Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter for Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Death, Chapter #19: Creation's Cruelty, focusing on the Night Before of the Games. Last chapter, #18: Charlatan's Theater was a loaded one with interviews, povs from Richmond / Catalus, Jasper, Zachary, Poem, Nokomis, and Kai'sa. This chapter has five povs, and will be the 'shortest' pre-games chapter, relatively of course, given who is talking haha. The povs are from Nyria to advance the Capitol plot and get a few important questions out of the way that you don't want to miss, as well as tribute povs for Round III from Nevaeh, Niklaus, Portia, and Ramses, with a lot of good content ahead that I am super excited for, and I hope you are too! Enjoy Chapter #19: Creation's Cruelty.
"Of all the hardships a person had to face, none was more punishing than the simple act of waiting," ~ Khaled Hosseini
Nyria Kirchner: Mutts Designer P.O.V
For the first time in forever, Nyria can happily say that the atmosphere of the president's office didn't feel tense. She holds her hand around the skinny bottom of a champagne flute, clinking the glass together with Cain and Emrick before downing the bubbly alcohol, coughing slightly as it burns a bit more than she anticipated it to. The night is a success, and from Richmond's studying of the data that comes in across the dozens of wires and computers in the broadcasting station, Interview Night has been viewed by 96% of Panem, which is an astounding rate. 82% watched the Reapings, and the numbers for the Tribute Parade waned down to 75%, but with 96% watching the tributes give their interviews, the number stayed well about four-fifths that stayed in tune until Ramses Boskov bid the stage goodnight and Richmond played his finale farewell to the audience. The curtain closes shut with a velvet spotlight dancing on stage, there is the dying of applause and cheering, confetti in the air, and Nyria is grinning like a madwoman from ear to ear.
"I'd say tonight was successful, wouldn't you?" she opines to the gentlemen after taking another flute from an avox in the corner holding a tray of them. Tiny glasses of happiness and euphoria, as Nyria sees them, donned by cute waiters in red, always silent, forever attentive and on her hand and foot. The custom of Avoxing seemed strange to her, most of the tension alleviated by the fact that she finds out it is not indeed a custom, but a punishment. Nyria waits until Emrick finishes his flute before taking another sip of hers.
"Sure," Cain says, a little more aloof and quiet tonight than usual, which makes Nyria raise an eyebrow while the president snickers. Snickers. A grown man snickering in his fifties. A kid is from District 13. A girl believes she wouldn't be fighting in the Games… a little kid has a panic attack on stage… things are afoot in the Capitol, her champagne glass all of a sudden not seeming as appetizing and inviting as it had been just a moment earlier. She sets it down on the president's desk while Cain paces the far wall of the room, his back turned away from them. "I just want to know why the viewership wasn't at 100%. Were the 4% of households not watching it here in the Capitol?"
"They may have been ours," Emrick jokes, teasingly, at his partner in crime. Nyria sees the way the vice president's eyes flash in cold, muted anger for a second, even if it is just a second. "After all we were all in the audience; our sets weren't on at our houses."
"I leave mine on," Nyria comments, sitting down on the couch they had all sat on while watching the Reaping recap. Emrick and Cain look at her confusedly for a second, Nyria feeling self-conscious as she takes another sip from her glass. "I… I just want to make sure I don't miss anything."
She feels Cain's eyes linger on her a little longer than normal, but she's been feeling that way a lot more lately ever since yesterday when she brings him the plant that she duplicated a perfect carbon copy of. He calls it a replicant, but she prefers just a simple clone of the original, the plant staying perfectly healthy, it decorating her desk in the Gamemaker Center with enough light to make the plant feel wanted. She looks back at him for another moment as Emrick has shifted his attention to some documents on his desk, the two Gamemakers eyeing one another until Nyria looks down at the liquid in her hand.
There is judgement in the man's stare, but it is nothing she hasn't seen before. She's taken the dye out of her hair, finding the pink to really be offset against her tanned skin tone, glossy and shiny underneath the theater's lights, and her flaming red backless dress gets enough woos from a few of the Capitolites in the audience that think of paying some attention to her. Nyria smirks and waves at them when getting to her seat, but she'll never debase herself to sleep with anyone from the Capitol. That'd be silly, as this isn't… she shakes her head, disrupting the thought.
There's no time for dwelling on the past right now. Only one person is allowed to reveal that home isn't home for them: another time perhaps, for her story. She wonders if that is why Cain looks at her the way he does, with pointed stares and a lingering gaze that makes her feel like she's been stripped down to her smallclothes, hands covering the most sensitive areas while he sneers. Does his wife feel the same way when he looks at her?
