Jet Link | 002 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
metalicarus) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-04-03 05:02 pm
metalicarus) wrote in thecapitol2015-04-03 05:02 pm
Entry tags:
[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.
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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"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.
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"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.
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"You got it."
He picked up the knife he favored out of the set and went for a newly set-out dummy. It didn't have a mark on it, he'd change that. Easily, the dummy turned into a random peacekeeper and Jet felt that rage stir in his veins. He moved around it slow, the peacekeeper turning into a living opponent in his imagination. Jet sliced at it, leaving a deep gash in it's side. As he went through the motions, his imaginary opponent changed shape over and over again, each one spiking his anger and making his strikes more vicious while his movements retained their grace.
A peacekeeper, Perry, Kevin, Nevua, Kirk, Jaden. Each face made his blood boil and by the time he was done taking every pent up emotion out on them, the dummy was about as shredded as a dummy could get and Jet was short of breath and covered in sweat. The rage cleared his vision and he stepped away from his target to put the knife back down. As soon as he could think clearly again, he'd need to thank Leo, he really needed that.
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"You were a soldier you came here, were you?" Leo commented absently as he studied the absolutely destroyed dummy. All vital areas have been eviscerated and somehow, he wished this had been a pig or one of those medical dummies, the mess would've been worth to see the actual damage.
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"Yeah, for over about thirty years." His time with the U.S. government mixed with his time spent as a cyborg soldier before that meant he'd been one for well over thirty...but that didn't have as much to do with his knife skills as the coach might think. He debated leaving it unsaid, but thought better with the acknowledgement that Leo was being fair to him and couldn't very well help Jet if he didn't know details. They might be useless in the long run, but it wouldn't hurt to share either.
"But I used a gun most of that time. Sometimes I'd use a knife, but a lot of my knife fighting happened when I was a teenager, I used to be part of a gang. D'you guys even have that sort of thing here?"
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"Hm, normally the Arena provides the bare minimum, as you've seen. What caliber was it? I can't promise anything but sometimes your skill with firearms will be help you."
District 7's Nick proved that even the underdogs could become contenders if they had the ability to handle the changes and a variety of weapons.
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"I don't know how that'll help you, though, my skill with firearms has really only come up in my archery and my ability to aim, I don't think I've set finger on a gun or anything like one in the year I've been in this place."
His aim was nothing to scoff at, he didn't miss all that often, but he hadn't been able to show exactly what kind of sharpshooter he was just yet with how limited their access to guns was. Of course, from the Gamemaker's perspective, he could understand why they hadn't; it wouldn't be very entertaining if everything ended in 48 hours because a bunch of people who knew how to shoot were given guns and ammunition.
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"Would you mind showing me this ability with the bow?"
That, and the man could see the change in the cyborg after letting go of the steam that had built. "Target practice, can't exactly take you hunting to the Districts."
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Still, he took the bow from Leo and slung a pack of arrows over his back before moving to the targets. Some of them were stationary and some of them moved and that worked just fine for Jet. He hit every single one. Most of them were on or near target, but there were some that hadn't quite made it but hadn't missed either. It was good enough, it wasn't like he was a master with the weapon yet, he'd only been training with it for a year. Felicity had helped a lot with that.
Mood already further improved, he turned to Leo when he was done and gestured to him with the bow. "What'd you think? Then I'd like to know what weapons you're good at." It was curiosity, pure and simple and if Leo knew one that Jet wanted to learn, maybe he could ask him about that.
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The coach nodded approvingly at every shot, "Definitely a marksman, and adaptable to boot." Jet was the Tribute he'd try to push towards the Sponsors, the man had a style that not many had, even those Candidates back home.
"I prefer hand to hand combat myself," Leo admitted, twirling the knife in his hand, "Not much for the theatrics, get in, get the kill, and get out. Might not be as flashy as the District 1 tributes but it gets the job done."
In three swift jabs, the coach targeted the carotid and both femoral arteries. He does grab a nearby spear. "But if I were to pick a weapon, I'd pick this. Might be unwieldy but it's got distance between you and the opponent." And for a man whose stature wasn't the best, Leonidas knew that if getting too close wasn't an option, then disabling was the way to go.
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When he picks up the spear, there's a small thread of anxiety mixed with anger that slips through him, but he quickly dismisses it. It wasn't Leo's fault Jet had a less than favorable association to spears. He puts the bow and quiver away and crosses his arms loosely to watch any demonstration Leo wanted to give.
