Loss [ A Series of Jordan Temple Oneshots]

Control exists only to hold the people down.

Order leaves behind scars of that control.

Chaos burns into change.

Jordan Temple had believed he was change. A burning fuel of fire that scorched the Justice Build in Nine still burns through his mind. The fire licking at the edges of the people who failed him and his brother; just another name to be scorched away. Another bitter taste of reality that comes with surviving through the wilderness of Panem. Ruins left behind of a time long forgotten, but he travelled through them. Set himself out for the world because Jordan Temple was a fugitive in many ways. Two Peacekeepers had died by his own hands. A Justice Building had burnt to the ground. Blood had been spilt. Death had been had. Anger had grown.

And he ran from it all. Left Nine to rot in the aftermath of his own hatred and anger. The death of his twin brother leaving only bitterness in his home. Alone through it all; Jordan Temple's become a survivor. A fighter. A rebel. All of those things were him. As he had set his pace through the wilderness of Panem, he had found himself in another district. Slipping through the fencing at night, pulling metal from earth until he'd found himself in Eight of all places. Home of textiles and clothing. Alone, he travels with a hood over his face and the bag on his back looking ragged from all the rain and dirt.

In Eight, Jordan is a ghost. A stranger to most as he travels through town after town. Avoiding the center of Eight, he looks for a place to rest until his next stop on his escape from Panem's forces. People don't pay attention to a guy like him. Some kids point at him, but that's the most he gets from them. His own eyes following their fingers, but he never smiles. Never cries. Never reacts. Eight is grim. Factories with textiles forever going, steam from those place leaking into the air, and the people look exactly like Nine's. Hungry, tired, and bored.

"Hey, kid. Stop right there."

"Sorry. I have to back to work!"

Quickly, he rushes through the shadows. His eyes following the path before him. Peacekeepers were trying to stop him, but he couldn't stop. Soon enough, they give chase. White uniforms in the shadows of the factory alleys. Batons at the ready as he pulls forward faster. There's no exit in this place. A bitter feeling rots through his stomach as he's found himself near a dead end; the feeling of his own failures crawling up his back once more. The sound of gunfire in his ear once more. A burning building in his vision. Lora Delacroix in his arms once more.

It's quickly changed when a hand appears through a door. A voice whispered to him.

"Kid get over here, now!"

A trap or a savior. He could only do one thing. Take a leap into the dark. Rushing over, feeling the world crumbling around him, he swings open the door, shuts it. A lock clicks and he finds himself in a darkened place. Another male, older by a good ten or so years standing there, eye trained on the door as the sound of Peacekeepers rush past it. There's a loud rumble until it stops. Voices talking of how he must have climbed the wall. Left behind a trail to follow. It's a few minutes before the tense air ends.

Footsteps heading back toward the districts.

A sigh of relief in his ears before he remembers there's another man in here with him.

"That was mighty close, wasn't it?"

The light switches on as a bar glitters to life. Neon signs of a place hidden away in the alleyways of a factory. The sign reads of a place named "The Weave" setting the room alight in a colorful display. There's a ruggedness to the bar and this the man before him. A grim dreary feeling as he stands before the person who's saved him. In a way, he should be glad to not be taken to the Detention center, but he burns with the knowledge that he failed on his own quest to escaping the Keepers himself.

"Sure."

It's quiet, but his voice does work. Barely. The man gives him a once over before moving behind the bar, fingers reaching for a cloth before rubbing away at the glass before him. Jordan steps carefully, approach the other side, not wanting to intrude. He's careful in how he approaches things. Once a happy boy from Nine with lots of friends who saw only the good in Panem, but he's bitter. Bleed through grief to see the harshness of reality. It's his own doing that he's fighting for a better place. "Is that it? No, 'Hey you owe me for saving you.' Nothing else?"

The man looks up before shrugging his shoulders.

"Keepers are the worst. If you want to owe me, that's your prerogative, not mine."

It's a start. A feeling that gets him as he sighs, lets himself look around at the cracked booths. The bar stools that are barely even able to sat down in. His eyes watch carefully before he looks to the stranger and then the room itself. There are worse places he could be. At least, The Weave seems to be a brighter place in Eight. His eyes look to a closet before he reaches inside. Pulling out a mop and a bucket, he looks over to the man before speaking.

"Don't expect greatness."

A laugh comes from the stranger's lips.

The world truly was chaotic.

Jordan Temple; rebel of nine.

Alone with a mop, a stranger, and a bar.

It could be worse.