spoke up again, his voice a little softer. "I'd say 'I hope no one you care about shows up here' but the thing is...you're gonna end up caring about someone who's already here eventually and that's not any better."

"Oh..." he said, quiet for a moment as that sank in. "I'm sorry."

He'd hoped it would be something else. Something that wasn't quite so bad, but then, he realized, it could also well have been worse in a place like this. The thing they'd talked about using as punishment, the torments they had to face...this entire world was a reminder that there were fates worse than death. As for Kieren not caring about anyone here...well, he had a point. After all, even barely knowing anyone in this place, he already cared about their suffering, and would likely care even more as he got to know them. Sure, trying to disassociate from the others around him was an option, to see them as nothing more than competition, but that would leave him as cold and cruel as those who ran this thing and he didn't want to become anything like that.

"Yeah, I suppose you're right. Still, that's better than the alternative, I suppose."

"Yeah, you're right." Those first few days after he'd woken and realized Albert wasn't there -and wasn't going to be- he'd been in a terrible state, terrible enough to wish he hadn't come to care about anyone in Panem. If he didn't care about anyone, then he wouldn't have to face feeling like this again, but he knew that wasn't what he really wanted. He loved his make-shift family and the kind of person he might have turned into without their influence wasn't the kind of person he wanted to be, not in a thousand years.

He got the feeling that was what Kieran was referencing. "Thanks, by the way." For painting with him, for giving half a crap enough to ask.

"For what?" he asked, looking confused. As far as he was aware, he hadn't done anything to be thanked for.

"For stopping to paint with me. Didn't have to...but I appreciate the company. You could've just gone about your day instead."

He shrugged. It had been what he'd expected, most people would likely avoid him, especially if they knew about Albert and even though Kieran hadn't, he still could have just moved along.

It was something, even if it didn't seem like it. These days, it was the small somethings that seemed huge.

Kieren shook his head. "It was nothing. I mean, I enjoyed painting with you. Was supposed to go to art school before...well, before I ended up like this."

Dead. Well, undead, he supposed.

Jet nodded and put the finishing touches on what seemed like a black form with horns and eyes and highlights placed on the black with a dark purple to give the monster shape. He'd let his mind wander and now there was something other than shapes up on the wall.

"Can I ask: what happened? I mean, people always talk about zombies being the end of the world and all that, but all the 'ends of the world' I've seen didn't include zombies at all."

Well, mostly. The somnua were worse than dead.

He shook his head. "It's not the end of the world. It's a very unpleasant thing, of course, people rising from the grave and eating people, but the world keeps going. Some survive, and they rebuild. It probably seems like the end of the world while it's happening, though."

Not that he could speak too much to how it felt while it was happening, considering he was too undead to have an opinion on matters at the time. Still, he could imagine. It didn't take too much to imagine, when he'd seen and known so many on the other side of things.

He eyed the piece as it began to take form, interested.

"I always figured the world could end without really being gone, you know? Just cause some survive doesn't mean they're living.

The eyes were made a glowing sickly yellow, but then the monster was abandoned in favor of a new subject, a face of a man who's appearance seemed innocent enough, until started forming his expression and gave it shading. Cruelty had always been Jaden's most defining feature. However, where the eyes held the most detail, the rest of the face merely had it's shape and a start to some detail before Jet put the brush down again.

"But it's good that's not the case where you're from. You said something about medication when we first met, right? That means someone thought it was possible to fix--or, well, help the problem, right? Sorry if these are weird questions, it's just that your zombie world is a lot different from how the media back home always played it. I'm curious, it just wasn't a good time to ask in the last arena."

"Yes. Someone must have realized the problem could be treated."

Not that he knew the fine details of how someone realized that in the first place or how they found the cure.

"Although to be fair, the way the media portrays things is very rarely accurate."

At least, in his experience.

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[Open] Find my way back

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