District Thirteen
bisexual
Sexuality
Airron won't leave me alone
Relationship Status
District 13 Military Commander
Occupation
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Angel
Offline
Virginia time
Tag me @jasminforte
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Post by Jasmin Forte on Apr 13, 2015 1:12:38 GMT
"In response to any grief that's inflicted upon a soldier of any status, they are granted three days of leave to an approved location for a grieving period," The soldier's designated, interactive handbooks read. Jasmin could recall most passages that stood out to her. She was like a piece of technology, remembering anything useful, but when faced with emotion, worried sparks flew.
Although Jasmin had no recorded, living relatives, she was considered a special case. She'd been sent off to Four to spread a small portion of Pike's ashes - but much to her dismay, she faced a detour. A sharp growl of the hovercraft's engine was her first hint, and then over the intercom, a fuzzy, authoritarian voice blew toward her: "J. Forte will be facing a detour to District 7, where she's been requested at a District Hospital to greet war victims. All stops are delayed until all militants have descended safely into District 7."
The band of soldiers that were seated and buckled in gave a wide range of responses: a mixture of swears, some pleased, others peeved, groans, and ecstatic whoops ans hollers.
"Hey, Forte, looks like you got 'ta publicity thing going for you. Don't sweat it, all commanders go through it." A higher-up from another sector said fondly, flashing a wide bunch of (mostly) white teeth, his front teeth full of endearing chips.
"Gra-yyyyyt," Jasmin replied lamely, nestling her head into the padded seat. Nonetheless, she managed a sideways grin. Leave - no matter the reason - always had everybody's spirits high. The blonde knew deep down that this visit wasn't an initiation. It was that they couldn't spare any bodies with all of the current hospital attacks. Commander Forte was the perfect choice, as the Capitol was believed to have the charred remains of Jasmin's body after an acid fog attack in District 4. Little did they know, Miss Forte was alive and well.
The Capitol rejoiced in the death of a well-known Commander; the woman who set free a facility full of of human weapons. Mutts. Superhumans.
It made Jasmin's life easier. She was free; a blimp on the radar, a thousand years away.
It made it all the more easy to drift off into a dreamless sleep, the gentle hum of the aircraft lulling her into slumber.
Hours later, Jasmin was shaken awake - not by a hand, or a guiding voice - but by the wicked slam of the 'craft onto the gritty earth. Jasmin set her jaw, head knocking into everything within a five inch radius. "Sorry about that," the pilot said sheepishly over the intercom, which sent them all into nervous laughs.
They all took a quick glance out the window, and by the looks of it (as well as everybody staying strapped in securely), Jasmin figured it was her stop. The faded look of the homely looking hospital was most unlike the majority of the District's hospitals. This one was heavily guarded and well-stocked with medicines and supplies. She unfastened her restraints and headed for the door, a hesitation in her step. On her way out, she lifted her filled to the brim duffel bag over her arm. She took long, heavy strides toward the building, her hand moving to her hip at the door. She unwound the elastic that her identification card was clipped to and flashed it at the guards.
Once she was inside, she couldn't help but gape. The hospital smelt fresh and squeaky clean, like antiseptic and ammonia. The tiled floors were cracked and chipped, and the walls covered in holes. Everything was in order, patient cards hung on doors, thin-faced, stressed nurses, bustling around. She met eyes with a nurse, looking lost and undeniably pedestrian in a hospital. She was out of her element here. She was used to protecting people, not comforting the people she failed to protect.
The nurse back-tracked, head inclined. "Commander Forte? I'll show you to his room." She said shortly, albeit not unkindly.
"His?" Jasmin replied, a crease of worry forming between her dark brows. She smoothed back her ash blonde hair, as if she could make her already immaculate military bun any more tidy.
The prune-faced nurse pursed her lips. "Oh, you weren't informed of your purpose here, I presume?"
The Commander narrowed her eyes. "No, ma'am, I was. I'm visiting patients that've been injured in the war."
The nurse bobbed her head, then gestured toward an open door. She knocked on the door jamb. "The Commander is here." She said merrily, her face transforming into something close to lively. Whoever was inside the room must've been a great patient to make such a dull woman so animated.