"I can't remember the timing of when you showed up, but there used to be a tribute in 2 by the name of Nasir. Guy was a real bastard, threw hot oil in my eyes one of the arenas, but he wielded a spear too." He was also short, but Jet kept that to himself. Of course, depending on how attentive Leo had been to those games, he might already know that bit.
"It was a bitch to fight against, especially since the best I can do with one is to throw it or hit people with it like it's just a stick." He'd only gotten through the spear's reach by throwing his knife at Nasir, but if the guy hadn't run, Jet would've been doomed for sure.
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"District unity is key, or else...well, we already saw the mess District 7 unleashed-"
One wrong step and Leo found himself hissing in pain and using the spear as a cane, "G-goddammit." That last action made his knee act up, even with the internal prosthetic keeping it structurally sound.
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When Leo hissed and noticeably leaned on his spear, Jet stepped closer, hands out stretched as though to offer support, though he didn't make actual contact. He didn't know Leo that well, he might not take kindly to the offer. Better to let the help be accepted than just give it without warning.
"You alright? What's wrong?"
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Screw politeness, he had to put his knee back in place at this rate. A large scar can be seen, where the surgeons had worked on to rebuild the bone but being from D2 meant it wasn't a full restore. His father, Rafael, could not afford the Capitol's treatments and bore the shame of not doing enough for his would-be Tribute.
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When he came back, he opened it and offered it's contents over for Leo to look through.
"What happened to it?" Maybe it wasn't polite to ask, but Jet wasn't the most polite sometimes either.
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"Shattered by training injury when I was twelve. I was on the road to be one of the District Tributes when my sparring partner landed the blow. My father couldn't afford the Capitol's treatment so we had to settle for what District 2 had." He paused for a moment,
"He never lives down that he couldn't make the money to restore me in time. Even after I forgave him."
Rafael was a loyal man to the Capitol but because Leo was too young, too fresh-faced then, there were no sponsors to back him up. But the way the coach spoke, he never once blamed his father for it. "They did the best they could and now you have me as your coach."
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"Better outcome than going on to compete and risk your life. We might not have any coach in that case." It wasn't defiance or even a shot against the Capitol in Jet's opinion, just pure fact. If his knee hadn't been damaged, Leo might have gone on to be a tribute and died anyway.
"But you're working for the Capitol now, right? Can't you get it fixed better here?"
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"I could have been a mentor," he growled before a sound erupted from his knee. "But then you'd be right: I would not have been here to meet the Tributes I am prepping to fight." A mixed bag really.
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Of course, thinking about it brought him back to the idea that the reason he was frustrated was that Leo had wanted to participate in the Games. That part he didn't get. How could someone look forward to something like that and be disappointed they'd lost their shot at death when they lost their ambition? Unless they had some kind of death wish, which might not surprise Jet as much as he'd like it to, but maybe that wasn't it either.
Maybe it had more to do with the fact D2 children went into a kind of 'tribute school' or something, maybe it had more to do with the idea that this was what he'd been meant to do and having that taken away from him was what caused the frustration. If you couldn't do what you were good at, then what good were you beyond that? But still.
"Wasn't there ever something else you wanted to do? Something beyond The Games?" He thought back to Torin's mechanical dinosaurs.
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"To be chosen as a candidate to become a Tribute is the biggest honor a family can have in District 2, I was raised in this. This was my everything-And fate broke its' promise to me."
The language was laced with venom, not with Jet, but with the way the world tried to break him down.
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He ran a hand through his hair. He wasn't trying to imply Leo would have definitely died, but the odds definitely wouldn't have been good.
"I am sorry, though, that you feel cheated. That roman 'die with honor' crap just never made much sense to me. It makes more sense to live with honor, at least then you can make the best of life with it and maybe leave a mark bigger than blood in the grass when you go."
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"You must have heard many of my lot in your world then," he came to that conclusion, "People who died in old fashioned wars...have you told them that?"
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Even once he'd woken twenty years after the end of the Vietnam war, he'd heard the same thing: World War II was grandiose, Vietnam...less so.
"I was too young to really talk to anyone about them, but it's something I learned for myself. There's a whole lot of other things better than honor that are worth dying for."
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Talking with Jet made the once rabid Career think more about his legacy. Had he been in the Games, there would have been another Victor, not him. The odds were always up for grabs and in that Arena, D2 lost terribly.
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