thecapitol | [Closed] Look out to the future, but it tells you nothing

Entry tags:

[Closed] Look out to the future, but it tells you nothing

Who| Jet and Sam, Jet and Sigma
What| Meet ups and talks
Where| Solitary confinement
When| A bit before the District 8 and 9 breakout
Warnings/Notes| Mentions of drugs, nothing else for now

For Sigma
He didn't know where he was anymore. Some days, he dreamed of a pristine white lab with doctors and scientists around him, talking about him as though he weren't there. Sometimes those scientists had the Capitol's emblem on their collars and sometimes those scientists were overshadowed by a tall dark man in a mask like a skull. Those days weren't pleasant, but they often didn't last long. They'd soon be replaced with other things, nights on the beach with his old family, days out laughing and having fun with his new family, sometimes it was just hours of quiet time leaned up against Albert's legs, both of them nose-deep in a book with the crackle of the fire in the background. But sometimes it was less pleasant, things he thought might be memories and bad ones. Some he thought maybe he was making up but were just as awful...the worst part was he couldn't tell which were which anymore.

When he'd finally wake, it'd be in a sterile cell, bars all around like the caged bird he was. Sometimes he was given paper and pencil when he asked and he could write or draw or whatever his frazzled mind could come up with. It was during one of these times that he distantly heard a guard mention a 'very important visitor' there to see Jet and he had to scoff to himself. No one important would come see a street thug like him in jail, they had to be mistaken. He continued to draw, this time a picture of a small birdcage necklace he remembered distantly. It made music, he was sure. He drew little music notes around it.

For Sam
It was days after the man had visited and part of him couldn't even remember who it had been except for a kernel of vitriol he associated with it. He couldn't think. He didn't try. He heard the sound of someone entering the containment hall and boots stomping down the hall. They escorted someone into the room beside Jet and the guy didn't sound very well off, something wrong in his step. Jet didn't look up.

He stayed sitting with his back against the bars separating the two cells, legs pulled up to his chest with his face buried in his arms. If he didn't think, it didn't hurt.

The men abandoned their charge in the other room and locked the door behind them before stopping off in Jet's. He didn't budge, just sat there, compliant as a sharp pain was injected into his arm and something burned through his veins. But even as the men left Jet as well and then the hall itself, the burning retreated to leave a floating feeling instead. The pain went away. His mind slowed even more and the blond stayed curled up where he sat, vision swimming.

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Sigma had not kept himself abreast on the status of their rebellious prisoners - it was a subject too close to his heart to keep his health, and unless a scheme demanded it he preferred to live in ignorance. Perhaps this is why Sigma does not understand the meaning of the drawing Jet has left for him. He believes there must be one - be it a threat or an invitation, Sigma pulls as many strings as he must to gain access to Jet's cell. He would no longer be intimidated by a man he knew was on the same side, but if the note were the prelude to a call to action, it was one he could not ignore...

As the Peacekeepers allow him access to solitary confinement, Sigma asks himself how they got here, Jet the prisoner and he the keeper, if it weren't for his standing on the bodies of the dead.

The Gamemaker does not expect to be greeted warmly by a man who nearly broke his ribs on a wall, but doesn't expect to find him so rapt in his drawing, either. He knew intimately of what isolation did to the human psyche, but to see him so focused on what Sigma considered a trivial task... Well, perhaps it wasn't trivial at all. The folded 'message' heavy in his pocket, Sigma addresses Jet stiffly.

"I did not know you were such an artist. Mr. Jet Link-"

His lips part in a silent gasp when he discovers the subject. He clamps his teeth in front of his tongue and stares down, hard, waiting for a sign. For time to pass.

Sigma's voice receives a slow reaction, slower than it likely would have were things different. The voice tickles Jet's memory and so does the face, but he can't place it immediately. But it still makes a confusing cocktail of emotions swirl in his mind even as he stares at the man's startled face. This was the important guy? Maybe one of his Pa's friends, he should shape up so he wasn't snapped at.

