std::cin >> query; {patricia/arthur}{VT}

[shrimp]

Too much time, or perhaps not enough of it, has made him dangerous.

It's been a week since Galaxy escaped into the air and now today her murderer disembarks from her bullet-train riddled with all things Capitol and luxury and everything that screams that "your daughter deserved to die, and there's nothing you can do to say otherwise." Perhaps he understands that truly it's not Patricia's fault, but that doesn't mean he wants to see her. Ever. Isn't it enough that he watches her sit on that throne while she watches his daughter, stuck underground and vainly trying to resuscitate, to heal, to survive.

She was always too bright for a place so dark. He supposes both of them were.

Peacekeepers have to burst through his office door before he allows himself to be whisked to the ceremony on the College steps. He's led to a platform, told to step up and listen to the Victor, the champion. But Patricia Valfierno isn't the Victor, any scientist can deduce that much. He knew this much the last time he said goodbye to Galaxy, when her heart was still beating and her lungs still heaving. While Valfierno speaks, he stares ahead, knowing that her words will not reach his ears. Her hair's almost the exact same shade as Galaxy's. That's all he focuses on.

After the ceremony's there's a dinner in the College that's been highly suggested to him that he should attend. For his daughter, for his family, for the pride of the district because to eat with a victor is such an honor. He's got plenty of data he still needs to analyze by next week and he hasn't been starving for months. Quite frankly, there isn't any other point but he walks in anyway. Galaxy probably would have done the same. Or maybe not.

He spends the evening sipping cups of earl grey and nibbling on bits of stew, his spectacles on and his nose buried in documents. Patricia Valfierno must be off socializing with the brownosing mayor, the proud administrators of the College, the uptight Peacekeepers. He doesn't care, he can't care one bit. Because there is nothing he can do about it. All he can do is continue his research and find a cure. An endless roller coaster of failures and epiphanies. And there's no one to tell him to stop, that soon enough he'll get motion sickness if this continues.

Arthur clears his throat, finishes off the tea (wincing at the bits of leaf that have flown down his throat), and gets out of his seat to get another cup. But there, right there, is the victor. And he's so surprised that he's dropped his cup.

In the seconds that follow, he decides to completely ignore the loud shattering that the cup's made with the floor and after a moment's hesitation instead holds out his hand.

"Arthur Clements. Congratulations."

He means it, but the words feel just as hollow as he does.

[rook]

{ p a t r i c i a v a l f i e r n o}
victor of the 68th annual hunger games

god i'm scared to think back
about everything that has come before me
our time and future histories
my I've wandered this library for years now
killing time whilst time slowly killed me

We skip Five, which is incredibly annoying. Part of me thinks that the Capitol are doing everything they can to piss me off, which doesn't surprise me, considering I'm a treasonous rebel who deserves to be punished. At least I am alive. But at what cost? Freedom? Can't really preach that, I was never free, even before. Living under this government is a death sentence from day one. I suppose there were moments of freedom, living on the streets and carving my own way. Now when I look at Five, I don't even see home - Just a prison, and every other District is the same. I keep telling myself that's the cost of being a Victor, but when I met Cricket, she had no strings. She could do whatever she wanted, because the Capitol trusted her. Because she did everything they expected her too, and was the model Career. I suppose that I'm trying to earn their trust, as horrible as that sounds. But honestly, what alternative do I have?

My medical staff check me over, making sure the wound in my chest is still clean. Four weeks and it's still healing. Galaxy left me with a lot of scars, but this is the only physical one. Shame, really, that it's so hidden behind clothes. I would have liked a nice cut down my face to show the world that the Games aren't so glamorous. I have my severed hand, but even that's been replaced. In the eyes of the casual viewer, It's like I never went through any of it. And that's exactly what the Capitol want, I suppose. To glorify me.

They make me eat, despite my appetite being completely gone. I ate generously in Four. Leon treated me to seafood, which I've never had before. It was light and fleshy, not at all too rich. Very moreish. I gorged myself, and I don't even care how that must have looked. It was the best meal I've had since before the Games. Perhaps being with Leon helped. He made me so comfortable and normal. Not that I want to go back to being normal, because I know that's not an option given what I've done. I just wanted the pressure to be gone, for an evening at least. Leon gave me that, just like he gave me life saving advice in the Training Center. Should have been Lethe, selfish whore.

We arrive in Six, and I cry in the bathroom for ten minutes. They knock aggressively, threatening to up the schedule if I don't comply. I sob for Rose, who has been dragged into all this and been used as leverage against me. I sob for the pains in my chest and my arm, the bruises down my back from my sparring session in Two. I sob for Leon, who was nice to me, when I didn't deserve or warrant any kindness. I throw up my breakfast, acid burning my throat, forcing out the contents of my stomach in violent retches. This is not good for me, but they don't care. They don't fucking care about me. I pull the flush and stumble out.

I give the speech, barely having the energy to coherently put words together. Feels like each syllable is a tired stagger towards the finish line. I push out the words, my mouth lazily breathing lies. Galaxy was a worthy opponent. She did your District proud. She was unlucky. Consolidation, consolidation, consolidation. She is dead. I killed her. They must all hate me, but I'm done caring what people think about me. I just do what I'm told and hope they don't decide to punish me more than they already have.

I swim through the rest of the day, my eyes glazing over. I'm given a tour of a hovercraft factory, shown how a bullet train works, and then forced to listen to a seminar given by a senior officer in charge of coordination. Usually I'd be interested, but circumstances have changed me. I care little for how the world works anymore. I used to have such a passion for it. Now I just want to go home. I feel so far away, even here in Six. After this day is done, we'll be off to Seven, and then Eight, and further, and further.

By the time evening comes, I'm escorted to the college at the heart of District Six. It's a large building with impressive architecture. Inside is a wealth of knowledge, no doubt, for those that have the luxuries of time and freedom. The reception is similar to previous Districts, if not less glamorous, but still warm and open. People congratulate me, despite me killing their one chance at relief aid. I find myself apologizing to these people, up until I start getting glares from my press. I change the sorry's to thank you's and press on through the crowd. A buffet of food squares the room, tables pressed to the walls form a perimeter of sandwiches, potato chips, jellies, meats, and cheeses. People swarm to it, but I shy away, moving towards tables covered in books.

Here, people study amidst the chaos of the party. Some are drinking heavily with their heads buries in books, others smoke from pipes, or have a plate of food at their desk. Academics too busy to socialize, but not wanting to miss the occasion. There is a smash to my right, and I turn to see a man with a very shocked expression on his face. Soaked shards of china are scattered at his feet.
"Arthur Clements. Congratulations." He holds out his hand.

It hits me then that this man is Galaxy's father. The hair, the facial features, the name. Has to be. I freeze, unsure how to react to this man, who's daughter I slaughtered in cold blood. I tentatively clasp my hand in his and shake feebly.
"Thank you. I'm sorry for your loss." Are the only pathetic words I can muster up.

but i know
time, time is precious
and time will forget us
and time, time is precious
and time will forget us

word count: 997, graphics: rook
theme: books by tall ships