"So," Nyria says, after a belabored pause, letting the tension and atmosphere of the room dwindle down to next to nothing as the sound of bubbles popping fills the empty space, "I did some thinking."
"That's dangerous," Cain says, rather off the cuff, he sitting on the edge of Emrick's desk while the president is in his chair, pushing an ink well out of the way so the vice president doesn't cover his rear in dark liquid. Cain chose an all-white, well, gray ensemble for his outfit, Nyria thinking it makes him look even more like a coroner on their way to join the grave from his super pale skin and electrically haunting eyes. "We can't have that."
"And remind me again who put me on the Gamemaker team in the first place?" she shoots back. Checkmate, she thinks, as his smirk disappears. "But, no, seriously."
Emrick sets down his quill pen, rubbing his grayed-out sandpaper and pepper hair out of his eyes, sitting forward some at his desk with the squeaking of leather and the wheels on the floor to signify this. "What did you have in mind, Nyria?"
Nyria downs the rest of her champagne flute, the Avox in the corner moving over quickly to get her another one, but she holds him back at bay with a hand. "Tomorrow, after the tributes are in their tubes, and we're ready to start the Games… what is stopping the tributes from not waiting the whole sixty seconds and just going on ahead and fighting?"
"Makes for great television," Cain chuckles, but she shoots him a glare. His inputs are not helpful, and actually they've never been helpful to anything pertinent when she thinks about it. Always undermining someone else. She has not forgotten how, just a few hours ago, there is spittle flying from his mouth in rage, bloodlust in his voice and causing his skin to burn at the concept that these tributes were weak and disappointing. While Nyria expected a bit more grit from the tributes, which is true, there is no telling how any of them will react when in the arena tomorrow morning.
Emrick pauses for a moment to consider her question, Nyria's heart filling with relief at the man. He is the grace that they all need, someone who isn't Cain Passionia ruining everything, for a matter of fact. "There isn't," he says, decisively, affirmatively, with a frown, before looking at her. "There's nothing stopping Magnus Winterthorn or Nevaeh Davoli or Cassiopeia Grey or any of those kids from jumping early."
"It'd ruin everything," Nyria says, nodding to acknowledge the president's point. "We've been putting up this concept of everyone having a fair chance to compete, and nothing screams unfair more than people getting trigger happy," she frowns at the wording, not sure if that is exactly the best phrasing she could've come up with. "But…"
Emrick lifts his head in glee, smiling all the while, but there is a look of confusion on Cain's face instead. Hah, suck it Passionia. "So you thought of something to go in its place to help out that little problem, didn't you, Nyria?"
She smirks, widening it further at the way Cain's eyes blaze in furious passion. "As a matter of fact, Mr. President, I did," and she motions over for the next champagne flute. It's her fifth. There doesn't need to be any regulation tonight, not on such a celebratory occasion. "I most likely broke who knows how many rules, but I swear it was done for the greater good and for the greater good of the Hunger Games…" Cain sighs exasperatedly as Nyria continues, she looking over at him doggedly while his gaze surveys the far wall. "With some of Lydia's advice, and her permission, I used some of the mines we had left over from District 13's raid and buried them under the plates that the tributes will rise up on," both men in the room have their eyebrows rise up high, high, higher still. "When the plates all rise into position, it'll trigger a pressure plate that if the plate is released by a tribute leaping off too early, the mine explodes. They should deactivate once the Games begin."
"And how did you test that out?" Emrick asks, a look of worry on his face.
"We have a few less Avoxes today than we did yesterday," Nyria shrugs her shoulders. They weren't district citizens, as far as she is aware, the men and women she sent to their death, but Capitolites who broke one too many rules or tried poisoning their neighbors over who had the better hairstyle, so it helps Nyria sleep at night knowing one less Capitolite exists in the world. Emrick rubs a hand over his mouth at her words, looking away for a second.
Cain seems even more perturbed by the news – hypocrite, Nyria thinks sharply – from the way his lips are downturned into a curve against his chin. "And what if someone wants to try and call your bluff?"
"You'll include it in your announcement before the tributes get in their tubes," Nyria smirks, taking another sip from her champagne glass. "And if someone wishes to call our bluff, then I guess it means we start the Games with twenty-three tributes instead of twenty-four."
She giggles and claps to herself excitedly, champagne sloshing out of the glass and onto the couch and her leg, a feeling of coolness spreading down her thigh in a white stream, foamy and bubbly, similar to the way Cain mirrors her laughter.
