get in, loser . jupiter / carmen

[pogue]

J  U  P  I  T  E  R

Finding the bicycle float was a stroke of dumb luck and stupid genius, bartering his life and his pride in a fit of red with Circe Murdock, walking out and alive and unscathed...

- for now, at least.

There were still white knuckles wrapped tight around the chain of the makeshift whip and dagger as he'd disappeared from the stand off and into the twisted heaps of metal and plastic, splattered paint and metaphors too far over his head for him to consider anything worth important. But fuck, if he hadn't known when he found it, half-nestled into some form of contemporary statement, begging to be pulled from the heaps of empty paint cans and dried out brushes.

There's callouses on his hands now and the sun beating down on his chest as he pedals forwards from Black Rock City and out into the sands, slowly and unsurely, still clutching his weapon to ward off any threats that might come his way. There's something so unserious about the movement, carving a path into the sands and the dunes, up and down the hills as he trudges forward. The flashes of red from cameras buried deep into ebb and flow of the dunes tell him that the Capitol citizens must be getting a kick out of a boy so lethal looking so stupid. 

It's irrational, that he has to fight back the rage that swells within him at the thought- focus heavy on the path in front of him and not on the bicycle tracks he leaves behind, so quickly lost to the swell and the taking of the winds.

He sees her as he crests the third dune, calfs beginning to burn from the repetitive movement, her shadow stretched thin by the sun from the top of the arena, dead heat sweltering within the void between them and warping her silhouette into something sinister. Carmen, ally spoken and unspoken, just the girl he'd been looking for.

There's safety in numbers, at least for the first few days, and the sudden sight of his only ally in the arena causes a surge of adrenaline to pinprick into his veins, the relatively minor increase in speed a mockery of his sudden huffing and puffing. As he pushes forward he silently reaches one palm to the half-hearted sleeve of his festival tank top, tearing it in one single swoop and raising it towards the sky. The wind takes it quickly, blowing it softly in the air as a makeshift flag of neutrality- alerting Carmen of his presence from afar.

By the time he gets to her there's a bead of sweat carving something sinister down his forehead, swiped away by the back of his forearm, gaze darting left and then right in surveillance. "Places to go, people to avoid." He mumbles, voice nearly lost to the wind as he rises from his seat and stretches his legs, fire and coals burning from the sore muscles. He offers a hand out to her, the imprint of the chain of his weapon still ingrained on his palm.

"Hop on. We need to move."

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

It's so easy to be broken by the world around us.

Every interaction and experience is a ripple against the delicate surface of our psyche. Normality reigns supreme, but in the midst of such normalcy, in the middle of daily life, there are seemingly inconsequential moments: a tongue that bites, a glance that shoots, a mood that aches. It is between these moments that everyone finds themselves completely vulnerable. No matter how perfectly constructed the architecture of our facades are, everyone is susceptible to the insidious erosion of confidence. Multiply that by a thousand in the context of the Hunger Games because every breath is laced with poison, but this new fragility we find ourselves hanging in highlights what we really fight for: empathy, understanding, desperation to return to the place we call home.

We're all good for nothing. We're all bundles of worries that try to navigate the world that can so easily unravel the threads of our being. I won't let it get the better of me. I swear it; I've already lost so much time to working long days into the night and playing with power like some kind of toy. Injections disguised with my deceptive smile because I promised someone that I'd stop the pain - sometimes I wonder if it makes me a murderer that I'd deliver a person from this hell into heaven, but there was never any malicious intent. Only peace.

That experience is completed divided from this. This place is marred by the neon glow of fleeting icons, cannons in the air boom to signify the price of superfluous fame. The glittering chaos of it all is a dull ache in my brain, because how can something so violent be so pretty? How can the pursuit of recognition be so lethal yet so alluring? I could whisper, speak or sing and it would echo back to me with a sick undercurrent of violence that adds a bass, a hum that makes it hit when it comes back. Power is not peace here, power is brutality. My survival depends on whether or not I can get over losing my neon year at the reaping and if I can feed off the grotesque symbiosis.

Dreams once flourished. Not just for me, but for us all. They have been sacrificed on the altar and we all just stood there helpless, watching. Cast aside by the winds that carry these here sands through the air and into our eyes - we stand as the smallest people who ever lived.

I can't become just another.

The sands part from my eyes to reveal a flag fluttering in the wind, and the constant anxious hum that lingers in my mind is silenced for a moment. My muscles scream in protest but I know that this is not as dangerous as everything else here. Jupiter approaches, his eyes restlessly darting around and sweat tracing the lines on his forehead and down his face. He's right about having places to go and people to avoid; his words become a heavy anchor that grounds me in the ruin.

I take his hand and clamber onto the bike, watching as the streamers try to escape the handlebars. There's a small comfort in safety in numbers. His presence is a comfort that may be fleeting but I tell myself that I'm fine with the illusion if it takes the edge off.

"Nice," I say with a stifled laugh, "I didn't really have you down as a bike-with-pretty-streamers kind of guy but, I guess I should know better than to judge a book by its cover."

Together, we begin to move. A united front that at least has each other through the trials that lie ahead. Sand rushes past us, scraping my cheeks as it dances in the wind; I close my eyes and imagine what my neon year could've been if none of this had ever happened, and for a second, it transports me away.

For a second, I heal.