the rest is still unwritten [Jack dp]
Oct 4, 2020 13:03:15 GMT -5
Post by Lyn𝛿is on Oct 4, 2020 13:03:15 GMT -5
There's an inertia that keeps his eyes fixed on the girl when Jack's shaking legs finally give out from under him, the world spinning around and around her loose hair and war-weathered face as he collapses across the blood-soaked sand. The midday sun beats down across both of them, harsh and blinding, a burst of light peeking out from behind the girl's form that expands outwards until it fills his vision.
"Shut up," Jack snaps at Julio without looking up from the workbench when the man comes up behind him, humming the first few bars of a new lullaby for his niece Marisol. "I gotta finish these first."
He doesn't notice the way his words come off harsher than he'd meant them, or the way Julio winces and makes an unidentifiable noise in his throat. But the hand that comes down gently yet firmly across his shoulder is unmistakeable.
"Look, kid," says Julio. The sound of conversation filters back into the storeroom from behind the open doorway. "You haven't moved from that spot for the past four hours. Take a break. Commander's orders."
"Four... wha?" Jack opens his mouth to argue, but Julio steps forward again, placing himself in front of the workbench. "I was just gonna--"
"You're more than the things you assemble for us," the older man mutters. "Don't lose yourself."
Don't...
The echo of Julio's words floats across the edges of his mind as Jack drifts in and out of consciousness, the arena spiraling and collapsing inward until one moment he could feel Uxue's presence beside him, and the next he was standing over the body of a young girl in her pajamas, and the next there was no one left, not even corpses, nothing but an endless desert of sand and floorboards and blood.
... lose...
In the decades to come, people will retell the final moments of these games a dozen ways with a dozen agendas, a dozen frames for their listeners to pass judgment on who was worthy or unworthy. They will be stripped down layer by layer, analyzed and reimagined until they fit into familiar archetypes, reduced to more symbol than person.
yourself...
As Time slipped out of this world, Jack sees all at once every memory and every decision, a flurry of blurred faces and interlocking pieces converging into one last, singular moment.
"What brings you here?" Commander Edwyle's voice is deeper and more imposing than ever, the half-circle of men standing behind him lending it an unmistakable air of authority.
"Um," Jack stammers, floundering for a response as all eyes turn to stare at him, "I'm good at fixing all sorts of stuff, and my teachers say I learn real qu--"
"I don't mean what you bring," the commander interrupts. "We'll get to that part later. What brings you?"
It takes him a good half-minute of tracing and retracing the patterns across the commander's shirt in his mind before the answer comes to him all of a sudden, as clear and obvious as it ought to have been all along.
"Because everybody will tell you that bullies are bad but nobody likes you to do anything about them," he blurts out. "And the Capitol are the biggest ones of them all."
"I... chose," Jack whispers. The words feel tiny, like a meaningless sort of triumph in the face of a failed rebellion and a chaotic bloodbath and his own, inevitable death. Maybe none of his choices would matter in the long run, not in comparison with the overwhelming weight of all the choices he didn't get to make.
It still mattered, he decides in the end, that he'd made them.