The Games are coming soon, and Nyria is going to do everything in her power to make sure it gets her name out there, make no mistake.
Hopefully none of the tributes have vertigo or lose their balance.
Nevaeh Davoli: District 7 Female P.O.V (17)
Stumbling back into the apartment is the single moment when Nevaeh realizes she has run out of fucks to give. Volatile and violent language, perhaps, but it is the truth. Standing there in line with all of the other tributes like frightened little hens, chickens with their feathers plucked, walking into the eyes of their killer... it is asinine and there are so many more things she could've been doing instead of being interviewed by Mr. Richmond Anvil. She doesn't hate the man, but she has to say that out of all the charades she has had to participate in, this one had been the stupidest of them all. With the tribute parade, it is different, as there's Sylvan next to her and he's enjoying himself, so getting upset and snappy would simply ruin all the fun.
However, without Sylvan there to temper her bad mood and her ill-felt behavior, Nevaeh feels her jaw clamping up, teeth grinding together just to keep her anger at bay, and from putting her hands around the man's neck. He'll speak forever and ever on keeping the peace between the districts and the Capitol, but there'll be no indictment on his behalf about the terrorizers who still exist in the districts, about those who believe they can take their arms up in the virtue of justice. She tries to drown out the sound of shattered glass and broken cabinet doors getting slung off of their hold in the ding of the elevator, but it is not enough. A wave of nausea cripples her for a second, Neveah gasping and clutching her bruised side. It'll never heal, not in the way she wants it to, where she'll feel that Peacekeeper's boot against her body time and time again.
Sylvan takes a step out of the elevator, Javier having already returned to the floor shortly after he – Sylvan – gave his interview, for as he puts it, there's no need to see the dog and pony show. Pony and dog show. Whatever, it's irrelevant. Her district partner pauses, looking back at the cubicle as Nevaeh presses herself against the left wall, eyes shut. Drowning out noises. Rifles getting cocked and aimed at her head if she is to move one single muscle in a way that seems dangerous to the Peacekeepers. Her mother's estranged scream as she is dragged out of the shower, getting thrown a torn curtain to keep her body hidden. If Amos were home… if Amos had been there instead of off fighting and dying…
"Nevaeh?" asks Sylvan gently, he leaning forward and stepping into the cubicle, one foot perched over the dip in the floor. He raises both eyebrows concernedly, his tone warm as Nevaeh looks up and smiles at him. "Are you okay?"
She doesn't know what to say. Sylvan is nice, yes, and she likes him, but he's also three years younger than her, with a lot more optimism flowing in his veins, a lot more happiness than she knows what to do with. He has seen the bruises, only because their wolf bitch of a stylist tells him about it while getting ready for the tribute parades. He's put the bandages there, and she has to lie through her teeth about how she got them, only to end up tripping herself in the lie at breakfast yesterday morning, which leads to everything being fessed up and-
Neveah fakes a smile, stepping out of the elevator, doors shutting behind her as she holds onto her side. "Never better, Sylvan," she tells him, going to slink to the couch. If Javier is indeed on their floor, he hasn't made himself known. Most likely too disappointed in them to show his face, she figures. They haven't been the most star-studded tributes in the cast, with Eight underperforming, Four looking as beautiful as always, or the rabid hatred streaming from the floorboards down in Two, rising so hot into the building that Nevaeh believes her showers are hotter than normal from the steam rising off of Portia's braids.
"Lying," he says immediately as she stretches out over the cool leather. She doesn't want to talk to him, but she does not have the heart to send him away. She never had the heart to write Amos a letter while he is off fighting in the war. It sounds odd to say aloud, sending your brother a love letter lookalike – well, no one else will see it as anything but – that has her concerned about his safety, of which Nevaeh is deeply concerned, but she doesn't. She lets the feelings wallow in her, the loneliness and the sleepless nights as her parents do not entertain her. The silence grows, her shyness grows, as does the snappiness. Amos died and left her alone, and she can't forgive him for that. She cannot forgive her parents for not telling her how he passed.
Perhaps she can ask him in the afterlife if she does not make it out of this nightmare alive. However, concerning Sylvan, given he has an eyebrow raised as he makes his way to the other side of the couch, settling himself low on the floor, resting his head against the edge of it, Nevaeh only frowns. "What?" she asks him, as he takes his place.
