Jet Link | 002 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
metalicarus) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
makinglies2013-06-02 03:20 pm
metalicarus) wrote in makinglies2013-06-02 03:20 pm
Entry tags:
You cannot change what you are, only what you do.
The room was too quiet. The only sound that accompanied his thoughts was the ticking of the clock on the wall and that was too loud. It reminded him that time would keep moving even if he sat here, nothing was going to change just because he didn't move and, most of all, time only ever moved onwards.
As much as he may want to, he couldn't wind back the clock and undo what had been done. He didn't regret his decision to fly into space and save his best friend, without him Joe would have drifted forever and none of them would have seen him again, at least now Francoise wouldn't have to cry anymore. But...maybe it would have been better if he hadn't been saved, if he'd just died like he'd been prepared to do. Of course, sitting there, alive, it was harder to find that kind of resolve again. But, in the end, what was the cost of his living?
He looked down at his hands and how his wrists ended in the crease of a panel, the first sign of a difference. His eyes followed up from his wrist to his shoulders and then back down his own chest, creases ran along the surface of his too-pale skin like a web. They were closed now, but he knew it only took a second, a thought, and nearly all of them could flair up, open, or even separate to allow him better maneuverability and speed.
He knew this was like Pyunma, the doctor had only been trying to save him, to make him stronger. But he wasn't like the eighth cyborg, he couldn't have plated armor to defend from hits; he needed to be fast and light and aerodynamic. What he now had in speed and evasiveness he had gained at the cost of the defense he didn't have much of to begin with. He'd always been light on defense and built more for the get in quick and hit hard tactic rather than the barrel through approach for Albert or G, but he felt fragile and he hated it. Logically, he knew he could still take a hit better than most people, but he would have to rely more on not being hit in comparison to what he'd had before.
It was frustrating beyond belief, he didn't want to feel like this...and he certainly didn't want to look like this. He understood now, what his partners had been through and how they felt about being mostly machine. And it sucked. But it was more than even that. He looked up and into the mirror across the room where someone unrecognizable stared back. Blue eyes, finer features, and blonde hair stood out like beacons and he couldn't take his eyes off of them. Part of him thought that maybe, if he looked long enough and hard enough, he'd be able to see something that told him yes this was still Jet Link...but he hadn't found it yet.
Everyone always said it was what was inside that counted, not outside, but when you couldn't recognize anything of yourself, it was like you were in someone else's body, like one of those movies where it's some mistake and by the end of it everything would be back to normal. Except there wasn't an ending like that waiting for him, only blue eyes, blonde hair, and panels.
As much as he may want to, he couldn't wind back the clock and undo what had been done. He didn't regret his decision to fly into space and save his best friend, without him Joe would have drifted forever and none of them would have seen him again, at least now Francoise wouldn't have to cry anymore. But...maybe it would have been better if he hadn't been saved, if he'd just died like he'd been prepared to do. Of course, sitting there, alive, it was harder to find that kind of resolve again. But, in the end, what was the cost of his living?
He looked down at his hands and how his wrists ended in the crease of a panel, the first sign of a difference. His eyes followed up from his wrist to his shoulders and then back down his own chest, creases ran along the surface of his too-pale skin like a web. They were closed now, but he knew it only took a second, a thought, and nearly all of them could flair up, open, or even separate to allow him better maneuverability and speed.
He knew this was like Pyunma, the doctor had only been trying to save him, to make him stronger. But he wasn't like the eighth cyborg, he couldn't have plated armor to defend from hits; he needed to be fast and light and aerodynamic. What he now had in speed and evasiveness he had gained at the cost of the defense he didn't have much of to begin with. He'd always been light on defense and built more for the get in quick and hit hard tactic rather than the barrel through approach for Albert or G, but he felt fragile and he hated it. Logically, he knew he could still take a hit better than most people, but he would have to rely more on not being hit in comparison to what he'd had before.
