{{s h a t t e r // stew

Weaving in and out of consciousness — or in and out of dreams? — but never for long enough to actually become aware of what surrounded him, Arbor tacked together an unusual narrative. The scenes that played out before him had to be more fiction than fact, though their audience of one — captive and incapacitated as he was — had no other choice but to give them his undivided attention, though it wasn't as if Arbor was capable of doing anything but watching and, more frequently, listening.

At first, it was a dark, indistinct mass, a swirl of voices and shades of grey. It sounded as if he was underwater, unable to pick out any clear words or identify any one voice from a garbled mess of syllables. They sounded frantic, concerned even, as though something important was about to happen but whoever was speaking knew that they wouldn't meet the deadline. He tried to clear his ears, to move towards the voices, but he felt himself slipping, falling further away from them as his vision focused.

It took Arbor awhile to realize where he recognized the face from, but once he placed it, he couldn't keep the guilt from washing over him. He dropped his eyes, but the victor could still feel the accusing brown gaze of Archer Fields as he appeared straight out of the recap video of the 54th Hunger Games — the one he'd tried to shut his eyes to on stage, the footage he couldn't avoid forever. Though he stared at the floor, Arbor was still unable to avoid seeing the well of blood that had sprung from a large gash on his former ally's leg. It was Arbor's own handiwork, and though it was Zinnia who had both initiated and finished the assault of Archer Fields, the boy from Twelve knew that it was he and he alone who'd facilitated the murder; it could just as easily have been the faces of that vicious pair of girls in the sky that night — not that Arbor had been able to see the dead during the anthems. Arbor couldn't say for certain what would've happened had he sided with Archer on that fateful day, though he'd thought about it dozens of times, drunk and sober. He'd come to the conclusion that he wouldn't've needed to pull his morphling stunt at all because he never would've made it out of the arena.

Arbor opened his mouth to speak, to ask what the other boy wanted from him, but the words refused to come. He dared to look back up, to see the expression of betrayal that was still plastered across Archer's face, but the two weren't alone anymore. Behind Archer stood a long line of people, most of which Arbor wouldn't recognize if he hadn't been dwelling on his own Games so much. There was the wispy little Ruby Georges, followed by her ally, who wore a wolfish grin; 'Dead Boy' Rocko Hopkins, whose memory Arbor had exploited to gain the upper hand over Anastasia Estrange, who followed him. There was Zinnia and Ailia, the two allies that had kept Arbor alive through the semifinals, that had decided to spare him despite his closeness to Archer. There was Blue, his district partner, whom he had attacked and killed first, even though — yes, there was Jared — there had been a boy from another district left still, a move that had ensured that he would be quite unpopular with a portion of Twelve.

The train of people continued with the dozen tributes that Arbor had failed as a mentor. Kale Forrest, the boy who received no antivenom because there had only been enough sponsorship funds to send some to Aranica. (Admittedly, Arbor was proud of the way the boy had viciously attacked his allies when he realized he was going to die anyhow.) The deaf girl — what was her name? — that Arbor barely even tried to mentor because of how preoccupied he was trying to keep Anani Petros — who was right behind her — alive. There was the kid who'd been killed by bats, though Arbor had spent the majority of the Games too inebriated to even remember his name. And the next Games, the pair that had stuck together for the whole two hours that they both stayed alive; the next Games, the boy that hadn't even made it out of the bloodbath and then Charas, the girl that had been impressive — his district's best hope for a victor since before he had won — right up until that mousey boy from seven stuck his blade right through her neck. And the two from the Quell, who'd both been dead before the second anthem, and the last two, who'd repeated the performance.

