LOGAN SINCLAIR // DISTRICT THREE

i see you had your mind
all made up you group
of pitiful liars
before i woke to face the day
your master plan transpired

( N A M E ) logan sinclair
( A G E ) eighteen
( G E N D E R ) male
( D I S T R I C T / A R E A ) district three
( O C C U P A T I O N ) apprentice engineer

something told me
this job had more
to meet the eye
my song is not believed
my words somewhat deceiving

( H I S T O R Y )

where to start. i’ve always found it easier to show rather than tell. seems to mean more, to me, to everyone else. my parents showed me that very early. but i should try and put some of this down on paper. faye tells me i should, and it seems to work for her. well, here it is. i’m logan sinclair. or at least i think i am. after aylin’s prying, and mother and father’s propensity for falsehoods, i can’t be sure any more. but this is the family i grew up in. with the sisters i cherish more than anything in the world. aylin, faye and logan. siblings by choice more than anything. deeds not words. and after all, what’s in a name. we grew up comparatively well off. all of us are bright, each in our own ways. me? i always had the knack for the practical. again, deeds not words. even when i was very small, my first memories were of building things. block towers first. then small bridges. progressively larger and more impressive ones as i grew. truth be told, that’s about all i remember of my early life. that, and the squalling of my younger siblings as they came into my life, one after the other. and a sense of attachment to them that i felt to nothing else. i can’t describe it as anything but love. brotherly love.

my first full memory of anything more substantial than a construct made in the playground was me reading in a corner. something, as my later memories revealed, i tended to do a lot. reading something about buildings. i loved to see how these constructs came into being, springing from the ground out of nothing. of course, this was hardly the most social of activities. something some of the more boisterous children took issue with. i can remember him clearly. flipping the book out of my hand. laughing as i picked it up and returned to my reading, before making up a horde of pathetic names that really shouldn’t have made me feel as angry as they did. bookworm and the like. the truth. but it was the tone he said it. as though i was inferior in some way. it went on like that for some time. i still remember how he wailed when i finally snapped and i punched him in the jaw. anyone would think i’d broken it. it wasn’t even that hard. but of course, he ran off to teacher. and i was dragged up in front of her.

mother shrieked at me later for telling the truth. it was my word against his she said. mine counted for more because i never did anything wrong, so i should use that. if he was prepared to lie, why shouldn’t i? he’d said that i’d lashed out at him because he wanted to know what i was reading. i told her that i’d hit him because he was a bully and wouldn’t leave me alone. of course that dropped me right in it. why hadn’t i said anything before. why did i decide hitting him was the best response. why did nobody else say anything. i couldn’t answer them. not a single one. i had no answer. so i said nothing. which only made things worse. i was called a liar. and mother had wanted me to lie more. it was imprinted into my young and impressionable self that lying was wrong from that day forward. something i still hold to. i knew i was right. and he knew i was right. and he never bullied me, or anyone else again. funny how often bullies run in the face of resistance.

i can’t remember the number of times mother and father tried to impress upon me the importance of shaping the truth to my own ends. each time, i replied that the only truth that matters is the absolute truth. they never understood. they never have. never will. pathological liars the both of them. i found myself doubting everything they ever said. right down to the simple statement of ‘i love you’. it’s a terrible thing to question your parents love for you, but i had seen how freely they lied, for their own ends, and to make a situation easier to bear. i came to believe that words were fleeting, their meaning as mutable as soft clay. that could be bent and shaped like tin. as pretty to look at as gold, but about as resistant to pressure as it too. if words were like that precious metal, actions were the hammers and heat that shaped them. actions were like steel, tempered, uncompromising. after all, it’s quite difficult to refute that you did indeed hit someone. and the meaning of that can be questioned far less.

such was the pattern of my life. at home, i said little, and what little i said was as immovable and stoic as my opinion on lying. i can remember aylin asking me if she looked pretty in the dress she had just bought. mother and father told her that she was dazzling. faye said little, but murmured something like approval. myself? i told her i thought the colour too garish, the cut too short, and the style not complimenting her particularly well. she didn’t speak to me for a week. but she never wore that dress again. once again, mother chastised me for the truth. but aylin’s thanks later were all the justification i needed. i refused to allow my sister to look ridiculous. she was far better than that. once i started my apprenticeship, i was no different, though i took on board that my opinion, though truth in my eyes, was not always correct on a grander scale. after all, i was a junior apprentice. my job was to learn, not to pass judgment. that would come later.

