Not Going to Follow Forward {Ree?}

Oh, I'm at a crossroads with myself
I don't got no one else
And possibilities at the door
I won't be needing them anymore

Arbor Halt—

With horror, Arbor realized exactly what having to speak with someone meant — someone would have to actually speak with him. Doubtlessly, there would be at least one Capitolite to try; in the trivial lives of those who actually lived in the Capitol, it seemed anyone and everyone wanted to be able to brag about meeting a Victor. It didn't matter how plastered they were at the time — if they vaguely remembered the event, they had the rights to lord it over their friends and social rivals until someone else ran into any person more famous, or while they were considerably less inebriated.

Arbor's personal sobriety, fortunately, would soon be on its way out. With his whiskey now sitting in front of him, the previous victor began to relax. During the previous year, he'd learned to take comfort in the acerbic liquid — no, that wasn't right. There was nothing too comfortable about the haze it dropped him into, save for the fact that it blunted the edges of harsh reality. Clouded perception had been a protection, had been something to fill up the hollowness he'd felt inside. Or, at least, blur the edges.

At home, it hadn't been so bad — the stress and anxiety of mentoring for the Games were distant memories, and his own Games little more than a dream. He'd adjusted to the changes — or, singular change, really: company — much more quickly between the 55th Games and the 56th than he had the year before. It had given something to occupy his time, a sort of pleasant business that kept his thoughts from becoming too errant. And when he had the time to kill, his guitar often served as a much more potent outlet for his emotions — but he couldn't allow himself to bring it to the Capitol. Didn't need it tainted like that. Whiskey was his substitute.

He hadn't even brought the tumbler to his lips when the guy next to Arbor addressed him. It was a good thing that he hadn't taken a sip, too, or else his tongue surely would have fumbled with the liquid and caused him to choke or spit. For a Capitolite, he was rather plain and unkempt. So scruffy-looking, in fact, that Arbor would've sworn that he was an Avox (hence the surprise when he spoke) of some kind.

The stranger's words, though masked by the din of the bar, took Arbor a moment to comprehend. As he worked out the apparent disgust for the 'other gits', however, the fashion — or lack thereof — made perfect sense, and Arbor knew he was speaking with a pseudo-rebel. Though far less common than the typical Capitolite, there were still a large amount of citizens who had decided to denounce the ridiculous lifestyle of the city. Most of these, Arbor had reasoned, had some sort of very Capitol-ish reason for it: Daddy wouldn't give them as much money as they wanted, their 'best friend' stole their signature pair of orange wool pants, the tribute they'd sponsored one year was killed by Gamemaker intervention, they'd gotten food poisoning at a massive feast, etcetera, etcetera. He raised an eyebrow at the stranger, but said nothing on the subject. Arbor didn't need to interview for a new best friend; he merely needed a letter read. And who better than someone who wouldn't be too inclined to share with 'the other gits'.

"Yeah, well," he started, eyeing the building's occupants in bemusement. "I think most of them are too hammered to tell Snow from a lightpole right now, no mind to someone like me who's not exactly here to attract attention." It was partially true. Arbor didn't come to be mobbed by the masses; he just needed someone to tell him what Anani's letter said. Someone who wouldn't run straight to the media and publish the damned thing. The last thing Arbor wanted to be responsible for was the publicizing of the personal business of the Petros family — all two of them — especially if it meant even more entertainment for the Capitol.

Arbor didn't trust easily, and he wasn't ready to just fork over the letter — or even mention that he had it, for that matter. Yes, of the people in the building, this stranger seemed to be one of the better options. But how reassuring was that? Hardly at all. Maybe… maybe it would be better just to give the letter to Ara when it was time. Take the chance that Anani had enough perspicacity to be gentle, in case his little sister did read it. But would Arbor's tribute even know that he was illiterate? The teen must have had plenty on his mind to not even consider it. It probably would be best to have someone else read it to him first.