The line didn't end there, but Arbor stopped recognizing faces past Killian Reese. He surveyed them, the people who'd lined up, but he couldn't tell why. Why had they all formed a queue, just to make him feel guilty? Clearly he'd passed the point of overwhelming guilt already and he didn't want to deal with any more. He retuned his focus to the front of the line, to Archer. Everyone seemed to be muttering to one another, but as before, Arbor was unable to determine what it was that they were saying. A clear voice emerged from the many, one that Arbor hadn't heard in a decade, catching him so off guard that the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

Arbor, for the most part, had gotten over Shaw Nolan. He still thought about the boy sometimes, that was a given, but in the decade that it had been, he'd moved on from his first — only — love. It was bizarre for Arbor, who'd been blind the entire time that he'd known Shaw, to see him as he talked, as the only time the victor from Twelve had actually seen the dark-haired boy was in a rerun of the Hunger Games that had taken him. Even at fourteen, it was clear that he would've grown up to be quite handsome; on the other hand, Arbor, the one of them to live, had still retained a goofy, boyish face well into his twenties. Shaw smiled, causing Arbor to furrow his brow in inquiry. The boy shook his head in response. "Not yet."

And then, out of nowhere, Archer Fields punched him hard in the gut. Arbor doubled over, wheezing, the wind knocked out of him. He hadn't been expecting the blow, which had made it all the more debilitating. He gasped, trying to catch his breath, as Archer stepped off to the side, allowing Ruby Georges to sock Arbor in the stomach, too. He spluttered, bent over, trying to get air into his lungs and almost succeeding. The tributes in line behind them were chattering more loudly, the voices becoming more and more distinct until Arbor could almost — almost — hear the words that they were saying. He tried to fight back, managing to knock Iris and Rocko and Anastasia away before Zinnia and Ailia rushed to his sides and held his arms so he couldn't swing them. Zinnia's nails dug deep into his arm, piercing the skin, and though he was too busy thrashing about in a futile attempt to break free from their restraints to look, he could feel blood trickling down his arm from the spot.

The last two lives that Arbor took — Blue Kilio and Jared Strahan — closed in on him as the rest of the lives — no, deaths — he'd been responsible for cleared away. The two struggled with each other for a bit, fighting over the same thing that had made its way into the finale, the grudge that had allowed Arbor to win, until finally Jared threw a left hook and knocked Arbor's district partner out of the way. The boy from Eight didn't seem particularly malicious or angry with him, even though it was Arbor and Arbor alone who'd stood in the way of his home. Even so, it didn't stop him from jabbing the victor of those Games in the chest with the flat side of the head of his ice pick. The force of the blow sent Arbor staggering backwards, white spots dancing before his eyes, growing together until they overwhelmed his entire field of vision.



He took a deep, gasping breath, his eyes flying open to reveal the same white, out-of-focus nothing that had just engulfed him. His ears felt as if they'd been stuffed with cotton, but he could still make out the little blips and clicks that comprised the background noise. Whole body aching, Arbor didn't even bother trying to move. He was reminded of waking up following the 54th Hunger Games, though this time around, the atmosphere lacked the festivity that was inherent with a new victor being crowned. The worst hangover he'd ever had did not compare to how abused his body felt in that instant; his arms were lead and his throat was raw, as if he'd swallowed a cup and a half of gravel.

He tried to rub his eyes, to see if he could get them to focus, to function properly, but he found that his wrists were tied to the bed frame. He tugged at the restraint, but it wouldn't seem to budge. He didn't know what he must've done to warrant being shackled to the bed, but it seemed like he'd put up something of a struggle. In the past half decade, people might've forgotten as he saturated his organs in alcohol, but Arbor Halt was a fighter. Even when he didn't know what he was doing.

Between the wrist restraints and the awful ache that permeated his muscles, Arbor didn't bother even trying to sit up. Instead, he squeezed his eyes tight against the fluorescent lights and tried to clear his throat, though his mouth was too dry for much success. Someone made a noise at the other end of the room, outside of his field of vision. "Hey," he asked, trying to get attention. His voice was hoarse, throat as raw as it felt. "Do you think you could get me a drink?"