"You're lying," Sylvan repeats himself, smirking. "You hardly smile, not even around me, and that means you're lying when you smile, especially since I asked you if something's the matter," There's a pause, harsh and sharp, silence filling the void, Amos's breathing heavy in Nevaeh's ears as she tries to calm herself by slipping the unwanted parts of herself into the blue of her bloodstream. The nervousness. The propensity to lie. The jealousy. The desire to want to be dead. It's there, spiked by her district partner's words. "I imagine tonight hurt, for whomever you were speaking about. You miss him? This Amos person?" he asks, gently.
Nevaeh withdraws from his stretched-out hand, frowning slightly, but Sylvan keeps his hand where it lies. "Dead," her voice is hardly that of a whisper, over the low din of the air conditioner. It is late now, the sun hidden beneath the horizon, giving way to the shadows that stretch out across the floor and into her heart. "Amos is dead," she says, Sylvan making a sad noise in his throat that does all the wonders for her. Life had been good in Seven, before the war. Her mother has a spot in the local government, her brother is wanting to achieve stardom in some sort of field that he never specifies… and then the bombs hit. Nevaeh wants to be her brother in every way, emulate his every move… go out the same way he does, in a blaze of glory.
"I'm sorry, Nevaeh," Sylvan tells her, she finally reaching out to grip his hand in her own, squeezing at the pressure points to make the connection all that more known. She is glad this is the type of person she has in the Games with her. There's been a little bit mentioned of what life has been like for him, but nothing concrete. Something about seeing the wild for what it is… wild, and Nevaeh feels the same sort of descriptor in her heart. She is wild. "I'm sorry that happened to you," he takes a pause, breathing heavily, she seeing the rise and fall of his shoulders. "So many awful things have happened at the hands of the Capitol and it's our job to make sense of it, I suppose…"
"He was my brother," Nevaeh says after another pause, holding her arms tight and sitting up. "He was everything I always wanted to be. He just…" she takes a deep breath, trying to get ahead of herself. She will not cry. She has gone through so many things in life to cry now, in front of a technically complete stranger before entering a death ring… she will not cry. "Amos made the world make sense, y'know? He went off to battle, against my family's wishes and well…" she shrugs. "We never knew what ended up happening to him except he… he didn't come home…" Nevaeh's voice stops for a second, voice catching on her vocal cords, a harsh grinding like someone grating against a violin's string incorrectly.
Her first and last conversation with him on mortality, Nevaeh will never forget it.
"I did something last night…" Amos tells her, his smoky figure in the shadow of her bedroom door frame, Nevaeh jolting upwards out of her covers, eyes appraising her brother's disheveled appearance.
Blood.
"Amos…" her voice is shaky, broken, Nevaeh taking off the covers, in a nightgown as she steps out of bed, turning on the small lamp in the corner. This is before the ransacking, before the Peacekeepers came in and demanded they give them everything they knew about rebel plots that didn't exist… before he leaves. She grabs his left hand in her own, thumbs sliding over the vacant space. Blood is on his skin, staining his almost dark flesh even deeper, a splash of acid hitting Nevaeh's throat as she looks into his eyes. Battle-hardened. Cold. "Whose blood is that?"
"Doesn't matter, Nevaeh," her brother says, much older than her as he takes up the remaining space in the entrance of her bedroom. She is asleep, her parents are asleep, but he is wide awake. Amos has always been a night creature, a district citizen that'd be chopping firewood at five in the morning, to be kissed by the fireflies that'd come out at night to speak to him. "
"Doesn't matter?" she frowns, taking a step back and closer to her bed. "Did you just-"
"Someone's dead, and that's all you need to know," he tells her, his hands gripping hers suddenly, staining blood on her arms, but instead of being reviled, Nevaeh grips him back, keeping her intense stare locked with his. "You have to promise me something, Nev," he tells her, voice deep and low to try and not wake up the other parts of the household. "When you shoot, you aim to kill."
"Yes," is her immediate response, and there's a crack of lightning as rain hits their tin can roof of their house, Nevaeh's eyes searching her brother's body for other spots of blood. She has learned how to fight under his teaching, a sturdy hand against the small of her back so she tightens her core muscles, or the way she bulks around the hilt of an axe and sends splinters of wood everywhere into the air like a geyser. "I'll aim to kill."
Nevaeh has always wanted to know what it felt like to take a life. Perhaps it is morbid to think of, ghastly and terrifying in the notions it brings, as her eyes pass over Sylvan and his soft smiles and gentle words and the fact that he is hugging her now, though even despite it being without her consent that she hugs back and doesn't let go.
