XXI. Break A Leg, Part II
And I have seen a ship direct and swift
Run o'er the sea throughout its course entire,
To perish at the harbour's mouth at last.
Fennella Farro. 17.
District Nine Female.
Perhaps the best thing–– scratch that–– perhaps the only good thing about her interview going into it is that there's no way in hell she'll make as big a fool of herself as the boy from Eight did. Hell, the boy from Six didn't say a word the entire time, instead just sat there for a solid three minutes before cartwheeling off the stage like a feral clown, yet his interview wasn't as awful as Eight's. He's, well, he's fucking awful, a complete and utter brat, a nuisance to the ears whilst she listens by the curtain, yet at the end of the day, that simply does not matter, save for the fact that this just may be the one chance Fennella Farro gets to clear her name in the eyes of the people of Nine, and she now has the benefit of not having a tough act to follow.
Like the girl from Four or the boy from Seven, she reflects on the previous interviews of the evening that particularly stood out, I could never have that degree of charisma even if I tried my best.
That wasn't always the case though, Fenn's always fondly looked back on her early childhood in Nine, never without friends, without hope or optimism, no, she truly was as happy as any kid in a hellish country could be, and oh was I a fuckin' idiot to think it would always be that way. Her own stupidity baffles her at times, because really I should've known better than agreeing to work for the Mayor as if that wouldn't lead to any problems. But what's done is done, Fenn knows that too (and she doesn't like it much either), her rainbows have forever been shrouded in storms and she'll be damned before she ever gets the life she didn't appreciate nearly enough back.
…Though I could get something better instead, the thought of victory rings in her head like the chimes she'd hear go off every hour from the bell tower when she was at work. A six in training isn't all that embarrassing after all, it goes to show that she has some sort of potential, and the Capitol doesn't care for her crimes the same way Nine does to the extent they scored her high with the sole extent of making her a target. It's now just a matter of getting people to put their money in her direction, which is where the interview's important, her one shot at being a person instead of a number and assorted rumors.
Besides, everyone loves a good underdog story, it's a tale as old as time, and with the Career pack very clearly not being a thing paired with the fact she's allied with the boyfriend of a beloved victor, the cards are certainly lining up in Fenn's favor, even if she does find the girl from Six horrifically intimidating, and Noel's grown increasingly dismal every hour, and the way he speaks of his own District partner sends shivers down her spine, but that's small in the grand scheme of things, and she's getting far too ahead of herself anyway. The happy ending to this miserable chapter of Fennella's life will stay theoretical if she blows her interview, so doing wells her number one priority.
As she walks on stage she finds herself glad her stylist chose to dress her in a loose-fitting jumpsuit as opposed to a dress, because the high heels she's wearing are sort of a pain, and this is way harder to trip over and fall on, which would basically liken her to dead meat. Which is fair too, because Fennella wouldn't personally sponsor somebody who can't even walk on stage in heels in a dress. How would that prove them to be capable of fighting to the death?
Am I even capable of fighting to the death?
The purpose of her interview is to prove she's not a murderer, yet if all goes well she'll be forced to kill anyway. And for some reason that's okay when it's not government blood that's being spilled, actually pathetic… Why did I ever dream good things for this country?
Why did I even dream at all?
She pushes all that aside when she shakes Caesar's hand, a cocksure grin on his face from successfully telling the Eight boy off.
Eager to get off on the right foot with him, Fenn chuckles and whispers, "I promise I won't yell at you the way the last guy did."
"Much appreciated," he nods then sits Fenn in her chair, projecting his voice when the interview officially begins, "Well, tomorrow's the big day! How are you feeling going into it?"
Absolutely fuckin' horrible— so nervous I think I'm going to legitimately puke out my guts, she muses with great care not to let her nerves show, "Well my score was way better than I was hoping, and I enjoy my little alliance so really things could be worse." Her mind trails off, or they could be better! They really could be better!
"Glad to hear it," Caesar says, tilting his head to the side to check his notes, "A six is definitely very solid, I can see why you'd feel comfortable with that," she doesn't feel any need to reply to that so instead she just nods 'till Caesar asks his next question, "But Games aside, tell me about yourself Fennella. What was growing up in Nine like?"
She sighs, knowing her redemption is so close to her and that she's so fucking thrilled everyone in Nine will finally know the truth about Triticale, and that she didn't do a thing to the poor guy. Her hands are, and always have been clean, "My childhood was fairly normal if I'm being honest, I was always really happy and my parents inspired me to be a hard worker."