Then again, the guy seemed more interested in the picture than in Jet's posture. Blue eyes that were far more dilated than they should have been, looked up at Sigma from the floor of the cell, Jet's pencil coming to rest on the paper. "It's a necklace. Makes music. Was a present. Don't remember from who." The incomplete explanation tampers off into honest confusion, hostility still absent from Jet's expression.

"Why're you here? Guy like you don't belong in jail." Those fancy three pieces that walked around like they owned New York, that's what this guy was like. You didn't cross one of them if you could help it, not worth the trouble unless you planned to come up behind them and their pockets.

The Gamemaker knows his presence deserves every bit of Jet's rage- a sneer, at the very least- and for the first time the lack of anger in his enemy disturbs Sigma profoundly. The prisoner's uncanny eyes prove that the Capitol has done something horrific, and whatever suspicions he'd had disappear. Jet Link was a victim, like Kyle and Akane and Diana. He would find no ill will here.

He knows he should be inquiring after the watch, but the story of the music box is too delicious. It was impossible that it had nothing to do with Luna, but in Jet's state of mind there is no knowing. He would have to puzzle it out from the ground up.

"I came to ask a question, but I am in no rush. I must say, I'm rather intrigued by that music box..." He phrases himself kindly, now, minding his manners. He relaxes his official stance, thumbs hooked uncharacteristically in his pockets. If not friendly, then, at least, approachable. "I had a similar model, once - played a lovely song. It was given to me by the woman I wanted to marry." He cocks his head and looks at Jet expectantly, hoping he would take the bait and make some conversation. If Jet couldn't remember him, nor the origin of the necklace, what did he know? Did he realize he was married? Even idle chatter would reveal the extent of the damage.

Jet looked down at the mentioned picture, confusion overtaking his expression as he realized he wasn't even sure anymore why he'd been drawing it. He'd...gotten it after he and...Albert...?

"Went on some mission with a buddy of mine-" That's where he'd found that weird watch, clear as day, and after...Albert had gone to talk to some broad, 'Moon' or something. When he'd come back... "-he gave it to me. It played a pretty tune, like yours, I guess. I think it went something like." He hummed the music in his head when he thought of the little birdcage.

A thought, sharp and cutting for how it broke the haze in his head, stole his attention and Jet looked up at the man. "It's here, came with me, but I don't got it anymore, they took it."

Sigma closes his eyes, suddenly overcome by grief, and nods slowly. Yes, that was the song. How had his present made such a circulation? From Luna to an undisclosed friend and to Jet... what was happening between the three? Was it possible that Luna had meant for this to be a sign to him, somehow?

"A buddy, I see..." It would be a strange way to refer to a lover, indeed. Could it have been the Initiate that had passed it along? Sigma isn't sure whose fingerprints he is looking for. "It seems like a very significant present. You are obviously quite fond of it. Perhaps I might see if they have not disposed of it..." He's frustrated, but tries to reign in his irritation. There is no reason to prod a mad man for memories he cannot retrieve. "Did you know there is a story behind that piece? It is based off of a play by Maurice Maeterlinck, The Blue Bird. It tells of two people searching for a mythical creature that will bring them happiness, only to discover it had been in their home the entire time. When they try to tame it, it flies away..." He isn't sure what he is doing. What was the point of reminding Jet of happier times if he was trapped here? Perhaps Sigma does so because he hopes someone else will do the same for him, when the time came for his imprisonment.

Edited 2016-03-09 23:55 (UTC)

Jet listens to the story and it stirs several things in his mind, but each of them distant, unrelated enough to only be slight reminders and not memories. A caged bird, two people trying to find happiness, a story behind music.

"A...Albert used to tell me the songs he liked had stories in them. I never really got it, just sounded like music to me." Except that opera junk, then that sounded like screeching; at least the classical stuff was pleasant enough. Something about that memory made him sad.

"I think...it was given to me cause the girl who had it before...she got a different one..? Yeah, my partner got her a different one that looked just like this and she gave him that one instead, guess it wasn't as important or something? Then he gave it to me. I guess." He couldn't remember receiving it, just having it in his possession.

