and there was too much to say [solo]

[shrimp]

A R T H U R C L E M E N T S

{ Year of the 68th Hunger Games }

"Doesn't even show up for meetings, his assistant does it all for him." researcher Lex growls while sitting at the bar. "We've all lost someone, doesn't mean he has the right to just stop working." She takes a drag of a cigarette. "There's things to do."

The lab door is always closed; rumor has it that he hasn't left in months. They whisper in trios as they walk past ("It's always so quiet, is he even alive?" "I heard they let him submit all his work remotely" "But it's always submitted so he has to be in there, right? Unless he's got some robot automating it for him" "He's not a robotics professor he's a biochemist").

Once in a while the lab head knocks on the door, shakes her head and sighs, walking down the dimly lit hallway. The last time anyone's seen him out was when Trix Valfierno came to visit, red hair shockingly similar to his daughter's. They said he was polite, but that his skin was paler than usual. "Which is remarkable," Jethro from accounting states while sipping a glass of scotch. "'cause he's the type who'd burn if he was in the sun for 5 minutes."

Sometimes they'll hear clanging from inside the room, furious typing or muttering that resembles that of a madman - and perhaps he is just that - and there isn't a terrible smell so they figure he uses the office showers. Or maybe he actually goes home after all of them have left for the night. No one really knows.

But back in the lab, he rubs his temples and cracks open yet another article. No rest for the weary. There's things to do.

table credit to chelsey

[shrimp]

A R T H U R C L E M E N T S

{ Year of the 68th 69th Hunger Games }

The office party is lively and filled with overzealous nerds. But he can't hear any of them. His culture sample requires constant babysitting and there's no intern he would pay enough to be let near it. The structural changes are at a micro level, and what if they missed something? They're not trained enough to handle such delicate material - no, the only person he can trust is himself.

The lab door opens with a beep and his assistant steps in, ugly sweater and everything (Not even you). She asks if he wants anything ("Lucille made a lovely apple cider, and Raymond had his signature stew, still won't give out the recipe though"), he just shakes his head. "I'm alright, thank you though.". He turns back to the culture, peering into the microscope. A sigh, a creak, and the door closes.

He blinks, and looks out the window. The snow covered ground always looked gorgeous at this time of the year but right now it just looks cold. Uninviting. His reflection stares back: bags hang underneath his eyes, flyaway hair sticks up after he's tried to comb it countless times. His dress shirt is wrinkled, his pallor accentuated in the dark window. Arthur turns away, back to his work. Once it's done, then he'll sleep.

There's chanting from outside, a countdown, and every second hurts. Flashbacks to cannons and darkness, red hair in the firelight, screams. Blood. But he tries to listen, because what else is there to do? As the cheering continues, he glances down at his lap, his bony fingers that are clasped together and shaking. Is he okay? No, but will he ever be okay?

"Happy New Year," he whispers, to no one in particular.

table credit to chelsey

[shrimp]

A R T H U R C L E M E N T S

{ Year of the 69th Hunger Games }

They're concerned, they state, as they stare at him from across the table.

He doesn't sit down to join them. Rather, his temper rises. "My work has been impeccable, there's been exponential progress in our research and you're telling me that you're concerned?" Inside his pocket, his left hand is shaking. There's a vein in his forehead, slightly pulsating (he hasn't been this furious since before Galaxy's fall from the observatory).

They speak of his refusal to leave his office, his refusal to allow interns into his office, his refusal to give his assistant non-clerical roles. "My work requires steadfast dedication that not everyone has the stamina to perform." "Cut the bullshit Clements, we all know that waiting around for a petri dish doesn't require 24 hour surveillance." "I've done more work on this disease than has been done for the past twenty years.". His left hand curls into a fist.

They know it's been a bad year, they care about his well being, they care about the cure, about his family, about his tragedy (No, you don't care about this illness. None of you do). But this behavior cannot continue, and he's been put on probation. "For superb work I'm on probation. Alright, fantastic. Anything else?"

The room is silent, he takes his leave.

table credit to chelsey

[shrimp]

A R T H U R C L E M E N T S

{ Year of the 69th Hunger Games }

They drag him out to the square, as they must. He doesn't want to go, citing all the bullshit that has to get done by the end of the month. But it's futile - they know it, he knows it. His face is clammy, breaking out into a cold sweat as the anthem rings out and he sees the ghost of a doe-eyed girl he once knew climb up onto the stage, trying to say everything she'd never uttered out loud before her fire was extinguished.

He knows the girl - or rather, he's seen her before. Assistant to one of the other doctors. It's always an assistant, isn't it. He stares straight ahead, the blue sky above his only solace from his demons. The boy is called but he doesn't look. There's a slight grasp of his arm and he knows it's his assistant; he makes no move to remove it. The rest of the ceremony's a blur - all he can see is her eyes, pleading, crying, vibrant and sparkling for one last time. A choir of screams plays in the background, a harmonious cacophony.

His assistant leads him back home. The house is dark, cobwebs plastered across the ceiling and the cupboards bare. "Have you really stayed at the lab the entire year?" She lights the fire, sits him down on the couch and stays with him for hours. No talking, no movement, just quiet company in a room that refuses to get warmer.

Eventually she leaves - she has her children to get back to, her husband has dinner on the table ("You're more than welcome to join us." "No, it's alright, thank you Margot.") - she comes back an hour later with a parcel of food, but shoves it through the mailslot (he doesn't answer the door).

As the fire dies out, the tears pour down his face, gross sobs choke him to sleep.

table credit to chelsey

[shrimp]

A R T H U R C L E M E N T S

{ Year of the 69th Hunger Games }

The next day, he doesn't go into work. He doesn't clean, he nibbles at the leftovers that Margot left. The world is cold and muted, and filled with gelatinous gravy.

He hasn't cried since his daughter died. There was too much to do, to organize her funeral and pay off their debts to the doctor and appear solemn but not a wreck in front of the Capitol cameras as they spied on him from outside the university. Too much to research when there was a slot to cure Amelia's disease (perhaps Amelia would have chided him, saying it was a stupid thing to do. But it was never stupid to him). No time for grieving, no time for tears.

Now there's too much of it. All of it. His cheeks are stained with waterfalls and his throat is hoarse and all he wants to do have a reset button. Back to when Amelia was alive and Galaxy was alive and they'd eat hard candy on the balcony, staring up at the sky. When his wife pushed his buttons and prodded at his pressure points while he cooked dinner. When his daughter was a daydreamer but back then it was okay, because money wasn't tight and astronomy had a future and Galaxy didn't have to ask who he was every other day, didn't have to scream and shout and weep for her long gone mother.

Just a do-over, that's all he wants. But it's not what he gets. He's stuck here without them, in this nightmare of a world where families are ripped apart each year for entertainment and food is scarce and nobody cares about curing rare illnesses while there's a game to watch, quotas to fill.

And there's nothing he can do about it.

table credit to chelsey