"Some Games this year," he started. Maybe he could judge the stranger's enthusiasm for the bloodthirsty event, and use that to gauge how likely he would be to share. Arbor decided he could not go another second sober. He knocked back half the tumbler in two gulps. Eyes watering from the sting of the bitter whiskey, he continued, "Funny that I've got my second Petros tribute to look after. Two years in a row. Now that's bad luck, don't you think?"

It couldn't be bad luck, and Arbor knew it wasn't. It was Capitol punishment. Punishment to the underdogs of the underdog district, who'd been performing much too well in recent years. Punishment that, had it been applied to himself, would be reasonable — he, after all, had scorned the Capitol's gift (and he'd finally started to see it as a gift) of vision during his presentation. He'd agreed to 'take them down' and 'give them hell' during his Games, not that he was doing a particularly good job of it. If the Capitol had wanted to make Arbor suffer, it would be reasonable.

On the other hand, it was punishment completely undeserved for Ara, who hadn't even wanted to win, it seemed. Arbor blinked hard as he recalled his tribute trying to drown herself under Dru's body at the end of the last Games. The girl was miserable and they'd wanted to hurt her more, to take away the last shred of love and family she had left. That's not bad luck, he thought bitterly, clenching his jaw with all his might. That's cruelty.

If we’re all faltering, how’d I help with that?
If it’s all or nothing, then let me go.

Arbor Halt—

It had been awhile since Arbor had needed to actually pay attention to a conversation with someone he didn't know. He'd done his best to listen to his tributes (although understanding the deaf girl had been next to impossible) while he still had them, because they'd been about to die and were deserving of some respect before they ultimately would die stripped of their dignity. He didn't always listen to friends and family from back home — he'd become a man of few words around most of them, although his listening skills had completely gone downhill.

When it was required that he converse with the Capitolites he needed to interact with — stylists, gamemakers, district escorts, and the whole other lot of them — he typically coasted through the dialogue on autopilot. They just weren't that interesting, and Arbor couldn't bring himself to pay attention. Many things they had to say were trivial, the rest bordered on irrelevant. They'd never made his List of Important things; in fact, the people in the Capitol that Arbor thought he liked most were the Avoxes. They, at least, never tried to engage anyone in conversation. The citizens of the Capitol could learn a thing or two from their voiceless servants — if they'd just shut up every now and again, it would prevent their stupid from showing.

That was a bit harsh, of course; Arbor knew that the Capitol had its fair share of brilliant minds. Just look at the gamemakers. No matter how completely evil their ideas were, it still required more intelligence than the city typically projected (after all, how easy it is to take someone seriously when they're wearing pleated pants?) to come up with them. And maybe the stranger was kidding himself when he so easily said the president leaned toward the unintelligent side — and in public, too? Anyone back in Twelve would doubtlessly be beaten or taken away for such a comment — because the man did seem to know what he was doing. Rarely does someone land such a coveted seat of power on accident, and underestimating the malignant genius of the others was a devastatingly stupid idea.

Arbor felt a twinge of annoyance towards the pseudo-rebel for his poor judgement of words. Maybe the Capitol citizen wouldn't be incarcerated for his criticism of the government — or the person leading it, anyhow — but the mentor was pretty sure that, given the opportunity, the powers that be would love to add on to the heap of punishment they'd already dumped on District Twelve and its victors. For his own sake, Arbor wasn't so worried; if, however, the Capitol decided to improperly allot their retribution yet again and burden his little charge with their torture instead of the Victor who actually earned it, he'd be nothing but guilty. Possibly, Arbor cared about no one's well-being as much as he did the young victor's. He was her mentor, and the sense of responsibility he felt for the girl had only grown.

Aside from the perk of whiskey, it was for her sake that Arbor was here, in this bar, talking with this pseudo-rebellious Capitolite whose name he didn't know — he didn't care to know — about things that shouldn't be brought up in a public forum. It wasn't the sort of place where someone would overhear, remember, and report, of course, yet it still made him uneasy. People tended to key in to certain buzzwords, and when conversations seemed interesting, they would continue to eavesdrop. And if this guy were to read the letter to him — Arbor still didn't know about him — the gossips of the Capitol couldn't be listening. It wasn't their business, which, of course, made it infinitely more captivating to them. Watch someone else's life fall apart as best it could, then go ahead and smash it against the rocks completely. Disgusting.