"I'm sorry, Nevaeh," he repeats himself for the fifteenth thousand time since they've been reaped together. He is always apologizing, always trying to see the light in the situation, and again, there is no one else Nevaeh wants to be in the arena with… it'll be easier to end his life, as otherwise he is not going to give up that much of a fight…
The thought jars Nevaeh out of the hug, she unable to look Sylvan in the eyes when she redraws her arms back to her side. "Thank you…" she mutters under her breath, trying to hide the shame.
Sylvan links a hand through her own, warm, gentle, kind, thumb pressed over the grooves in her knuckles, sensing the languages that mark her skin in tree bark and Amos's orders of shooting to kill, or the smell of dogwood trees and honey suckle down the small of her neck.
"When you win the Games, Nevaeh, you'll get to find out what happened to your brother," he tells her, voice pointed and sharp, the most intense she's ever heard him speak, that being enough to rouse her gaze back up at him with a slight frown. Perhaps she already has misjudged the situation. "You'll get to look his killers in the eyes and demand the truth from them," he tightens his grip for a second, tone serious. "Amos deserves that much, and so do you."
She can only nod in affirmation, hearing the way her voice trembles that one stormy night, with Amos's hands covered in blood from whoever he kills, she not knowing how he does it or who the corpse had been, but all she knows is that she's proud of him, for doing what he said he could do and not chickening out.
Time will tell if Nevaeh Davoli can follow in those same footsteps.
Niklaus Peverell: District 8 Male P.O.V (18)
A quiet ambiance has settled over the District 8 floor. It settles into Niklaus's bones, permeating down into the very corners of his soul that he didn't know existed, breathing life into his lungs, and expelling it all the same, rough, and raspy, with rust lining the bones of his ribcage. Each step on the padded floor is a gunshot wound to the chest for Niklaus, a faint sobbing sound rising from the floorboards and soaking into the walls. He scratches the back of his neck with a dry cough filling his chest, placing his head in his hands as he stands at the kitchen counter. Damien has gone to bed, as best he could manage it of course, with all this wailing going on inside their minds rent free.
He tried to warn her. He tried to tell her. He tried every trick in the book that he could think of, but this morning, when they're sitting at breakfast and he's buttering his own English muffin, as Poem proudly declares that she will "not be doing anything" for the private sessions with Cain Passionia, it is enough to make Damien throw his napkin on the table and excuse himself for a moment. Their escort never came back to the table, and then the odds board is constructed, everyone getting a shot of it. Poem must not understand how odd boards work, for she is happy that her name has the highest ratio, but Niklaus does not have the heart to shatter another illusion in her head. A balletic symphony of tragedy he calls it, all the while running fingers down his arms.
He hasn't had an injection since the train. The prep team has been nice enough to paint over his wounds, the marks left behind from the needles simply boiled over skin that has been tarred and stretched like Velcro, Velcro made to feel good and keep him together. He has half the mind to pick at them, to scratch them until he drives himself insane, but Niklaus keeps his composure together. There'll be other ways to see blood flow, as his father would always say, a cigarette in his teeth, the smoke lazily rising to dance in combat with the blades of the ceiling fan, and all Niklaus can smell is smoke.
Niklaus can see the dead bodies, and the bodies who aren't dead yet calling his name, screaming for help with their melting skin reaching towards him as he backs away on all fours, ignoring the burn on his arm, or the flames licking and eating away the bottom of his shoe, turning it into taffy, candy that has a sour-sweet flavor to it as he chews, chews, chews, and the screams continue. It is why there is that orange pill placed in his hand, from the foreman who lives, the one man who survives the ordeal and still wants to go back to work. If the man could do it, with his amputated arm and his misshapen leg that still works like a cog in the finest pieces of machinery, so can Niklaus.
He can go back to work too, he thinks resolutely. His work is not done, yet.
The boy from Eight lifts his head off the counter. His interview hadn't been a disaster, to say the least, which he is happy about. Of course, his training score will beg to differ, the 2 in golden acrylic font yelling at him from their shared TV screen, words of failure passing out of his mouth. Poem's one doesn't make them look any more illustrious, but perhaps they can all be fooled. Perhaps the Capitol has counted them out too early? He's not sure, but he knows that he is not going to take any of these losses sitting down, and least of all, let Poem suffer a fate worse than death tomorrow morning, where if her district partner had been anyone else, they might've thrown her to the wolves.