i took to engineering like a duck to water. that same proclivity for understanding how things worked, and the joy i took from seeing things spring into being came rushing to the surface. my teen years saw me grow both in my confidence in where i was going, and in my stature. i became less and less like my parents, and my siblings every day. taller by far, filling out my previously slender limbs with musculature, revealing a life lived in factories, on the line benders, the rivet guns, drills and jackhammers. all the while, principles of engineering blossomed in my head, progressively becoming more and more able to answer questions about structures, solving problems in design, and learning how best to demolish something without damaging anything else. all of this became part of my increasingly vast arsenal of skills to pad out the gap that my parents clearly held for lying proficiently. where they could spin a tale of deceit, i could shape steel. to this day, i’ve yet to regret this choice.

i suppose i should say something nice about my parents. they allowed me to pursue music as a hobby. a bribe perhaps, to turn me to there way of thinking, but being able to bring simple joy through music is something i owe entirely to them. the only thing i truly owe them. i have something of an affinity with strings apparently. the violin particularly. there’s something it that’s both powerful and elegant, capable of expressing both joy and melancholy with equal intensity. music is one of the few ways i truly express myself, again, because i can show you how i feel, not tell you how i feel. others find comfort in words. i find comfort in deeds. the act of listening is the one that seems to comfort my sisters. recently, aylin has become more and more frantic in her seeking answers the question she, at her heart, knows the answer to. she is not a sinclair. i wonder if any of us are at times, truly, by birth. but then, what’s in a name? i’ve managed to stop her from rushing into anything hastily, revealing her secret without due care and knowledge. the first rule of demolition is to ensure everything comes down cleanly, in a controlled manner, so as to not damage those around you. and the destruction of mother and fathers fortress of lies is no different.

now i’m unwhole
you’ve waged a war of nerves
but you can’t crush the kingdom
can’t be what your idols are
can’t leave the scar

( P E R S O N A L I T Y )

i’m not what you’d call the most outgoing of people. in fact, outgoing is quite the opposite of what you’ll hear. ask anyone. my sisters. my parents. the few friends i do have. anyone you care to speak to will tell you that i’m a quiet, dark sort of boy. always have been. not shy by any means. i simply prefer my own company. i cannot stand gossip, and at my age, gossip seems to be all that tumbles from the mouths of my peers. who’s dating who. who’s bought what shirt. which guy or girl looks cutest today. what do i care what everyone else has to say? their words change daily. today’s romantic frolicking is tomorrows old news. today’s great new shirt is tomorrow’s rag. the good looking youths of my age thrive solely on the words that fall from the gossiper’s mouth. subject to their whims and desires. people letting words drive their actions. it vexes me almost as much as my parents lying. how words dictate so much of our lives, yet they have no more substance to them than smoke. all they do is cloud the view of the true event. and still people use this mist and haze of vocabulary to stab like knives. and let others do the same.

but then, that’s me in a nutshell. content in myself. where i am. though i mislike where i come from, i know it is what makes me who i am, and i can’t say i begrudge the fact. i know my place in the world. i’ve known for a very long time what it is i am, and what it is i want. as i’ve said, i’ve always had a love for engineering. it’s not the money, the security, or even the challenge. it’s the knowledge that i can look upon something, and know that i helped to make that. whether design, fabrication or assembly, i was a part of the final product. there’s nothing like being able to make your mark in such a visible way upon the world. much like music, only in a much more tangible way. that sense of satisfaction that you helped to create the end result. with music, it’s the enjoyment on my sisters faces, and the sense of accomplishment that i can bring some joy into their life through something so simple as well ordered sound.

it’s not all rosy, i must admit. my morals and utter lack of compromise when it comes to them do lead me into conflict more often than i would necessarily like. bullies are the worst for it. i can’t, and will not tolerate them. they are foul, they are weak, they are cowardly. hiding behind a veil of words, with actions that reveal them to be pathetic wretches who can’t stand up to those better than themselves. who vent their own inadequacies upon those unable to defend themselves. many have felt my wrath when it comes to the subject. it’s come to the point that should i cast my gaze upon them while they’re ‘having their fun’, they usually back away. else, they risk a sharp crack to the skull. i earned the nickname ‘storm cloud’ at work for my stubborn ability to hold onto my misgivings about someone’s wrongdoings for an inordinate amount of time. i seethe and rumble, my mood darkens when i’m around one of the fair number who have irked me. perhaps i hold onto them for too long. but when one angers me, one must accept the consequences, whether that be sour moods, or in the worst case, violent retribution.

as i have mentioned, my truest feelings are held for my sisters. for faye. for aylin. i love them dearly, i wager i love them more than our parents do. or mine and faye’s parents do, since aylin seems to have proof she’s not of their blood. i know not. i care not. she is still my sister. a name changes nothing. i will be there for them both, through, good, bad and otherwise. that’s what a brother is supposed to be. a shoulder to cry on, a friend to share things with. a confidant, and a source of joy. to lift you from your downs, and hold you high on your ups. and i enjoy doing it. more than anything. my sisters are the only things that have been constant in my life. and now aylin seems set to move away from us. it will break faye. she’s already fragile as it is. hanging by a thread. and i can’t deal with an adolescent teenage girl while trying to finish my apprenticeship. i need aylin as much as she needs me. she has yet to realise how much that is.

