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
"Hey! Didn't have to wait for me. Could you get the door?" What with his hands full and all.
Inside, the apartment was larger than the regular tribute rooms, mostly from the addition of a larger bathroom to one side and a small kitchenette on the other. In the middle of the room, against the far wall, was a large bed. On the right sidetable there sat a small figurine. Despite some over exaggeration in the muscles, it was clearly meant to be Albert. Sitting next to it was the jet plane necklace Albert had always worn. Beyond these two things, the whole place was impersonal and almost sterile in it's feel. Definitely not somewhere that felt like a home.
Jet put the pile of paints in the middle of the floor and immediately set to prying open the lids so Initiate could see the colors. "This one is called 'smalt' which is the most pretentious name for the color blue I've ever heard." A small smile formed as he got the lid off and revealed the deep but vibrant shade of blue. "It was Al's favorite color. He'd probably want the whole place done in this stuff, but that's too much blue for me. That's why I got..." He turned to the other large can and opened it up next to reveal a crimson color. "This is my favorite. Honestly, I don't know how you're 'supposed' to paint a place, but I figure as long as there's color on the walls, that's all that matters. And then I got something for you, something I'd hoped you'd like to do to kind of add your own touch."
The smaller cans get opened up one by one, slowly revealing various shades that made up a rainbow. "I think it's called a 'mural' or something."
no subject
Especially with what he sees inside, which is to say, he finds a whole lot of lack. There's no life here, no color. There's no warm brightness as is Jet, no cool clear that is Albert. It's a hive, sure. But as Jet knows it, it don't feel like home.
This is a straight up motherfucking tragedy is what it up and is. The fact that one of the two things that would make this place good ain't around no more is something truly unfair.
But he turns his eyes to the colors, the miraculous, as he is always wont to do. He makes a face at the word 'smalt' all coming to motherfucking agreement that that shit is blue as the bluest blueblood ever up and goddamn was. And then there's Jets, all between bright red and soft maroon. This is fitting somehow, enough to make him really smile. Red and blue. He's figuring he can work with that. Makes him think of Mituna, in the good ways, a bit.
But then the real miracles are getting unveiled and he watches with a breathless wondering delight as color after color is unveiled. 'Mural' or something. He laughs aloud and shakes his head. The grin he fixes upon Jet is wide and bright one.
"BROTHER, WE IS GOING TO MAKE THIS PLACE SO MOTHERFUCKING BEAUTIFUL AS TO BE BLOWING MIND," He says.
no subject
"Alright! Let's get started then." He stood and made for the one window in the place -the old room hadn't even had one, so it was an improvement- and opened the blinds on it, allowing as much light as the sun and the lightbulbs in the ceiling could offer the room.
He grabbed one of the large paint cans at random and a roller and started on the wall just to the right of the door. He was tempted to just throw the stuff at the wall and then spread it out before it got to the baseboards, but that probably wasn't the most efficient way to go about it.
Maybe later.
As he spread the color, it occurred to him some music would be nice right about now, but there was no trusting capitol music and he hadn't found any kind of music playing device either.
no subject
There's some good to it though. He can see things as what he's not seen so much before. Like the dust glittering in the light of it like so much motherfucking stardust pleasant.
The Initiate wouldn't have denied the desire to splash paint all over-- it would've made shit get on feeling so much more alive. He further wouldn't have denied no music. But for now he focuses upon his cans of color, all rainbow, and he takes it up to the wall.
He starts with blue. He follows with a soft humming, the one bit of song he can still do with his fluctuating tones. The blue flows out into sea.
no subject
An errant thought crops up eventually, although he felt loathe to break the peace with his voice. Unfortunately, he was curious.