Niklaus makes his way across the apartment floor, ignoring the way his hands are shaking, the same shaking that leaves him incapable to perform for Mr. Passionia, as he constantly drops the blade he is holding, nearly onto one of the Peacekeeper's boots, earning a sheepish grin and a glare when the man lifts his visor up. Poem's sounds of anguished wailing echo from their half of the apartment, where even the Avoxes standing on hand and foot for any of their needs look discontented with the noises filling the apartment. He wonders if the other floors can hear this, and they're all reveling in the glee of seeing Poem's dreams shattered like porcelain vases and an angry man's fist.
He has to admit, there had been a split second of happiness when she drops the sketchbook, ink smearing across the pages as it falls from her grasp, but then when she sinks into the floor, fabric billowing around her like a devouring violet, shame replaces that happiness instantaneously. Spontaneous combustion in his heart as she's carried off by Peacekeepers, having fainted from the sheer shock, and somehow he has to go on stage after that and try his best to not make District 8 not look like a complete disaster.
Niklaus reaches her bedroom door, raising his fist to knock. The first time he had ever knocked on someone's door in the manner that he does – it is in the pattern of S.O.S, actually – is with Rudy Patterkinn… that stupid red blazer and that stupid man's mouth that has crashed against his one too many times. He is not into men, and certainly not Rudy Patterkinn, but for those opiates and cocaine… sometimes there are places where men will go to get the treats that help them tick.
He knocks in a gentle pattern, trying to be as non-intrusive as possible. "Poem?" he asks gently, his voice wavering slightly. She probably doesn't want him to even be in the same headspace as her, which he can understand, as he knows he can look quite terrifying sometimes, but now is not the time for deprecating jokes. "Poem?" Niklaus tries again.
There's a pause, the sound of sheets being lifted, a pillow being fluffed, and then, like mist rising over a Carolina dawn, "What, Niklaus?" comes Poem's voice, not as broken as he expects it to. There is a surge of strength in her, and perhaps he's misjudged Cavalli too soon. Everyone has heard of her parents, and the struggling road it took for them to get where they did, cause after all, who'd want to buy a snow parka to face the Eight winters when there are firebombs falling from the sky, bringing death with their arrival?
"Can I come in?" he continues, licking his lips. "I- I don't want you to be alone."
There is a humming sound of approval, he having to press his ear against the crack of the door to hear it, before more shuffling, Poem apparently getting up to unlock the door. He takes a step back when she reveals herself to him, still dressed in her interview outfit, though there are a few tears of the clothing here or there, his eyes searching her body. She is beautiful, always has looked beautiful to him, for that matter of fact, but this is not beauty that he sees. This is desperation, this is the cold District Eight winter leaving one too many hearths empty from the oncoming gales and blizzards.
Before he can say another word, which is going to most likely be asking her if she's alright, to which he anticipates what sort of answer she'll give him, Poem is stepping forward and throwing her arms around him in a hug, she burying her face into his neck, Niklaus realizing in this moment in time how thin he is. He feels like butter scraped over too much bread before he links his arms back with her and reciprocates the hug. Niklaus cannot remember the last time he is hugged. His father tells him that he ought to punch him in the face, the last time he sees him in the Justice Building, saying goodbye.
Rudy shows up as well, but Niklaus refuses to think about him. Poem mutters something unintelligible into his shoulder before stepping away, going back to her bed. The shuffling he hears, as Niklaus steps into her room to get a better look, is her sketchbook. The ink is indeed blotted and smeared around the pages, some torn up and thrown around the room in jagged pieces of confetti. Poem sits at the foot of her bed, dress pluming around her legs as she holds the book in her hands, mascara running down her cheeks amid the salt of her tears. He leans down and picks up one of the pages, frowning as he sees that it is the drawing she used for her parade outfit. Everyone else might've disliked it, but he loved it.
"All a lie…" Poem hiccups, hugging her sketchbook to her chest, ink smearing over her outfit too as he kneels down in front of her at the foot of a bed. "All of this has been a lie…" she rasps, hiccupping again, before looking at him straight in the eye. "Am I going to die, Niklaus?"
Her question takes him aback for a moment, as he again wants to believe in the most negative answer of them all, but he cannot do that to her, he can't. "Someday," he smiles as lightly as he can, unsure where to put his hands, so he simply hands her the torn-up sketch of her tribute parade costume. "We all are going to die someday, Poem."