"That seems lovely," he enthuses in a genuine tone, "was everything normal until the Reaping or––"
"Well no, actually," Fenn can't resist cutting him off, "My hard work was actually rewarded with a lovely job for Nine's former mayor. I worked in his administration office and was so thrilled to provide for my family."
"Oh, Mayor Triticale," Caesar bemuses with a worried expression, "Didn't he pass away recently?"
"He sure did," she reels back her enthusiasm as soon as she realizes it's slightly present, "the rumor around Nine is that he was murdered, unfortunately."
"Oh dear," Fennella gets the feeling that Caesar regrets asking about the incident, "is there any clues to who might've done it? I know that was a while ago, but I'm assuming you'd have some insight since you worked for him. Actually you don't need to tell me I bet you––"
"I actually don't know who did it!" Fenn feels bad for interrupting his tangent but she knows the clock is surely ticking and she only has a bit more time left to clear her name, "And that's because I was actually fired under the accusation that it was me who killed him."
There's a collective gasp from the audience so Caesar quickly asks the clarifying question of, "Wait, you didn't actually kill him, right?"
"Now why would I do that?" She giggles to highlight the sheer audacity Nine had when they accused her of such a thing, "Why would I, an incredibly poor daughter of two manual laborers with the rare opportunity to work in Panem's government throw it all away by killing my boss? Genuinely, what would I have gained from that, Caesar? I was only sixteen, it's not like I had any strong urges to overthrow him or anything."
"That makes a lot of sense," she's glad Caesar seems to understand his reasoning, somewhat annoyed for her too since he can likely tell how fucking stressful this all was for her. With concern, he asks, "What have you done since then? Are you safe?"
"Somewhat?" Fenn furrows her brows and replies, "I've been running around Nine for the past year with my friend Karim so that my family wouldn't be punished for my actions, and maybe I was a bit naive to think that they were actually off my back."
"What do you mean?" It's obvious he's thinking what Fennella's about to say but doesn't want to be the one to suggest such a thing.
"My theory is that somebody in Nine's administration gave up looking for me and decided the easiest way to punish me was just to mess around with the Reaping bowl," an uproar stirs in the audience, almost as if they're disturbed by Nine's actions, "and I guess it worked because here I am?"
Caesar scoffs, "That goes against the random aspect of the Games that Panem's strived itself on, that anybody can be Reaped no matter what, this isn't very fair. I'm sorry, Fennella."
"So am I," she laughs at the situation as a whole, "but I guess I'll just earn my justice in the arena."
And based on the smile on Caesar's face, Fennella Farro for once actually believes it.
Simeon Coello. 18.
District Ten Male.
Tw. Mention of rape and gun violence.
There's so many questions Caesar can ask about what went down a year ago, and Simeon dreads answering absolutely any and all of them. He had a slight bit of hope that maybe if he was lucky, Caesar for some reason wouldn't know about what happened at The Dulce, but that was all tossed out the window when fuckin' Ayala spent her entire interview ratting on Simeon for killing her father. He so badly wanted to run out onto the stage and scream, "Well to be fair Ayala, your dad was probably a rapist who deserved to die anyway," but alas, Simeon showed restraint, especially since he knows he'll be asked about it soon enough.
Hmm, showing restraint, that's definitely a somewhat foreign concept for him, but with the Games approaching so swiftly, it's one he must familiarize himself with, not just for his own sake, bit for his family's too, and for Ascot.
He's grown quite fond of her over the past few days, even if she was feisty at the beginning of their little alliance, because it was clear she was just going through her own mental turmoil, and he was the same for a long time, hell he still is. But not right now, he muses, looking out at the stage as Caesar calls this name, I have some business that needs to be taken care of.
The suit he's been dressed in is a smidge uncomfortable, crafted from Panem's finest wool which is also Panem's itchiest wool it seems and the turtleneck underneath his coat is nearly suffocating. Simeon's never had the luxury of being picky with what he wears, all the boys in the family usually just shared a wardrobe of shabby work clothes, all of which were somehow better than this fabric prison that his stylist trapped him in, But at least it's not real prison, he laughs to himself then extends his arm for a handshake, good lord he's stiff.