"I...I don't think I need it here. Gang kids turned jailbirds don't get their things back and I'm probably gonna be here a while, s'what you get for sticking a fella, even if he was gonna stick you first. Look, pal, you said you used to have something like it, right? A present from your main squeeze, that kind of junk's important, you don't lose that. If you think you can find it, take it. Not gonna be the same, sure, but sounds like you could use it."

This guy had a look about him, the kind Jet had seen in plenty of people. He was sad and, in his experience, most of the sad ones were the ones who didn't deserve it. Jet was done for locked up here, might as well do what he could for the random guy who'd stopped by his own birdcage.

Somehow, Sigma hadn't expected Jet to be so vulgar, but the informality almost relaxes him - it was nice not to be talked up to for a change. He listens intently to his explanation, raising his eyebrows when Jet mentions a stabbing - was that what he thought he was here for? The man had truly been driven to the brink.

"I appreciate your generosity, but it is in the past - we were not so lucky and now, I suppose, it is better for me to move on. But you have kindly humored me. Thank you, Jet Link. In spite of your circumstances, I truly wish that the music box will give you and your Albert better luck than it did for me." He is sincere and it disturbs him that only in the pits of this dungeon can the two of them speak as free as they had in the maw of a trap. Only now does Sigma realize that Jet did not have a name to address him by, and discouraged, he acquiesces. "Forgive this old man for his wistfulness- I almost forgot. Most address me by my title, for I am what they call a Gamemaker... but you may call me Sigma. I need your help." It would have been better for Jet to have been murderously angry, to have cursed his name, to have hated him than to have forgotten him.

But Jet remembered Albert and Luna. Now, the matter of the birdcage... surely, the one that Jet had in his possession originally belonged to Sigma, whom had been gifted by the Capitol with the promise that it was the trinket of his lost, dead love. When he'd given it to Luna, she'd had it replaced with another. Why? From where did the replacement originate? If Luna had given his token away, perhaps it meant she could tell the real from the fake. How fitting - after all, in his heart, he still mistook Luna for Diana though their differences were obvious. Jet is not wrong to think him sad. For some reason, he is hurt - not that Luna had casually discarded the symbol of his affections, but that it was now back in the clutches of the Capitol, where no one could hear it sing. A place where none of them could reach. The Capitol would crush everything good to dust, no matter how small. He cursed the crest he wore on his lapel.

Sam doesn't know how long he's been here. He isn't even completely sure where here is, honestly, his mind is - clouded. It's hard to focus, hard to think, and the snatches of memory he finds playing back at him are full of screams and fighting and pain. Nothing he wants to focus on, anyway. It's important, he knows - he knows - he should be fighting, he needs to fight. There's something he was fighting for, someone he was fighting for, he needs them.

But it's hard enough to walk next to the people escorting him, and he doesn't know if that's because of the things they'd given him or because walking itself is... complicated right now, and he doesn't understand why.

They pass a man in another cell, and it sparks something in Sam, grabs hold of him and pulls, demanding that he try to figure it out. He turns, almost automatically, but they push him along and by the time he follows the thought through enough to think to do something about it, they're gone. And he's locked in, somehow sitting on the floor.

He should sleep, while he has the opportunity. That's what you're supposed to do when your mind is filled with cotton and haze, sleep it off, but it's cold and he's alone. There isn't the strong line of a warm body pressed against his, and he feels its absence like a sharpness under his skin.

Or maybe that's just his skin, he can't tell. Everything hurts - he thinks everything should hurt - everything feels wrong, in a distant way that he knows means it's creeping in along the edges, held at bay by the drugs pumping through his system.

Everything feels wrong.

He can't see the sky. He can't see the stars, there should be stars and arrows and flowers and words - and wings and music and birds - and it's hard to focus but he can see them in his mind, they should be there. He shouldn't be alone.

But he's not alone. He's not, and if he can just focus-

"Jet."

His voice sounds rough when he first gets it out, and he clears it, unconsciously counting his breaths as he gears himself up enough to say it louder.

"Jet?"