"Am I going to die tomorrow?" she asks him, more pointedly, Poem setting her sketchbook aside. "I- I don't want to die. I don't want to die…" she repeats, curling up in on herself, dropping the sketchbook again, but he doesn't let it fall this time. He catches it, setting the book aside. She is a Cavalli, a woman with a legacy, and not many people can call themselves self-made by sixteen. Catalus Drachma can call himself a self-made man if he wishes, but Niklaus knows that's a bullshit lie, since that glossy tanned kid from One would've been given the very keys to the kingdom in being able to forge his own empire. Poem has only the needle and thread in her hands to weave a business, to weave a name for herself.
"I am not going to let that happen, Poem," he tells her, reaching out and holding out onto her hand. "There is no way I am letting that happen…" his voice catches in his throat, Niklaus trying to hold back tears as one slides down his cheek. He feels that shame in his gut again, from all of this, all that he has tried to contain.
They stay like that for a moment, with he holding her hand, and she resting her head on his shoulder until she's breathing into his skin, hands still laced. A pause, a moment for Niklaus to catch his breath and think of the impeding doom that threatens to swallow them all alive, and then, her voice, light on the air, over the din of the swinging ceiling fan blades, "Who's Rudy?" she asks him.
Niklaus blinks in surprise, not having heard the question clearly until he retracts himself away from her, frowning. "What?"
Poem's face is soft, voice softer still, she unlinking their hands. "Rudy. You… you mentioned him during your interview. Something about nightmares, and he being in them a lot."
His face burns with a powerful blush, he scratching the back of his neck as he frowns, trying to not laugh. Trying not to cry. All that man has ever done is cause him pain, has caused him to burrow himself deeper, though Niklaus knows he's addicted, and he has done this to himself. "I- I didn't know you heard that," he says, licking his lips. "He… he um, in simplistic ways, he's my loan shark," Niklaus looks away for a second. "He gives me money so I can go buy my pick-me-ups. And I've never paid him back, not a single dollar."
She nods her head, following the story, until Niklaus catches himself on a broken sob, similar to own, that has Poem placing a hand in his hair, he simply curling into the touch. "Niklaus-" there isn't judgement in her voice, but he feels it, he feels as if she is ripping him open and exposing himself for all the bad choices he's made.
"So since I haven't been able to pay him with money, he's… he's had me pay in other ways," Niklaus finds himself fascinated with one of the edges of the torn-up sketches. "And… and I'm not into guys…" Scarlet eyes flash by in his vision, the burning flames of mockery and the end, of Rudy's flashing blue eyes, an octopus of death coiling a tentacle around his throat. "He made me feel sordid. Nasty. Disgusting. Unwanted…"
He has no idea what happens next, or what makes it happen, but Poem is placing her hands on the side of his face, bringing him in for a kiss. It catches him off guard for a split second, another panicked cry rising in his throat until she places a hand on his chest, the sense of sadness evaporating off of the walls and out of the room.
And Niklaus kisses back.
Niklaus Peverell kisses back because it feels good.
He kisses back because he wants to, and because he will not let some shadow of a man back home haunt him here, in the here and now when he can decide who he wants to invest his future in.
Portia Beninblade: District 2 Female P.O.V (18)
Well, it has certainly been a journey into the depths of the Capitol, at the very least. It is Portia's main takeaway, getting to see the city and place she has always wanted to go to, for them to dangle these opportunities of freedom and escape in front of her, like a carrot, until it is snatched away. Portia believes she has the golden opportunity sitting in her lap the moment her eyes appraise over Cain Passionia, the man who can tell her that everything will be okay, and because of her undying loyalty to the Capitol, she'll be saved.
And that is when the number 7 is flashing under her name, but instead of feeling relief, she is hit with a tide of rage and anger consuming her soul from the inside out, the desire only exacerbated when Magnus follows up next and gets a fucking 12 that he actually cowers away from her, hiding behind cushions on the couch. Merida is demanding order, but the wilting tulip that she is couldn't save an ant from getting its head crushed underneath someone's boot heel.
"A twelve?" Portia roars at him, seething with anger. She heard someone call her a steamed vegetable, only stupider, and she cannot wait to send a thousand volts of electricity into their veins, for whoever it is does not cross a Beninblade and live to tell about it. "A TWELVE?" Portia screams again, chucking a pillow at his head. "What'd you do? Give Cain a lap dance?"
It is not possible. It makes zero sense. How can a rebel from Two, a rebel from the most loyal and passionate district of Panem get the highest score out of the entire collection? Portia knows that her knife skills had been more butchery than that of elegance, but she expects it to earn her higher than a seven at the very least… disappointment has been the typicality of her life as of late, a sad thought to think, but it is the truth.