He hates to admit it, but the firmness of Caesar's fingers when they press between his nearly remind Simeon of the feeling he had when his hand was wrapped around the handle of the riffle, the same nervous sweat in his palms at the concept of everything quickly going wrong. The handshake lasted a bit too long, probably because of the intense eye contact the two of them had as Simeon reassured himself, this is a man, not a gun. I'm not here for revenge, or to masquerade in some brand of moral superiority, I'm just here for stability.
But the idea of keeping his temperament even is quickly tossed out the window with Caesar's first question, "I guess there's no use beating around the bush when I'm sure this is what our entire country wants to know," sweat begins to form on his temples, "is it true that you killed your District Partner's father?"
Simeon was nervous before when he was watching backstage and every word out of Ayala's mouth was crafted with the purpose of sending his body and his reputation straight to the grave, but the feeling had intensified tenfold now that he actually had to talk about it. He'd told himself again and again, I'm not going to lose my temper here, I can't lose my temper here— yet it seemed to be impossible now that push had come to shove and hell had frozen over.
"Yes…" he stammers before biting at his lip hard enough that he could feel the metallic taste of blood touch against his tongue, "I did."
As expected from a murder confession, the audience gasps, Caesar's eyes widening too in devastating fear. With a deep breath, he continues, "May I ask why?"
It would be so easy to tell the truth here, so easy to say what happened, how Diana was mauled and abused and raped by Ayala's fathers' friends or her father himself, but Simeon can't bring himself to say it, because he imagines the devastation that would be on his family's faces if they heard Simeon express such personal trauma to the masses. Their life would go up in flames more intense than previously and before they knew it, their embarrassment and shame and possible public isolation would turn them to ashes and dust.
But it would make the Capitolites like him, that's also true. 'Cause they're a rather progressive group of people and the idea of a strong man being plagued by a vigilante complex for the day and slaughtering rapists would certainly be appealing to them. They'd apologize for believing the rumors and the tabloids and they'd maybe even sponsor him in the arena, wanting to free him from all the misconceptions he and his family were plagued with.
Though that wouldn't matter if his family loathed him for airing their grievances for the entire world, hmmm… Simeon's face turns red as he huffs and puffs, feeling like his fuse is about to explode as his brows furrow and wrinkles form on his forehead.
He knows he can't get out of this, can't ruin his family's lives more than he already has, but he can't explain his truth without it.
So he doesn't.
Instead, Simeon grits his teeth and scoffs, "You wouldn't get it. Please don't put another gun in my hands if you know what's good for your country," before running offstage and throwing his jacket to the floor.
Confusion erupts in the crowd but Simeon no longer cares about it, no longer cares about anything he left out on that stage because the interview was always set up to ruin him anyways, Ayala was always set up to ruin him.
Where is she? He paces around backstage with vengeance in his eyes, knowing that while she herself isn't to blame for her father's actions, she doesn't deserve to go around praising him like a fallen angel. Sure, Simeon's forgotten his face by now, but there's no way in hell he'll ever forget the darkness in his soul when he let Diana be abused, no fucking way.
"Simeon, why are you—" he spots her near Ten's dressing room with a fettered expression, not letting her speak but instead grabbing her by the shoulders and pressing her against the wall, "Simeon?"
"Listen kid," he steps on her feet to prevent her from moving, "it's time I tell you the truth about your father."
He doesn't know what he's saying or doing and he can't control the words that leave his lips or the actions from his limbs. All he knows is that she's afraid, but that he doesn't care because she's ruined his time here with her obnoxiousness and rage, and he needs her off his back.
"My father was a great man," Ayala stammers, tears in her eyes as she tries but fails to wave her hands so somebody can help her, "I don't want to hear what you have to say about him, you fucking pig."
"Well I didn't want your father and his buddies to rape my sister," Simeon hisses, immediately in disbelief at his own words, "I didn't want your father and the people around him to take my perfect angel of a sister, treat her like a worthless doll, and leave her to rot like doesn't fucking matter."
"What are you even talking about?" Still confused, she rapidly blinks, "My father would never hurt anyone, you on the other hand––"
"Would never hurt somebody who didn't deserve it," and those are the last words Simeon is able to get at her before two Peacekeepers pull them apart, throwing him back against the linoleum floor tiles while another officer appears to lead Ayala away.
He crosses his arms and pouts, "She has no idea what the fuck she's talking about."