He jerks, his name like a lifeline trying to drag him out of the comfortable haze and confusion. He didn't have to think, he didn't have to do anything but sit here and listen to the waves of the ocean, Gilmore's mansion...or maybe it's Koizomi's...or maybe it's neither and he's back on Mocawa, laying out on the beach with one of the others. Pyunma or Eve, maybe even Jim. They'd gotten along about as much as they'd fought, after all.

His mind produces Jim's face, bright blue eyes and wide grin, the same kind of grin Jet would wear, but then it twists into a viscous smile, something sharp and tearing and cruel, the face of Kirk, the mirror copy. wrong.

Kirk says his name like a purred question, except it wasn't, it wasn't even Kirk's voice. Wrong.

It was...it was someone familiar. Someone wrong, someone not here on Mocawa. Jet's mind clears like parting clouds to let in a few desperate rays of sun and clarity before they get covered up again.

"...Sam?" Jet lifted his face and looked up, half expecting to see his brother there, but he wasn't. Then where? "Where are you?"

In the time that it takes Jet to respond to his name, Sam's lost his focus again. He's not sleeping - he's not sure he could even if he tried - but he's definitely not all there, so he startles a little when someone says his name.

Jet.

He focuses again, on the man with his back against the bars between their cells. It's easier now that he's heard Jet's voice. His hand moves automatically up to his chest, fingers pressed against his sternum as they search for a pendant that isn't around his neck anymore. He looks for it, briefly - he knows it's here - then gives up and changes tactics, shifting closer to the bars so he can lean against them himself.

"Turn around."

It seems as though it comes from so far away, but when Jet turns, he's there. Sam seems almost blurry at the edges, not real, but Jet wants him to be there. So he is. It didn't matter. If he wished hard enough, Sam would stay, just as Joe and Francoise and Lady had.

He smiled, but it was worn and tired as much as it was happy and concerned. "What're you doing here? You're not supposed to be here." On the island. In jail? In....in the Capitol. That sent a spike of clarity through him that was already fading even as he spoke. "Are you okay? Did they hurt you?"

"Neither are you."

It's an instinctive response. Sam doesn't completely know where here is at the moment, but he knows it's not anywhere good, which means Jet isn't supposed to be there. Jet's supposed to be safe, Sam had - he had - there's a flash of fire and fear, and Sam remembers the mission that had landed them here. They'd gotten shot down, and Sam hadn't been able to protect him.

The second question is harder to answer, even when Sam thinks about it. He's pretty sure he's not okay. He wouldn't be here if he was, he'd be able to remember what was going on and it wouldn't be so hard to think. And he's pretty sure they did hurt him, at some point, even if any pain he might be feeling now is far away and distant.

"I don't know," he says eventually, voice rough. "Everything feels wrong."

'Everything feels wrong.' It settled like a lead blanket on Jet's shoulders. Sam didn't feel okay, he probably wasn't. They hurt him. They hurt his brother, Jet hadn't stopped it.

He fought for clarity like trying to hold grains of sand in his hand. He couldn't think, why couldn't he think? They...they must have done something to Jet too, to make it so hard to remember and function. But, for Sam, he had to try.

"Wrong...wrong how, Sam?" He could feel the thought slipping even as he voiced it. His hand snuck through the bars -odd, wasn't it? Why? Should it be bars? No, electric. Electric bars? No- he let the thought go with a shake of his head and stared at Sam, long fingers reaching to his brother. "Try and tell me best you can, I wanna help."

Sam isn't sure how to respond to that, trying to pull his thoughts together to get them to make sense long enough that he can remember - but there's a part of him that doesn't want to remember, that's shying away from putting anything in words.

Instead he grabs Jet's hand, fingers curling around it like it's a lifeline. He can't tell if the difficulty he's having moving is because of the drugs or something else, but even that takes effort. Like his muscles aren't his own before, and for someone who's always been so damn aware of his body, how it moves and what it can do, that's an extra level of oh fuck.