Jasmin wasn't sure if she was meant to enter, or stay put. So instinctively, she stood at attention, back straight and stiff, but arms folded in her lap. As the nurse turned away, she collected Jasmin's bag with a grunt, hoisting it over her shoulder. "I will get a room ready for you." She said mildly, voice descending down the hallway.
Leaving the military leader speechless, although as professional as ever. Her eyes searched the empty wall. She didn't want to stare inside the room, gawking until someone met her. Through her subtle mask of foundation, her face was flushed. It was nearly invisible, unless you watched her closely. A tiny sigh escaped her. She adjusted her utility belt, keys jangling at her hip, gun holster looming at her side, a wild, but silent threat that Jasmin wouldn't be completely normal functioning.
Like many soldiers, she suffered from Post Traumatic Stress. It made it hard to make eye contact, to keep her voice steady...
Her elbow length sleeves were modest, but the faded, pinkish scars that snaked around her arm made her more relatable to the patients (or so Kestrel told her. It mostly made her arms itch, no matter the fact the blemishes were barely more than discolored flesh across her thoroughly tanned arms.)
As someone approached, she guided her gaze toward the space the door would normally be in, gaze alert and warm, but holding limpid suspicion.
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May 11, 2015 20:43:23 GMT
Tag me @kraysinclair
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Post by Kray SinClair on Apr 14, 2015 17:20:27 GMT
It'd been a year, or maybe two. Kray didn't actually know. All he really knew was that he felt old, unbelievably so. He felt weak and achy, ancient bones that hadn't known use in years slowly creaking to life as he attempted to adjust to what was, essentially, life. He felt almost skeletal, empty, like he was leaking thoughts from his skull as he struggled to comprehend the reality of his situation, just about grasping the fact he was alive by the fact he could her his heart beating through its collagen compound, the rest of his body buzzing with electrical signals and pounding blood, all whispering the same thing: this body is alive.
Having said that, his body had been perfectly functioning for a while now. His body had held itself together whilst his mind broke itself into pieces, bullet shattering his mind rather than his pelvis, its poison leaking into his brain and breaking down the tainted matter into something even more sinister, even more incomprehensible. The human was built to survive and yet, with thought processes already so cracked, it was hard to even string a line of coherence together, never mind finding himself again. It was a struggle, but the mind stung itself back together slowly, spinning meandering paths to memories and functions until it was ready to live.
Ready to wake up.
There’d been confusion at first. What do you do with the boy that’s supposed to be dead? They were relying on him staying comatose, truth be told, keeping his life support on out of sheer respect, more than anything. After all, he’d never really been a danger to society, even near the end he’d been subdued half the time. He was a scarred youth, and that just meant people felt sorry for him, and no one was willing to make the call to kill him. But, Kray SinClair had no apparent family, no connections to life outside the hospital other than his wife, who was already determined he was dead, and dealing with it a lot better than anyone had expected. She was a leading operative in the war – and what else could they really ask for? But where did that leave the supposedly dead husband? Did they tell her? They couldn’t’ risk losing her to him, and yet, there was nothing more they could think to do.
They chose not to tell either of them. After all, there was a chance Kray wouldn’t remember her, and a chance Jasmin wouldn’t even care that he was alive. They would shift the stars to get her there, however, shuffle her into the functioning hospital and hope to God she didn’t question it. Then, all that was left to do was coax Kray out of his room, convince him that there was something out there actually worth exploring – that he wasn’t going to die if he dared to step foot into the real world.
And so there Kray was, sat in a hospital bed, bony fingers drumming against his legs he attempted to find something, anything to do with his time. Truthfully, there wasn’t a lot to do when you had no one to talk to, and definitely no one out in the real world to visit. It was so quiet, he almost couldn’t stand it anymore, not that he had to for long.
Without warning, a nurse came barrelling into his room, forgetting to knock as he pushed her way through the door, face forced into a smile as she fidgeted with the door handle, like she’d lost a bet outside and was now forced to give him some sort of horrible news. As with every other nurse there, she had that worn out look about her, frail skin pulled over cheekbones, hair scraped back into a tight bun that only helped to highlight the blank hollowness of her face, tired eyes brushing over the room. The past few years had been rough on everyone but Kray, it seemed.
