Beyond The Arena ~ Looks The Same {WT, Aya}

For someone who always largely considered himself to be an outcast, it still came as a bit of a shock — no, not a shock, a twinge of disappointment — that he felt so out of place among his fellow District Twelve victors. Of course, it wasn't easy for the Seam kid to feel like he belonged to anything when he was in the Capitol, in the all-too-familiar Training Center, in the elevator that descended down twelve flights of stairs from his all-too-familiar room to the all-too-familiar dining hall, where he was going to attempt to fool himself into thinking that he was more hungry than he was itching for a drink. In the back of his mind, he knew that he wouldn't succeed on that front, but at the same time he'd realized that his growing Games-fueled addiction wasn't good for him, and wanted to at least try to pretend that he was going to make steps in the right direction this year.

This year. This year of the 58th Hunger Games. This fourth year after he, the scrawny little blind kid from the Seam, had emerged victorious. After he, the fifteen-year-old blind kid from the poorest part of the poorest district, had started a trend in victories that the Capitol certainly disapproved of. After he, the underdog tribute who had gone a bit crazy, was locked into an obligation to watching the light leave the eyes of tribute after tribute, year after year. Four. That was a long time. Had he really only been fifteen — Ara's age now — when he'd won? And he was really nineteen now? Four years. Twenty-three tributes dead over four years was ninety-two kids struck down. And Arbor couldn't even name a quarter of them.

For whatever reason, it never felt completely real to him. Even when he watched it happen — through whatever degree of liquor-induced haze — it was hard for Arbor to actually feel it. He'd slowly grown to lose his ability to feel for the tributes, as he'd realized when Anani Petros had been killed two years prior. That was the last tribute Arbor had cared even a little bit about. This, of course, made him feel uneasy around the latest Victor, seeing as she was a tribute of his own, one which he'd been quite distant with during the time leading up to her stint in the Arena.

The elevator door opened briefly on the sixth floor, allowing an Avox to soundlessly enter. Arbor nodded at the mute servant in greeting, but received only a dropped gaze in response. He shrugged. If he'd had a hard time caring about the twenty-three kids that were at this very moment being prepared for their deaths, Arbor cared even less about the slaves that at least got to live in relative comfort. He knew it wouldn't be a great life, but it was still a life. The elevator stopped again on the second, allowing the Avox to exit. After a brief pause, the lift jerked back to life.

While he realized for the thousandth time that he clearly didn't care much about anyone he didn't know, empathizing with the victors was much easier for Arbor, who knew the sort of torment that came with winning the Games. He knew how difficult it was — especially in the beginning — to be dragged back to the Capitol to watch more tributes die. It was this bond and this bond alone that Arbor shared with the two girls, and somehow he doubted that it would make it any easier or any more comfortable for him to interact with them. After all, the Games and the pains of mentoring were the last things that he wanted to bring up in conversation, and for a good reason: having to return to the Capitol year after year was excruciating, no matter how much or how little he cared for the crop of tributes. It was the sort of torture that was meant to be silently endured; talking about it would only make it worse for everyone involved.

He exited the elevator on the ground floor, heading toward the dining hall after only a brief moment of hesitation. More than anything, Arbor wanted the feeling of liquor hitting his stomach, to know that it would be coursing through his system in a handful of minutes, to know that things would return to their familiar — if not necessarily better — haze. Perhaps he could trick himself with food into thinking that his needs would be satisfied, if only for a little while. Or maybe his needs really were food, and he'd just been so quick to call on alcohol to satiate them in the past. Either way, he'd resolved to eat something, at least, even if it was just a few bites out of a roll. Though, knowing his appetite, there was a strong chance that a few bites out of a roll would turn into a full-fledged steak sandwich, or something of the sort. No matter how he resented the Capitol, Arbor still found it difficult to pass on the extravagant food that was served here; even the blandest meals served in the dining hall were infinitely better than the most luxurious of his home district.

Seeing as it was some time between lunch and dinner, Arbor had expected the cafeteria to be completely empty, aside from a handful of Avoxes straightening the room up. For this reason, it came as a surprise to him that there were, in fact, others in the room: the two others that he'd largely been avoiding. It wasn't that he didn't want to speak with them, regardless of how awkward it would be between the three of them — Aranica proved this point by anxiously shooting several dozen words at Heron seemingly without taking a breath, only to trail off with a pair of apologies. Arbor, however, felt astonishingly guilty even seeing the remainder of his district's victors. After all, out of the three of them — hell, out of most of those who'd returned from being reaped — Arbor was the only one who emerged less crippled, rather than more. How was it fair that he'd gotten new eyes while Heron had given up her legs? While Aranica had given up her arm? What made him special? If anything, he'd been more of a monster. No, he was more of a monster than either of them.

Tired of thinking of it and tired of standing awkwardly in the doorway, Arbor tried to break the ice. "Huh," he said, raising an eyebrow in mock bemusement. "Was there a memo sent out for our district to meet here? Because I didn't actually get one." Realizing that the touch of irony in his voice — even if he had been joking — had probably come across as a bit nasty, he dropped the air of sarcasm and proceeded to ask the sort of question that generally prompted perfunctory responses. "The Capitol treating you guys well this year?" he inquired, though he wasn't actually looking for a response: he hated smalltalk. But worse than pointless waste-of-air conversations was standing around awkwardly with two people who shouldn't be strangers but were anyhow. So he'd put forth the effort to change the situation into the lesser of two evils. It was more polite than simply leaving, anyhow.