"Does it look like I care?" An officer looks down at him, Simeon's pitiful visage reflecting in the glass of his helmet, "You're lucky I'm not just killing you now. It's not personal, it's for the Games."
"Well, then thank you," he brushes off his knees then takes a stand, cracking the bones in his knuckles, I fucking hate this, I fucking hate this all.
Deep breaths, take deep breaths Simeon. Yet he's still disappointed in himself for letting his anger get the best of him once more, turning him into a vicious beast against a child who clearly was never going to believe him, why do I keep fucking up?
He begins the walk to his room so he can lock himself away before he gets into any more trouble, he has to rest now anyway, but at the same time Simeon gets the feeling that no amount of slumber will make him feel any better about the Games and their rapid arrival.
This is for my family, not for me, at the end, that's what it comes down to, I have to be ready to do anything if I really want to protect them.
Vancouver Easton. 17
District Twelve Female.
"First of all, I'd like to apologize that I'm not our last interview for the evening," she presses her lips into a wicked grin, her head perfectly still so her shimmering tiara doesn't fall off her head, "I know how tiring it can be, sitting and listening to so many loathsome people, and I don't think my District partner will be the most exciting person to finish this evening off on."
"Thank you for joining us," Caesar Flickerman says, completely ignoring Vancouver 's previous dialogue, "I will say, a lot of people have been pretty excited for your interview."
Her eyes light up, chaos illuminating her face like a madwoman, "That doesn't particularly surprise me, Caesar. How often is it that me, a girl from Twelve is able to earn herself a spot with the Careers— or what's left of them, at least."
Earn is a rather subjective term though. Vancouver didn't have to do all that much to get Lethia and Beowulf in her pocket, practically on leashes to her submission. They're both fairly pathetic individuals, so disillusioned by reality and so clearly exhausted, as if they were just waiting for somebody to come along and help them in their games, as if they wanted a savior.
Now that's a title Vancouver's grown comfortable with; the savior to all Twelve's pariahs, the only reason the place hasn't gone to shit, and all from "the goodness of her own heart," please. It's true though, she can't let herself forget that it is indeed true she's dug Twelve's ashes from the dirt whilst building her kingdom, even if was never for them… Though she convinces herself, it's Twelve's kingdom, not just mine, even if every thought's nothing but a lie.
I'm doing the right thing, she bites at her lip while Caesar ponders his response, fuck the naysayers, I've never not done the right thing. All the blood she's (closed her eyes as she) spilled wasn't for herself, it's for Twelve, damnit.
"I suppose that's quite the accomplishment, Vancouver," his tone is far too friendly considering she wants her interview to be dramatic, wants it to be the highlight of the evening, none of Caesar's stupid jokes and all that bullshit, "how did you do it?"
So fucking easily Caesar, you wouldn't believe how easy it was to get them to listen to me, she thinks, but doesn't say to save her facade as an innocent, though she'll never be an innocent ever again. Any chance at sustainable naiveté blew up in the mind with 6,801 people she never had the desire to save and two certain people who she still wishes she could.
But more on that later.
She pulls a strand of her hair back behind her ear, "I'm sure you can tell they're a rather hostile bunch this year. Not necessarily bad people, but there's tension between them all that could be cut with a knife in an instant. I knew once they were splitting up that there would be room with me to tag along with one of the pairs, and I picked the duo who I felt had the best shot at continuous survival."
Lies, she nearly giggles at herself. She was always going to go for Beowulf Haleot, ever since the moment she saw his pathetically anxious face on her screen, she knew it would be him that would be her bitch. The arena is to be her newest kingdom after all, and every castle needs a guard dog. Having two's just icing on the cake, though she never thought it would be Lethia who submitted to her like a moth drawn to a flame. Though Vancouver figures, once a sycophant, always the same, and a diamond dust queen's the best replacement for One's golden price, though they both rest on thrones of treachery.
Much like my parents, she immediately backtracks after thinking of them, not now, you can't think of those useless fucks right now.
"Well, that makes sense from your perspective," Caesar begins to ask another question, Vancouver's brain already working overtime to find an answer, "but why did they decide to work with you."
"I'm a businesswoman Caesar," she says, leaning back onto her chair ever-so-casually, " and I've got a fair bit of experience mining and selling precious minerals back in Twelve. I know how to take care of people, and what it takes to drive them to success. I'm capable, and lucky too that Lethia and Beowulf could see it."