It was frustrating beyond belief, he didn't want to feel like this...and he certainly didn't want to look like this. He understood now, what his partners had been through and how they felt about being mostly machine. And it sucked. But it was more than even that. He looked up and into the mirror across the room where someone unrecognizable stared back. Blue eyes, finer features, and blonde hair stood out like beacons and he couldn't take his eyes off of them. Part of him thought that maybe, if he looked long enough and hard enough, he'd be able to see something that told him yes this was still Jet Link...but he hadn't found it yet.
Everyone always said it was what was inside that counted, not outside, but when you couldn't recognize anything of yourself, it was like you were in someone else's body, like one of those movies where it's some mistake and by the end of it everything would be back to normal. Except there wasn't an ending like that waiting for him, only blue eyes, blonde hair, and panels.
no subject
"There are just some things that are difficult to shake. Ghosts of the past, to be poetic." He stares down into his tea, swirling the last remnants of the leaves in the bottom of the mug. He called up a memory of GB going on about reading the leaves like some gypsy, one of his tirades about mysticism in English theatrical literature and its symbolic nature, but Albert's tired mind has to wonder what his fortune would read right now. Would it be smooth out from here, or is he deluding himself? What would happen when the world tries to come crashing down again? Or would he even be the one to die the next time?
Albert's voice remains gruff, seemingly coming from a great distance and through supreme effort. "I dreamed about that night, when you went after Joe the first time."
He hates that he has to specify 'the first time.' His jaw clenches, pale eyes still trained on the green detritus coating the bottom of his mug.
no subject
Years later, his body wasn't something that really caused him much distress with exception to the fact that he still dressed in covering clothing to hide the seams along his fake skin. It was his body and his face and it seemed as normal to him as his old face had been, but that didn't mean he'd forgotten. And, really, it was stupid of him to think the older cyborg had forgotten either. Especially since at least one of those muted voices and shadowy figures had belonged to his partner.
No doubt Jet's reappearance in Albert's life had caused this dream to haunt the man again, especially considering Jet's actions only a month before. History repeating itself most likely just made that scar deeper.
The blond reached for the mug in Albert's hands and gently made to relocate it to the counter. Then he was wrapping himself around the older man, keeping his hold tight as one arm was held across his lower back and the other wrapped around his shoulders with Jet's hand in that soft silver hair he loved.
He didn't bother apologizing, he knew there was no point, especially for something so far in their past, something he'd already been forbidden from apologizing for. He also knew that he really couldn't fix it, if it hadn't been fixed by time or words exchanged before now, then there wasn't much hope for anything that could be said or any new time given now. But that didn't mean he couldn't do anything. He could hold Albert and he could try and protect him from that dream ever becoming reality again--Jet had done it twice, three times would not be the charm.
No, no matter what guilt wracked him with that admission, the only thing Jet could do to help would be to just be there.
no subject
Instead he received the open American arms of acceptance and protection. Not only that, but from he specific person who caused him the pain in the first place. Not that he blames Jet, not anymore. They'd been through and over that and though he's still embarrassed at having broken down, it had been cathartic and in some ways necessary. This wasn't. This wouldn't fix anything, and that's why it's so frustrating to have Jet's arms around him in sympathy, maybe pity, and definitely guilt. It doesn't change a thing no matter how much Albert wants it to.
He lets out a slow breath and reaches back to take the hand Jet had placed against his back, moving it to his lips and planting a light kiss against the knuckles. "It's really nothing to worry about. Just a dream."
no subject
He nodded and pulled away, giving his attention to the now finished coffee so he could take it to the couch with him.
"What the hell are you watching, anyway? It looks terrible." If there was one thing Jet could do, it was conspicuously change the subject when he wanted. Which, in this case, worked for him. He didn't want to think about the subject matter of the dream likely as much as Albert wanted to talk about it.
no subject
"Of course, the book is better." He always says the book is better.
no subject
Still, Jet wasn't actually looking to pick a fight with Albert, so he settled with sipping the hot drink and watching the movie, even if he really didn't know what was going on. The point wasn't really to watch the movie anyway.