And, though Arbor noticed that the stranger — a bit too fidgety for Arbor's liking, though he'd do — had wizened up before he opened his mouth again, his effort to maintain neutrality in the conversation all but failed. Hearing being his formerly most dominant sense, the victor was not in the least bit distracted by the lack of commitment in the meaning of the words themselves. His ears settled instead on tone and context, and they liked what they heard.

It was the pause that gave the stranger away. The lack of outright enthusiasm. Because most people in the Capitol have no reservation for their Hunger Games obsession. Most wouldn't think twice before excitedly babbling about the tributes, their favorites, who they'd sponsored. When it came to their annual entertainment, the Capitol's citizens were completely tactless. In responding with a noncommittal nothing, Arbor's new acquaintance had actually managed to say everything.

He nodded in solemn agreement. The Games were interesting, and that was the trouble with it. How could Panem — all of it — stop torturing its districts when such intense pleasure was derived from it? They'd never actually lose interest; there had to be some sort of other impetus, a forceful one. Because attempting to appeal to the Capitol wouldn't work. Ethos, Logos, Pathos: they were all useless. They had no moral compasses, no feel for the hardships the districts faced under normal circumstances. And what good was an emotional appeal when it was the emotional attachment to the tributes that made the Games worth watching? It was a vicious circle with no way in, and Arbor had sworn to break it — but how? Even thinking about the monumental task gave him even more stress which he didn't need. Trying to keep his tributes — one current, one former — alive and out of trouble was enough of a task he'd appointed himself to.

With a swig of whiskey, he decided that there was no reason for any undue anxiety. This guy, though Arbor neither knew nor actually trusted him, was probably one of the better candidates to read the letter to him. Deciding that the stranger may well be his best chance to get the text deciphered at all. He cleared his throat and looked directly at the Capitolite.

"This," he started, speech thus far uninhibited by the alcohol he'd consumed, "might be a bit forward, but may I ask a favor?" There was no pride for him to swallow; the whiskey did a fantastic job of restraining the bit of his ego that wouldn't let him ask for help. "You see, I have this letter." He set down his tumbler and extracted the envelope from his jacket pocket. Attempts to hold it out to the stranger were subverted by his hands, which, shaking slightly, seemed to protest to the whole ordeal; the letter never actually moved forward more than a quarter inch, and Arbor doubted that it was even noticeable. Come on, he groaned inwardly, eyebrows raised in unease.

Swallowing hard to even out his countenance, he went on. "Used to be blind, you know, so I never learned how to read. But I need to know what this says." His lip twitched, eyes wide and unblinking. He wasn't pleading, or didn't mean to be. But he felt bad, plain and simple — though it truly was a complex thing — and didn't know how to describe it. Just knew how pitiful he must've looked, forehead creased by the eyebrows which perched a quarter inch higher than normal on his face, burgeoning sadness reflected in his grey Seam eyes.

"So — would you…?" He thrust his arm forward before his fingers could veto the action, holding the letter out for the stranger to take. It didn't occur to Arbor until it was too late that the Capitolite might just take the message and bolt, maybe sell it to the highest bidder. It would certainly fetch an astronomical sum of money, especially here in the center of Panem. Clinging to the hope that the massive crowds would keep the man from getting to far if he decided to flee, Arbor hastily added, "but it's secret, okay? Can I have your word that you won't share it? It's… not anyone's business." Hardly isn't even mine. But the Petros affair was made into his business by the Capitol themselves, so it was Arbor's job to keep the Capitol as far out of the loop as he could. And this guy? If he was enough of a pseudo-rebel as Arbor had read him to be, well, it couldn't go too badly.

He chugged the rest of his whiskey.

ooc- you'll need to pester Kevin for the letter... assuming that Aston reads it, that is.