Not like they had a choice though, Vancouver reflects on the past few days, stalking the two of them like prey before actually speaking to them so she'd know exactly what to say so they'd agree to work with, or rather for her, "I was worried they'd find me unapproachable, I get that a lot back in Twelve."
It's true, she's trying to work on it. It can be hard to erase the blithe expression from her face that she always seems to have, but Vancouver knows to soften up for her kingdom. She knows to do everything for the sake of her kingdom, because then nobody can say she's doing it for herself, because true royalty is never selfish. True royalty always works for the people, even in the dog eats dog stratosphere of Panem.
"I don't think you're unapproachable," Caesar jests, but the unamused expression on Vancouver's face doesn't fade, "and would you mind telling us all about your life back in Twelve? I get the feeling you're fairly busy over there."
"Busy is an understatement," she unleashes a sarcastic laugh, "I'm sure you remember the accident in Twelve's mines last year, all thanks to Luminosity Abrixus, may she forever rot." Caesar nods for her to continue, which she does, "but, I was able to rent out a whole mine to myself, and put people to work polishing precious gems which we'd later sell to people in the shops. I helped people get off the streets and build an empire."
She's not lying here either. Her legacy will transcend far past her dying breath because of what she did, all the people she helped and all the lives she saved. The Games can try their best to kill her., but as long as there's somebody in her kingdom who remembers her name, Vancouver Easton will never truly be dead. Which is why the blood spill is worth it, the collateral damage as she founds her own nation, because I'm not a monster and I refuse to gaslight myself into thinking I am one. Monsters don't help people the way Vancouver helps people, it just so happens her version of "help" sometimes involves a knife to the throat and a sword to the back.
Caesar nods his head in amusement, "Simply incredible, your parents must be so proud of you."
"They would be if the explosion didn't kill them," she confesses a bit too quickly.
His expression shifts to one of sorrow and Vancouver knows she's successfully convinced him to believe her lie. Please, my parents wouldn't dare get in one of those crusty mines. It's true, Montreal and Calgary Easton were greedy and ruthless schmucks that didn't want to help people the same way Vancouver does. Their drug ring was smaller than her kingdom, only selling to the rich and famous and choosing to keep their earnings to themselves until they were practically drowning in wealth while everyone else begged for dimes so they could spend everything they had to fuel the addictions Vancouver's parents had created.
And they hardly let Vancouver join their schemes, what a shame, they didn't take her ideas to help the District by making their business more accessible and instead hiring Johansson to keep her busy, since she was never the complicit daughter they truly wanted.
Besides, the daughter they truly wanted wouldn't dare take a knife to their hearts whilst they bathed, stabbing them thirty times each and cackling as the tub turned to crimson.
But she needed them out of the way if she wanted to build her kingdom, Vancouver needed to be the queen, and not a mere princess. She tossed their bodies into the fireplace and claimed the mining explosion took them out, and those fucking fools never questioned a thing.
It's similar to how Caesar doesn't press for any information either. Nobody wants to tell a young girl that they don't believe the story of her parents tragic death, and if they ask, I'm fucking traumatized!
The only trauma is that she didn't kill them sooner.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Caesar says with utmost sympathy, practically eating out of her hands with admiration, "and I wish you all the luck tomorrow."
Please, I don't need your luck, she thinks as she gets out of her chair, I've never needed anything for anybody else.
And lord knows that won't change as long as Vancouver has her way about it.
Lucien Snow. 26.
First Son of Panem.
Tw. Child abuse and sex trafficking.
He loathes parties.
Not surprising considering the whole point of parties is mingling with others, making a name for yourself and what not, and those aren't things Lucien is particularly capable of. Even if he could speak, his name was made the moment he was born, and there's nothing he can do to change the fact he's forever a Snow, forever tied to that pig who still dares to call himself a father.
If Coriolanus really were a father, Lucien would still have a tongue to tell him as such. But that's beside the point, his inner monologue's become so bitter it's probably a good thing nobody has to actually head it aloud. He's gotten used to the fact he's forever unable to make a difference no matter what, and that typically isn't a problem since he can just wallow in pity, count sheep in his mind so that the minutes can pass, cause he swore he wouldn't kill himself, not after so many people have died in his name. Suicide's always seen to be selfish in taboo, and in Lucien's case it can't be anything but.
