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.
no subject
While Jet takes care of the vegetables Bucky finds the rest of the ingredients, then proceeds to slice the chicken into almost even sized pieces. He finds cooking to be relaxing, which is one of the reasons that Bruce started to teach it to him as an alternative to taking out his frustrations on punching bags, he wonders if Jet finds it the same way.
"Have you ever made this before?"
no subject
"Naw, just watched it made. One of my teammates was a world-renowned Chinese chef, he'd make us all kinds of Chinese food whenever he had the chance since he liked making stuff for us. He tried to show me once, but I turned him down." He gave a self-depreciating smile to the vegetables and scoffed. "Honestly, I was infamous for my lack of cooking skills, so much so that they all just stopped letting me in the kitchen when crap was being made. Somehow, Sam managed to do the impossible and helped me not burn everything I touch.
Have you made this before?"
no subject
Bucky nods, "A couple times. With Bruce and on my own." meaning the Capitol employed chefs down in the restaurant next to the lobby. "Sam's good at cooking too."
no subject
"Well, he didn't used to be world-renowned. After we thought we'd beat the organization that'd turned us into cyborgs, he opened a restaurant not far from where 'base' was and it did really well. Then, after we beat Black Ghost once and for all, he turned it into a chain. Believe me, he and our creator had it out a few times over him using his own name for it when we're supposed to be part of a semi-secret group, but I guess they resolved it, cause his chain popped up all over the world.
When I got homesick when I was in the U.S. I'd go to the closest one. It wasn't exactly the same, but it was close enough.
"A lot of my team went and made a bit of a name for themselves in one way or another, some of them smaller scale than the others." He paused and his tone shifted slightly. "We, uh, weren't allowed to stay together as an organized group, UN said it gave the doc- our creator- too much power, like he'd use us as weapons to take over or some crap. So we all had to go do something else. We could come back together when we were needed, but otherwise...you know." He shrugged a shoulder.
It was stupid, but that was the reality of being a cyborg, you weren't human, you were a tool. At least in their world, he'd yet to run into that mindset coming from any of the tributes.
no subject
Maybe he's wrong about that. Bucky's had his narrow, controlled worldview proven wrong before.
"Seems strange. If they considered you so dangerous but let you all go out and do other things. It would make more sense to keep you together and controlled." he picks up the oil and drizzles an appropriate amount into the wok as it heats up.
Or they could do what had been done to Bucky, sealing him away until the Asset was needed.
no subject
"That's not quite how things were. I mean, yeah, they probably would have rather kept us in one cage and only let us out when we were needed, but the doc never would have let that happen. He'd have blown the whistle on them for human rights violations for sure and I suspect some of them feared him for how loyal we were to him." He looked away, an instinctual reaction now that they were headed into a more emotionally charged conversation.
"Our creator, the doc- Doctor Gilmore, he saw us as nothing but experiments at first, test subjects that weren't people, but as time went on, he realized he was wrong. He had forty years where Al and I were frozen to figure it out. By the time my other five teammates were made, he realized we deserved freedom and helped us escape. Honestly...the old guy became more like a father than some mad scientist, he cares a lot about us." He shrugged. "So, yeah, he let Chang do what he wanted. He only got mad 'cause he was worried about him, but it made Chang happy and that's all he wanted." If only Jet hadn't taken nearly thirty years to realize and accept that.
"The people who 'made' us were evil and we didn't work for them, he did, but he turned on them. After that, we didn't really work 'for' anyone until we all split up. Make sense?"
no subject
The wok heated up and Bucky picked up the chicken to scrape it into the pan. The meat hit the metal with a satisfying sizzle.
"That's..." it hits him wistfully what it might have been like for any of his handlers, doctors... anyone to have had a change of heart like that. Then of course he inwardly winces, for even if they had they wouldn't have got out alive. HYDRA had no retirement plan and he knew he had been the tool before to deal with those who thought they could change their minds and get out alive.
"That's lucky. You got free."
no subject
"Yeah, things could've been a lot different real easily. There were a lot of 'bad cyborgs' we faced, but there were ones made in our set, the Zero-Zero Cyborgs. 0010 through 0013 never got free and they were sent after us like assassins. We tried to reach some of them, but for one reason or another, they were unreachable and we had to defend ourselves."
Then Black Ghost 'fixed' the problem by removing all emotions but hate and anger in their 'cyborgmen' the Zero-Zero cyborgs were lucky enough that hadn't happened to them from the start.
"You got free too, you know. You're free now."
no subject
He keeps moving the chicken pieces in the pan, sealing the meat but not letting it burn on the outside. Bucky wonders if there were more like him in the bowels of HYDRA's machine, other people as weapons, maybe others who didn't have the chance to get out before it all collapsed.
No one gets out of HYDRA alive. except maybe him. Maybe.
Bucky looks up at the ceiling for a moment, saying with his eyes what he can't with his words. "It doesn't feel like it sometimes." out of one cage and into another.
no subject
This place, Black Ghost, they weren't that different, the similarities had been easy to spot from the get-go and it had been something he and Albert had shared between them many times. Hell, they'd had a fight about it not too long after they'd gotten here. How that sense of hopelessness had nearly crawled in on them here like it had on Ghost Island. That same mindset had nearly taken him over only weeks before.
It wasn't a mindset he was going to let win now, not over him or any of his friends.
"But just cause we get caught again, doesn't mean we'll never find a way out. It's like...we've already done it once, so we're sure to do it again." He looked back to Bucky, pulling out a smile that turned a little brighter once he put some effort into it.
no subject
Jet can still feel that way despite everything that's happened, Bucky feels like that says something. More than that Bucky is determined to make it so himself, or die trying. "Yeah, we can." he gestures for Jet to hand the vegetables over to him. "Someday."
Hopefully before another seventy years pass.