stolen steel {rook}

stolen steel {rook} Dec 13, 2016 12:49:42 GMT -5

Post by kousei ♚ on Dec 13, 2016 12:49:42 GMT -5

j e t t

Why am I so obsessed with reclaiming control?

There's a burden hanging over my shoulders. It's a wonder how I haven't snapped, collapsed, broken down. Wonder, mystery, I can't put my finger on the right answer. Can't quite seem to answer the riddle to my own state of mind - I would probably be wrong even if I tried. Bad luck isn't a valid scapegoat anymore, I decided it was about time I took control ever since I heard my brother's canon and tried to drink my sanity away when he didn't rise from the ashes as a phoenix reborn. He was never meant to be an incarnation of resurrection or embody restoration.

Back luck is not a scapegoat, I want to be in control now.

It's a mantra, slowly twirling and twisting in the back of my mind, it repeats like a broken tape recorder but I don't want it to fade to background noise. I rest in my sanctuary, the one place where control hasn't evaporated before eyes waiting to glaze over. Eccentric, I play with steel at the tips of my fingers and test the fate of the flames. Devoid of hesitation; I'm forging, I'm crafting, I'm -

"in control."

And then I'm waiting for the steel to cool as the hours pass.

I was given responsibility of the forge because illness crawls through boss' veins, it's funny how sickness works that way. Sometimes I wonder if the universe simply has its funny way of dangling fruits of temptation above my head. Starved of control, fate seems to have held a glimpse of control before my very eyes - but I cannot reach over and taste it. Reality has a habit of shielding dreams from all of us with shatter proof glass and a veil of false hope. It's a possibility, a concept, a dream.

And it's achievable, somehow, it's possible.

I'll never ring canons with a single stroke of steel, nor will I wear false glory on my sleeve as I skewer phantoms of the past on knife's edge. But perhaps there's a sense of control to be gained in the forging of steel; I find it difficult to question whether Taurus would be proud or not. After all, it was the heavy-handed final stroke of Capitol grade steel that left him broken and added his canon to death's old melody. On the other hand, perhaps he would be proud that I've picked up the shattered pieces of normality he dropped when he touched the ground and never got back up.

I'm no king and I'm certainly no god, but in the night with no one to challenge my every word, I feel that divinity is a possibility; perhaps it's just the side-effect of control resting on the tips of my fingers. A high, control a drug in sight and I'd felt the withdrawal symptom the moment Taurus' canon sounded. Fleeting, fluttering, falling; control's been slipping from my fingers longer than I can count. Jett Hawk seems to be synonymous with tragedy; everything I touch seemed to die.

But not anymore.

Fixing, clicking, organised - control. Shattered at my finger tips, repaired at the forge. Piece by piece.

Autocratic hands, joints, muscle. They shift objects into place along the grey table but fumble when the door creaks and swings. Hot, shot and electric run through my veins and my fists instinctively close into tight fists. I swing open the door, glaring at whoever got through the locked door. "We're closed."

In truth, it's not a matter of protecting the integrity of the shop I grew up working in - it's a matter of protecting my sanctuary of control.

stolen steel {rook} Jan 5, 2017 17:25:34 GMT -5

Post by rook on Jan 5, 2017 17:25:34 GMT -5

"We're closed."

But I know this already. My lips are parsed, and I am breathing slowly through my mouth, each breath is measured and calm. This comes so naturally to me that it is frightening. By all accounts, anyone in their right mind should be nervous at the thought of breaking and entering, and stealing goods - that sort of thing is punishable by whipping, or in extreme cases avoxination. Yet my pulse is at a resting heart rate, my hand is steady, and there is a flicker of fire in my chest, an excitement almost.

Why do I feel like this? Why does this feel normal? I try to look back, but all I see is a haze. This is obviously part of who I was - there's no other explanation to my composure in the face of danger. I should thank her - the girl I used to be, before the accident, whoever she was, she was probably some kind of badass.

My eyes move from the boy at the forge to the collection of swords, axes, and other tools displayed on racks and tables. Some bound for the Games, no doubt, but others used for manual labour, farming, that sort of thing.

What would possess me to walk into a blacksmiths at this time, stroll past a minimum 6'0 tall, ripped to shreds, behemoth of a guy, and try to take one of his swords? For one, I need a sword, that much has been clear since I woke up in the fields. I think I was holding one, originally, before old Jacob found me and nursed me back to health. Someone must have taken it, I'm sure of that. There's a lot that's fuzzy in my head, but a sword in my hand is one of the few things that is distinctive. I was told that a lot of memories are unlocked with the sensation of touch. Flesh memories. Being taken back to a time or a place by feeling the same sensation that you did in that moment.

I don't want to see this business suffer, nor cheat them out of any income, but swords are massively rare in Panem, for obvious reasons. As a result, they are expensive. Besides, a common citizen such as myself can't buy one, even with the money - The Peacekeepers don't allow people to carry around weapons. But in District One we trained with them. Or was it Five? Two?

Flashes of a dark room, everything was carbon fibre.

Then it's gone, like that. Fleeting, are these glimpses. I need to feel the weight of a sword in my hand, the key is in that. I have to be some kind of Career or something. I've sort of figured that much out already.

One step, two steps. I close the distance at an alarming pace, and then I am at the wall, yanking down the sword from it's frame. I turn on a pivot, pointing the sword to where I last saw the boy.

"Don't give me an excuse to hurt you." I say, even though I have given him one.

518 words