"Do trolls have bands? Like, musicians?" The way Initiate had described it, Jet wouldn't have guessed so but now he wondered. Albert had said something long ago about Initiate liking music and playing with him.
no subject
"Musicians I am most motherfucking certain for," He says. "WOULD ONLY BE OF SENSE AS THERE WOULD BE. Bards and poets. ANCIENT ALTERNIAN ART OF SLAM POETRY IS PRACTICE MORE ANCIENT THAT MY TIME. And further still. MUSIC'S BEEN UP PART OF THE FAITH SINCE BEGINNINGS OF TIME AND SPACE AT ITSELF. It's in the prophecies for the rise of a rowdy band of Minstrels with the coming of paradise to be. MESSIAHS HAVE DEEMED IT SO AND SO LONG BEFORE ALL OTHER BEING. Destined were we to be for song and shanty. OH, THE SHANITIES I KNOW, MY BROTHER! Hate seadwellers, I do, and never a fancy to gamblignants, but the shanties you catch of them seas are being motherfucking something."
He breathes deep, like he might smell the ocean in the wake of his nostalgia. He sighs with it.
"MIGHT BE OF DIFFERENCE THAN HUMAN PRACTICE. My kind's got focus still more up on the cull and conquer. FOUND ON OUT OF YOUR PIANO INSTRUMENTALS HERE AND ALL I COULD THINK WAS AS HOW THE STRINGS WOULD BE MADE ON FOR THE GAROTTING. But played all beauteous was it to be. HAD TO SIT ON BY FOR THE LISTENING." Albert had played it well. It was going to be hard hearing that piano for a while, he thinks. "I'm from times ancient my ownself. TEREZI'S PROBABLY GOT UP AT EVEN MORE IN HER TIMES MADE MOTHERFUCKING MODERN."
no subject
"Slam poetry...?" He knew what it was, but it'd been a recent thing back home, certainly after Jet's time as a human. He had a hard time imagining it alongside things like bards and ancient paintings and the like. It sounded like music -and singing- was more important to Initiate himself than the troll culture necessarily, then again Jet didn't know much about his 'faith' and how far it extended.
From what little he did know, he didn't think he'd get it even if he asked about it.
"We got some time here and there. You even consider learning how to play an instrument?" He could imagine singing itself was difficult for his friend with those fluctuations of his, but maybe if he learned how to play something it'd be just as good. "I'm not much good with the piano myself, passable really, but I know how to play the guitar. Well, and the harmonica but some people don't consider that a real instrument." It was clear by Jet's voice what he thought of those people. No taste. In the right hands, a harmonica could sound just as wonderful as any flute.
no subject
He smears on another bit of color. "MADE ALL TO TRY RECENTLIKE. Asked a Sister on for some lessoning done. KINDA GOT ARENA NOISE UP IN THE WAY, UNFORTUNATE." He shrugs his shoulders.
He turns a wide grin on Jet though, all intrigued. He could tell from the voice as Jet didn't get agreement and Initiate could get agreement by him. Anything could be instrument.
"Don't be all making tell on such things and holding back, brother! YOU GOT ON ANY OF THAT AS IS BEING HERE? Let's hear on the righteous noise!" He looks quite excited for it.
no subject
"Don't know why, but I've never gotten a guitar from this place. I looked at a few when I went looking for this thing, but they all either sounded wrong or felt wrong when I held them." Of course, who even knew if he could pull off the same sound now that his fingers were metal. Maybe if he used a pick.
He settled back down where he'd been and brought the instrument up to his lips, wetting them first before giving an experimental blow. A pause and then the apartment was filled with 'Isn't She Lovely?.' Not exactly righteous but it'd do. Besides, the up tempo was better right now than how depressing 'Amazing Grace' was.
When he was finished he offered a little bow. "What'd you think?"
no subject
Jet prepares for it all with an ease. A joy what makes Initate happy to see, especially in light of all that's gone on. True fact of the Carnival, even death was an honoring thing. He's doesn't know shit about funerals, but this all seems the same to be something Albert might be proud of. The art, Jet himself... and the songs.
It's a different sound entirely than the songs piano done that Albert used to. It's light and lifting, not like anything he's ever heard before. He claps when Jet finishes and throws a whistle and whoop in as he bows.
When asked, he answers honestly. With a pleased sigh, he says, "WHAT I'M THINKING AT? Thinking like it was beautiful, brother."