After the claustrophobia of being boxed onto the train, it was a relief to step outside again. Albeit a short lived one. So often time in the circus seem to move at unbelievably sluggish pace, the days bleeding into each other, but for the past few weeks it seems one thing after another at whiplash speed. Nothing cements this more than the way in a span of ten minutes Jin has gone from standing amongst his riled up and confused co-workers all trying to revel with the fact that they’ve been backed into a corner and being forcibly removed from the train as the guards made their way in.
During most of the event Jin had been more of an observer than a participant, the whole point of taking part of a sit in was not having to work, and when all things went to hell it was an impossible feat to figure out what action to take. He didn’t like to admit, in part because it was the root of all his issues with the rebels in the first place, but large scale issues were not and had never been his area. He thrived best in one on one confrontations, finding one strand in a complex issue and pulling at it until the whole problem began to unravel. Which was why when a guard put his hand on him, trying to push him in the direction of a tent in the opposite direction he was walking, it had been easier for Jin to push back against it. Literally. Removing his arm from the guards grip and shoving him away. He was not a child, he didn’t need to be manhandled and guided like one, and said as much. “I don’t care what Metzger said—” An attempt to punch Jin, as though that might knock some sense into him, make him complacent, was promptly caught though he staggered. Physical strength could only make up so much for the massive hangover that hadn’t come even a little close to subsiding. “Keep your fucking hands off me.”