And so, he stands at the bottom of a stairway with his arms crossed at his father's party, hoping and praying that nobody says a word to him so he doesn't have to flash a goofy smile and pretend he gives a fuck, a hard task when nobody's ever given one about him. He refuses to think too ill of the dead, but at the same time it's hard for him to fully love his mother when it took his tongue being ripped from his own body to prompt her to run. He doesn't think he'll ever forgive her for cheating him into existence.
Lucien wishes Tigris was here; she was good company in the few months they spent together, even if she also betrayed me. Not that he blames her, he doesn't deserve to have another person die to preserve his pitiful life that was never supposed to happen. The times with her were far too good to be true, oh was Lucien a fool to think any odds could ever be slightly in his favor. He was never meant to live and now he's not meant to die. He's to be forever stuck, forever a tableaux of his father's false savior complex though unable to say otherwise. All Lucien Snow will ever be is a moment frozen in time from his father's reign of terror, and it's time he accepts it even if he knows he can't. And while he wishes he could take solace in the fact that at least it'll never get worse, that's far from the truth when he's metaphorically leashed at the throat by a man who's only capable of getting off on the misery of others, the misery of his own blood.
"Lucien, my dear," his father unfortunately approaches him with a cocktail in hand as he leans against the stairway, counting the minutes until the party is through, "how come I haven't seen you all evening?"
Because I hate you with every bone in my body and every organ you haven't stole, Lucien muses, trying hard not to roll his eyes at the bastard. Instead, he moves his lips to form a simple sentence, "I'm sorry."
He is sorry, but not for refusing to follow his father around at a party meant to inflate his ego the night before he watches twenty-three kids die with glee. Lucien is sorry that he's gone on so long, hurt so many people in favor of a life that'll never entirely be his, but the point is moot, I mustn't dwell. But it's not like he can do anything besides being alone with his thoughts, even if that's a dangerous hobby. Everything's dangerous for him, life is dangerous for him.
"Nothing to apologize for, my son," Coriolanus says with a grin Lucien can tell is fake because he's seen it far too many times, "There's somebody I'd like to introduce you to."
As his father grabs him by the arm, Lucien can't help but allow his mind to travel back to the conversation between him and the lady who had travelled from District Two earlier in the day. And that wasn't a particularly great conversation to listen in on, especially if— No, my father wouldn't sell me like that. He cut out my tongue so I wouldn't be desirable, so I would become a plague that nobody wants to catch. He cut out my tongue so I could be ridiculed, not worshipped.
… He cut out my tongue so I could never say no.
Lucien bites his own lip when his father shows him to his "friend," a well-dressed middle-aged woman in hues of blue in gold, her hair made of each and every shade of the rainbow and her skin tinted green, "This is Esmerelda, she's grown quite fond of you over the years."
"It's true," the lady hisses, her voice high-pitched to the extent that he shudders, "It's been so interesting watching you grow up Lucien. I'm sorry about the tongue thing, and that you felt so awful about yourself."
He takes a deep breath, what the fuck does she want? Am I supposed to be her fuckin' charity project, a way for her to feel better about herself even if I'm just going to break even more? Another breath, and then he extends his hand which she lifts to her face and presses her lips against, oh, that's what she wants.
"I'll just leave you to to spend some time together then," his father beams, pressing his hands together with glee, "Lucien, do please be on your best behavior."
He nods, then tries to wave at Coriolanus but is unable to because Esmerelda's grabbed ahold of both of his hands, "We're going to have a great time tonight, Lucien." He feels paralyzed when she pulls him with her as she walks, "I'd always told your father that you were quite the apple of my eye, even if you are a bit on the younger side," she ruffles his hair, nails pressing far too deep into his scalp, "He said you'd really like that."
His chest swells into a fiery tremor but he really shouldn't be surprised. If his life was never his, then why should his body be?
Can I get a poggers for shortest Chapitol? Originally there was another interview here, but then I decided that character would do better with a night before POV, so I moved Luciens POV that was supposed to kickstart the night before chapter to here. Its… a bit more brief than the other POVs but I figured due to its subject matter, its best not to dwell to much on it, especially when Lucien has another POV soon. Im pretty jazzed that interviews are over to be honest, I really had progressively less and less fun with them, and this also means we just have three chapters left until our bloodbath! Im neck deep in Games planning right now, and I cant wait to show everyone what Ive planned for this arena! As usual, thank you for reading and letting me know what you think, and I hope you have a great first week of November!
Fuck this shit, Im out,
Linds