“SinClair?” her voice clipped, one eyebrow raised as she pressed the door shut. Was he meant to reply? He wasn’t entirely sure. It was said as a question, and yet it wasn’t like she could possibly be talking to anyone else in the room, and so was entirely useless as words went. That didn’t seem like a good thing to point out to the stressed woman in charge of his release (which he was still pushing for, since for some reason they couldn’t see he was clearly perfectly fine now). Instead, his brown eyes brushed up to look at her, offering as much of a smile as he could muster, given the circumstances.
“You have a visitor, please come with me.” It wasn’t the sentence Kray was expecting. He was expecting a ‘please tell me why you’ve decided to stop taking your meds’, because that was a thing now. In truth, he’d never really been medicated before, even if he really should have been. Even at his worst, he’d skipped out on medication, lying his way out of it easier than actually enduring the course of being on them. Still, he’d gone from comatose to panic attack only minutes after waking up, brain shaking itself awake, only to suddenly realise it had no idea where it was or why it was there, and so sky rocketing into overdrive.
In the end, they’d had to sedate him just to stop his hyperventilation from knocking him out again.
Kray blinked, and suddenly he was walking down the hall, following the bristly woman, so lost in his own mind that he’d nearly lost the entire conversation he’d had with the woman between the moment she walked in and now, walking down the hall. Tuning out had started to become a bad habit, but you couldn’t exactly blame the boy… He was doing his best, after all.
And then he was there, white knuckles pushing against the too clean door as his brain ran through all the people in the world that could possibly be waiting to see him. Surprisingly, he couldn’t even think of one, and so instead it cycled. What if it was some Government official, come to arrest him for whatever he’d done whilst completely off it? He couldn’t actually remember that period of time, only that those months were whispered between the hospital staff, quickly followed by nervous looks and anxiously shifting feet, like he could strike at any moment. Or, maybe, it was someone from District Thirteen that he’d known for a while, like Hope or Eve or Willow? It couldn’t be – they all assumed he was dead.
This visit could only spell bad news and so, as he pushed the door open, he could feel his heart start to beat through his chest, breathing hitched in his chest as he balled his other hand into a fist to stop it shaking. He felt like a rattle, like he was shaking so much he could be physically heard by the person in the room already. Kray’s gaze dropped to the floor as the door swung shut behind him, slowly trailing upwards until he noticed the military grade boots – Oh god, he was right, they were coming to take him away, he was going to be taken away and locked up and he was never going to see daylight again. I probably deserve it.
His gaze lifted up again, flickering to the woman’s face. it was a soldier, he was right. But, it was…
“Jasmin?”
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District Thirteen
bisexual
Sexuality
Airron won't leave me alone
Relationship Status
District 13 Military Commander
Occupation
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Angel
Offline
Virginia time
Tag me @jasminforte
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Post by Jasmin Forte on Apr 14, 2015 17:58:38 GMT
Jasmin's patience was wearing thin. In those few, bleary minutes, she'd unsuccessfully prodded her mind, urging it to decide whether or not to stash her gun - in case it were to bring any traumatic memories back to any of the patients. As foot steps ascended from the doorway she was parallel to, she quickly stuffed the gun into her bland gray tee-shirt ingenuously.
As the steps grew closer and the soldier was sure they were within ear shot, she quickly waved off their urgency. "I'd rather come to the patient's rooms. I don't want to put any strain on-"
The sour-puss nurse cautiously (albeit respectfully) cleared her throat, a low, guiding sort of sound. It was never polite to interrupt someone; much less a military leader or patient.
A second figure (that she'd pricked her ears to hear) stalked in moments after the growl in the nurse's throat. "Miss Forte, it's really no bother," She said kindly, although she couldn't be bothered to face the Commander, as she was craning her head toward the person who emitted the heaviest, most familiar foot steps. Jasmin forced a loose smile, trying to seem less gruff than she was sought out to be by the media.
And then a voice tickled her ears, not too unlike the tropical winds of Four, a wash of familiarity. 'Jasmin,' it said, equal parts surprise in shock. Her mind scrolled through a list of people it could be - people who'd be on a first-name basis. And then she met his gaze with pinched, tired eyes, head held high. The smile faltered all-together, and then came back, but this time vocal.