you cry for compensation
i ask you please just give us
five minutes alone
just give us
five minutes alone

( A P P E A R A N C E )

so, now that you have something of a taste for who i am, and where i came from, i think it’s time i left a mental picture for you to piece together in the words. one thing i will say for words, they can indeed inspire images as well as actions can. adding colour to the framework. or perhaps the other way around… either way, i should stop prevaricating and get on with describing myself. i suppose the first thing i should mention is that i am tall. understatement. i am extremely tall. six foot nine inches, give or take. i’ve always been very much one of the bigger people on the block, ever since i was first learning to read. much taller than my sisters, my parents, my coworkers. some people used to call me a freak. now they look away when i walk past. mostly because while i’m freakishly tall, i’m certainly no willow. comes from working in factories for most of your teenage life. since i was ten, i was working the machines, learning how to operate everything from line benders to template cutters. you tend to get quite strong in that sort of environment. sure, i don’t have the sculpted frame that so many from the career districts seem to have, but i’m a two hundred and sixty pound package of muscle, bone and sinew. in the factories, we don’t have enough to eat to get fat with all this work to do. we just pile on thick cords and slabs of musculature, myself more than most.

so yeah, i’m a pretty huge guy. scars from scalding metal, whipping blades and crush injuries from grinding machinery mark my frame. i’m missing a section of my left ear, from an extruder bursting. the rivet that had given way punched clean through it, searing it shut as it went, so hot was the metal. i’ve lost finger ends more than once to my own mistakes, and those of others. a scar lines my scalp, unseen beneath the mop of unkempt raven black hair atop my head, ripped across my flesh when a section of bulkhead on a steam generator fell clean off. nobody could explain why. i was lucky that the helmet had taken the brunt of the impact, but it still carved a bloody furrow into my head. it’s dangerous work in the factories, and i bear the scars to prove it. not only on my body, but in my eyes. death is rare in three’s factories, but by no means are we not at risk. davian was decapitated when the fool got caught in the high-speed conveyor. all these decapitations you see in the games, they’re clean things, done with honed steel. i’ve seen what a properly sharpened blade does. last week, imyria lost a hand to the steel-saw when the piece she was fabricating failed. it happened so fast that the only reason we knew it had happened was the blood pumping from the stump as she passed out.

but davian. no. that was a crude collision with a security door frame. given enough speed, a blunt object will sever a head. it’s not a pretty sight, nor a clean sound. i still hear his flesh tearing, and his bones shattering. he never even had chance to scream. just an impact, and there he was gone. i carry that memory in my eyes, the deep brown irises that watched his life end so suddenly. i may be in a privileged position as an apprentice to an engineer, but everyone in the factory is as much at risk as the others. davian was a quality control inspector. ironic how someone with an eye for detail could miss the fact he had loose clothing dangling near a fast moving conveyor. one error in judgment, and you lose a limb, or your life. my eyes know it. always watching, darting this way and that. perceptive. they say the eyes are a doorway to your soul. perhaps they are. i prefer to live in the concrete and the material than consider matters of the metaphysical and spiritual. life is hard enough as it is without worrying about what happens to me when i eventually die. something i intend to delay as long as possible.

aylin likes to teasingly point out every so often that i catch the eye of some of the girls in her class. they whisper about rugged, chiselled looks, defined, but retaining a boyish quality. almost a man grown, but still possessing a youthful vigour. amazing how much girls will whisper about. truth be told, it terrifies me. aylin knows it. i’m just not comfortable around them. their slender forms and softly spoken words unnerve me. i prefer steel and machinery. it is solid, unchanging until you make it, and reliable, for the most part. girls flit between moods. their whims are as ever changing as flames of a furnace, flickering one moment, just barely there, quiet and peaceful, the next, a searing blaze, that consumes and devours all in it’s path, hungry for attention and favour. sometimes i wonder if a furnace would be safer than many of the girls attentions. and yet… i feel a yearning within me… deep in my flesh, my heart, my bones… perhaps there is a girl who will deal with the storm cloud. and perhaps she shall be my lightning rod. drawn to her inexorably. or perhaps i shall find my solace with my machines. with steel. who can tell.

i read your eyes
your mind was made up
you took me for a fool
you used complexion of my skin
for a counter-racist tool

( F A C E C L A I M ) kit harrington

you can’t burn me
i’ve spilled my guts out
in the past
taken advantage of because you know
where i’ve come, my past

( C O M M E N T S / O T H E R )

five minutes alone by pantera

logan in the goravich family plot

this character template belongs to the magnificent lalia.