"I tried to protect you. I wanted - they told me-"

He remembers now, a little, snippets of the videos they'd showed him when he was in the detainment center, the ones he hadn't been sure were real or not. He guesses they were, now that they're both stuck in these cells.

"I don't know why." He thought it was because he tipped his hand during his first battle supposedly on the Capitol's side, helped Albert get Terezi out and spent too much time with Bucky, but that doesn't make sense. What they're doing isn't punishment, it's experimentation-

And he shuts down on that, hard, because he can't.

"I don't have my tattoos anymore. Any of them."

Sam's fingers curl in his and they're a shock to his system; contact, actual honest to god contact. It felt comforting even as it felt unnatural. Some part of him was suddenly overwhelmed by loneliness and the ache of that contact, he'd always been more tactile but he got the distinct impression it had been denied to him for a long time. At least, any contact he could remember. His grip tightens on Sam's hand, hoping he wouldn't lose that precious connection now.

Sam's disconnected thoughts match Jet's own and he knows it shouldn't be like that. Neither of them. It's Sam's eyes. His eyes, there's something about them- Jet's mind screams at him to look at Sam's eyes, but it's not just there. The feeling of his skin, the weight in his hand, a slight hum at the back of his mind from something being on. What is it? Why was it both odd and yet achingly familiar?

He should- he should reach to him.

The tattoos. Scars. Scars missing after a panicked car ride, the smell of cloroform over his mouth and in his nose. Too many lights, a man hovering over him, his arms bound to the table, waking up in the middle of it all and looking down to see his legs cut off-! Scars missing. Tattoos missing.

Slowly, pieces that weren't supposed to exist slid into place and fear and dread and anger and confusion choked and scratched at Jet's insides.

"Sam-" No. No. No. Nononono. No! This wasn't supposed to happen again and never never never to someone so important. "Sam..."

Jet leaned his forehead against the bars between them and shook his head slightly. This wasn't fair, it wasn't right, how could this happen? With a shuddering breath, Jet sighed and reached for that hum in his head to open the connection.

'Sam. Sam, I'm so so sorry.' Jet's thoughts filtered to Sam, unhindered by the static Jet felt as the technology picked up only the clear signal. 'I'm sorry.'

When Jet's grip tightens, so does Sam's. There may be a set of bars between them, but now that he's got Jet he's not letting go. For a moment, he almost relaxes. It's still too hard to think and there's still a hazy fog over everything, but that's okay. He can let himself drift, anchored by Jet's hand in his, and it's okay. He doesn't want to fight, he doesn't have to fight, he can just be here. Or not here, he guesses, which is better, so much better than being here.

But Jet's panicking, and even though Sam'd started letting himself drift he hadn't closed his eyes, and that immediately snaps his focus back. Jet isn't one to get this freaked out for no reason, Sam knows that, he just - he doesn't know what his reaction is supposed to be. Should he freak out too, is there something wrong that they need to be upset over - of course there's something wrong, everything is wrong - is he supposed to stay calm, try to calm Jet down?

He doesn't know, and that bothers him, because he usually knows. He doesn't always get it right but he rarely flounders like this anymore.

It doesn't surprise him when he hears Jet's voice in his head. He hears them all in his head, flashed of what he thinks are memories and some he isn't sure about, but he finds it comforting to listen to them anyway. And... there's something different about this time, he can tell, but he can't focus enough to pick up on what.

'Me too,' he replies, because God is he ever sorry they're here.

Sam's response cuts through him for so many reasons. He was a cyborg, part of their messed up little group masquerading as heroes and crime-fighters because they never should have existed. Sam shouldn't be like this, the Capitol shouldn't be able to do this and some part of Jet's mind knows why Sam is like this, but he can't think on it. Not without falling to pieces.

He gathered together what coherency he could and gave Sam's hand a squeeze. He had to help, it was all he could do now. 'It's gonna be okay. We'll get through this crap. Not gonna leave you alone again.'

He shouldn't be making promises like that, but he'd already thought it and felt it and offered it as a tether. Hopefully he wasn't wrong.

Sam was going to need him to keep it together.

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[Closed] Look out to the future, but it tells you nothing

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