Laughter.
Rough, gritty, puzzled sounds of joy.
Annie was alive. Kray was alive. When would the reign of slim probabilities coming true end? "
Commander-" the nurse interrupted, "if you need anything, we've tuned in your pager to the hospital's." And she backed off, casting a gray, worn look to the pair with a hint of dampness in her eyes. It wasn't often that they had touching moments like this, Jasmin had realized. So she cast a lopsided smile toward her as she headed off to attend to others. So far, all she'd done is laugh. It wasn't quite hysterical, but there was a wrongness to it. An edge.
I shouldn't be here. He needs to make his own life. He isn't mine anymore! Her mind vibrated with emotional impact. "I never checked to see if you had a pulse." It wasn't a "sorry," but still, it was a distinct apology. "I went after...him..." She finished unceremoniously, choosing a vague pronoun in place of: "your assailant." She'd grown to be very particular about her words. She was acutely aware of how tight her posture was, back aching and neck tender. Her jaw closed, clenching and unclenching. She felt like a giddy, nervous preteen - the kind of girl that'd twirl her hair and stutter. But since she'd been nearly killed in the Capitol Center, she'd shut off her emotions. Dissociating was the second best way to avoid a breakdown; second to running away, which was no longer an option.
It wasn't all that hard to recognize that look of meekness; the tilt of his shoulders. He looked frail and bored and hopeless, just like Hal in the Capitol - mindless, wandering...
But she wouldn't let that happen. She kept her fingers knotted tightly at her lap, nails unpainted, military issued slacks wrinkled, face close to unblemished, besides a thin scar at her temple. They both looked like completely different people.
Her heart slammed against her sternum painfully. She felt her fingertips tingle, and silently pushed her body to reject the onset of shock. This meeting was dangerous. She had less than an inkling of how he'd respond to certain topics, gestures, etc. Secondly, she'd lost her family several months back, and had been in recovery ever since.
Would this throw Commander Forte back into the land of the lunatics, or would it be another motion to go through?
Jasmin hoped for the latter.
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Offline
May 11, 2015 20:43:23 GMT
Tag me @kraysinclair
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Post by Kray SinClair on Apr 16, 2015 22:41:43 GMT
Laughter. He hadn’t expected laughter. Okay, so Kray wasn’t entirely sure what he did expect, but he knew that it wasn’t Jasmin, and it definitely wasn’t for her to laugh when she saw him. It was like she’d forgotten everything that’d happened in the breakdown before he’d supposedly died, or whatever… Did he actually know anything anymore? Maybe it was best not to answer that question – he’d only end up winding himself up, something he’d found easy to do as of late. It was unsurprisingly really, there wasn’t much to do at the hospital itself; the world was too obsessed with white sheets and protocol to give patients anything genuinely stimulating to do.
The laughter had a bitterness to it, however, one that seemed to sting the air with a panicked aftertaste, like she was happy and worried at the same time – which Kray honestly didn’t blame her for. After all, he wasn’t entirely sure how to feel either. It’d been so long and so, so, complicated. He was meant to be dead and she was meant to be widowed and that was the way life was meant to have continued. Kray would die, Jasmin would move on, and neither of them would know any different. He could just fade away. That was the plan.
And now he was stuck here, living a life he didn’t really want to live and gazing at the woman he loved, knowing she’d moved on. It was yet another unsurprising thing to realize, and yet it hit the back of his throat like acid, causing him to swallow hard as he shuffled over to her, not quite figuring out what to say or how to say it. What did you say in this situation? He wasn’t good at normal conversations, so how the hell was throwing him into one like this supposed to help? Nothing was the same – even the innocent that used to glitter behind Jasmin’s eyes was gone.
It almost made her look like a different person.
Once lovers, they were now perfect strangers, mirrors of the people that they used to know and love, bright shouts of thoughts and feelings that used to feel so obvious now reduced only to echoes, nothing more than whispers in the breeze coming through the window. The only thing they now seemed to really share was loss of love, and even then Kray wasn’t actually sure if he didn’t still love the girl sat in front of him, even if the sight of military attire stole any flickers of comfort he would’ve felt otherwise.
