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.
wow gj losing the notif me
The pose allows her to look at the wall instead of Jet as she talks, which somehow makes it easier to start scraping away the dead skin cells of her heart. "Yeah. I mean, he's cute, right? And he just- he makes me feel at ease. Like I don't got to prove anything to him because he trusts that I'm as good as I want to be. Not as I am, but as I want to be. Does that make sense?"
With Enjolras, she always felt like she was playing catch-up, and that wasn't necessarily bad but when they split it left her lurching over the edge of bridges she hadn't built well enough. There's something about being accepted for who you are that's appealing, something she's sure Jet will understand, given his own feelings for Albert.
no subject
"I guess, if he's your type. Definitely not mine, but I guess I can see the appeal. But, yeah, I get what you're saying about that, about being good. Al's-- Al was the same way, always saw me way better than I saw myself, but it let me try and live up to that, at least."
Now he does look over, his expression gentle. "I think someone like that would be perfect for you, I think you need someone to remind you how amazing you are and not how amazing you pretend to be."
It was direct, and way more than he'd ever addressed about the fact she put on a show. Usually, he let that stuff lie as long as it wasn't seriously hurting anyone, it wasn't like he hadn't pretended to be something one way or another at points in his past, he wasn't about to call someone else out.
"If he makes you feel like you can be you and only be better for it, then he's definitely worth giving a try."
no subject
Her eyes cut to him quickly, reading exactly what he's trying to tell her, and she wants to make excuses about how this isn't a show, about how it's who she is, but she values Jet too much to just up and lie to him about something they both already know. She could give excuses about it being habit, too, or protective, about it being vital in the Capitol, but there's no point. She's trying to be done dictating her life for the camera.
"You know I don't keep the act up because I don't trust you, right, Jet? It's not that."
no subject
"I don't think either of us expected them to lash out at us for our relationship, hell, there's a couple of guys in our group who've been together way longer than we have and we still couldn't face being open about it. We come from a different time than most of them, one where people like us could get killed in the damn street for being the way we are and no one would lift a finger. So, even if we didn't have to around them, we protected ourselves because it made us more comfortable than being honest." He shrugged.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but it just seems to me it's a lot like that for you too."
no subject
She was so alone before she came here, and she may continue to be alone if she can't unwind the tangles of damage that she's carried with her into this place, that wrap her up and away from her brother in arms and in spirit.
"It is." She lowers her gaze, because even in kindness the truth hurts. "I don't even know if I know how to be honest anymore."
no subject
"Keep saying that crap and it'll be true. Maybe you don't, but that doesn't mean you can't learn how again."
It's hard to be silly and put paint on her to draw any emotion other than self-pity, he has his own clawing at his throat, but they both need it. She needs the same treatment he'd give Albert just as he needs someone to focus on who isn't Albert. Sometimes, you just have to start a paint fight.
/winding down?
That's the thing about show business; not everyone believes the lie, but they'll accept it, knowing that they'll need someone else to turn a blind eye at some point in the future. It's an overlapping pile of opacities and half-truths until people get lost under it.
But for all the cameras and glamor here, this isn't show business, at least not for the actors. They spitefully stick to their honesty because they don't have anything else that is theirs. And Venus, buried so deep under these layers of lies, even if she can't reach up to the top can at least see the shadows of the people above her, digging her out.
/wrapping up!
He flashed a too-wide smile but then returned to his painting, starting on the finishing touches of a portrait that shined with the beauty Jet saw in her.
"I've got your back, V. And there's no expiration date on that."