As he took a seat, his gaze trailed back up to her face again, studying her hardened features with a certain ease, an old intensity brushing across his features before he broke into a small smile, not quite sure how to make of the whole situation. Of course he was happy to see her, who wouldn’t be? He just felt bad, and there were too many apologizes to make to the woman in front of him than he actually had time to even think about. How she wasn’t broken, he didn’t actually know, but nor did he really care.
“it’s okay, we both know if it was me, I’d have ran in the complete opposite direction,” he finally spoke up, managing to break his gazing for long enough to respond. He was just about managing to hold it together, even if his heart felt like it was bursting through his chest, and the reply was almost easier than most things he’d ever said in his past life. Words seemed to tumble out of him, rather than trip awkwardly like they used to… It wasn’t something he particularly missed.
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District Thirteen
bisexual
Sexuality
Airron won't leave me alone
Relationship Status
District 13 Military Commander
Occupation
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Angel
Offline
Virginia time
Tag me @jasminforte
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Post by Jasmin Forte on Apr 17, 2015 0:14:21 GMT
Jasmin wanted to brush her fingers over his hair - half comfort for him, and half for proof that she wasn't dreaming. Her fingers clenched and unclenched into a loose fist, sweat cooling her hot-with-surprise flesh. She blinked slowly, almost knowingly, with a twist of happiness as golden as melted butter in her eyes as his mouth flipped from its constant line of discomfort to an (almost) easy smile. And then she grinned back, toothy and gleeful, but without the edge this time around.
As he seated his self at the bed's edge, her teeth knocked together in her mouth as the mattress squished and squeaked with his weight. Instead of asking the general: "do you mind?" inquiry that she'd used countless times with civilians, she slowly settled down a good couple of inches away. The soft bed cushioned her like a plush second skin; like it was made for luxury and comfort.
After months and months of picking sofa fluff from her pants - after countless nights with no comfort, not even from your own bed, her lower body meeting feathery down sent a woosh of goose bumps along her arms, down her neck...
She gnawed on the inside of her jaw, torn up from countless blows and late night patrols that left your skin crawling with the absolute silence, and your mind unoccupied. It never left much to do, besides chewing off hang nails and gnawing on your cheek until you decide to investigate any little spit of wind that rattled the trees.
Jasmin shifted forward, leaning into where her feet were planted on the ground, all will listening to his voice. It was like a soft breath and a clap of thunder, all at once. It was easily said, but with hesitation, like he wasn't quite sure how he'd managed that feat.
She slowly lifted her arm, hand flat to show she wasn't moving to strike him (as she wasn't sure if he was suspicious of people), her arm winding around his shoulders. She had a blithe disregard for the abnormality of her reaction to seeing a supposedly "dead" lover. "I almost did too. But I was crazy. Shit, you knew that," She still had that thick accent, her syllables drawn out, "retribution ain't worth it. I wish I knew that then. I wish I'd stayed with you. But it gave me the opportunity to help others. I mean, after I got my wits back." Stop rambling. Let go of him. Don't jump the gun, her mind soothed. She drew her arm back.
"Anyway," She said, an indirect apology, and an opportunity for silence so her words could soak in.
She wondered if he'd seen the news; if he'd seen how awful the war was. He didn't seem too spooked, so she figured he hadn't seen any of the news of Jasmin and a lead gang member breaking out war prisoners, or the poisonous gas the Capitol used as attacks.
He clearly hadn't seen the Capitol's headline several weeks ago: "MILITARY LEADERS KILLED IN ATTACK IN DISTRICTS - TERRORIST SUSPECT JASMIN FORTE'S REMAINS FOUND - DISTRICT 7'S ARMY RETREATING AFTER ACID FOG ATTACK"
She bounced her foot on the ground, half inclined to flop back on the bed, her mind spinning with ordered chaos. It was pleasant, and it definitely filled in the heavy void of silence.
Jasmin adjusted her utility belt. She was beginning to regret shoving the gun in her bra.
(This sucks. The ending got weird. I started getting tired. Oops.)
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