Magnus's smile is all she gets in return, Portia storming away from him. He is in that stupid alliance with the girl from Four, where if Diana Kratovska had any brains to her, she'd select her own district partner and take Portia along with her, but instead she'll be flanked by the two tools of the cast into the arena. Magnus will not protect her when the hellfire from above comes to consume them all, she can guarantee that.
Some of the anger has receded, Portia trying to show it as such at the very least as she steps out of the elevator and onto District 10's floor. She didn't mean to overhear some of what Nokomis Yanaba and Camilla Rodriguez are talking about as they walk past her, Portia purposefully staying behind to scope out their plans. Meeting on Nokomis's floor, something about tension in the very floorboards of Nine, and she springs her plan into action. The two girls are sitting on the floor, Camilla's back to Nokomis as the girl from Ten weaves her fingers through her hair. Calen is also in the kitchen, but he is not paying them any mind, instead getting himself a drink from the fridge, speaking to their escort, Roxanne, who is elegantly dressed in an all dark ensemble.
The elevator doors close shut, Nokomis's eyes flirting over to the entranceway and back at the task at hand, Portia smirking heavily when Nokomis's eyes flit back again at her, a scowl crossing her features. "What do you want?" she asks, scorn in her voice, tone evident, and all Portia can do is scowl back. Way to be accepting of outsiders, wolf bitch.
"Well, I can say so far I am two for two in being greeted nicely by people here," she says, as her first venture into unknown territory, perhaps a bit more ham-fisted than she would've liked, but it is the first thing that comes into her mind. Diana Kratovska, even with that dick move of a hello when Portia approaches her at the tribute parade, still seems to have gusto, which is what attracts her to Portia so… but Nokomis? Not the same shine.
"Nokomis," Camilla chides, turning around to face the other girl with a frown crossing her face. Such a beautiful face, Portia thinks to herself, warmly. It'd be a shame for someone to completely ruin that complexion and those perfect lips and those delicate eyebrows. Her mother had an amazing face once. Once. Until the nightly Peacekeeper beatings with Portia laughing into the ceiling take their toll, even with the hand sitting nice and neat in that box back home. The girl from Nine turns back around to face her, her face much more pleasant, yet neutral. "Sorry, just didn't expect to see you," the girl apologizes. "I know you offered-"
Portia raises her hand and cuts the girl off from talking one more word. She annoys her. Every inch of the girl annoys her, but seeing Camilla Rodriguez just score an 8 out of the blue is enough to get the warring signs to start spinning in her head. She has always been tactile, always given the gift the of gab, to spool whatever sort of narrative she wants to get what she wants. There has been some bumps along the way, but Portia will ignore those, just like how she'll ignore Magnus's rising star, where the alliance is hanging on District Four's floor and most likely getting drunk.
Well, while they're getting drunk, she is going to advance her station as best as she can. Standing next to the chariots from Nine and Ten, the two girls being her pure targets simply as they were the only ones speaking together and not every girl had gotten in line at that point, Portia brings up the idea of an alliance, which surely has not crossed anyone's minds. Both girls apologize and say they are not sure of what she is talking about, Portia's nostrils flaring in secretive rage before withdrawing herself back to Magnus's gleeful face that she cannot wait to punch.
"I'm cutting to the chase," Portia says. "I'm offering you an alliance again." That gets the entire room to go silent, where even Calen and the escort in the corner look over from their conversation. Portia has seen the divide happen over the last few days, almost out of a storybook at how picturesque it looks and seems. The girls get closer, the boys are left struggling out on open water as they should be, trying to keep their heads above the surf until it swallows them, dragging them down to the depths. She is not offering an alliance to districts Nine and Ten, for she finds the boys useless. Gemini is going to fall apart like a saltine cracker breaking in her hands, and as she looks at Calen for a split second, he is unable to hold her gaze and looks away.
As she thought.
She's right, she always is. Portia folds her hands together, in front of her, keeping her head held high. "I think we should all be allies. There's more power in numbers, and other tributes are getting into their alliances as well… we don't want to be left caught in the dust." That dust is approaching, Portia seeing it on the horizon just from how she watches the tributes hold themselves. District partners ripping apart like a band-aid being torn off of her skin, or the way there are people who shouldn't mix getting closer to one another, for Portia can practically smell the sex that rises off of Ramses Boskov's shoulders when he stares at the blonde-haired beauty that is Orion Maythorpe.
Nokomis purses her lips, taking her hands out of Camilla's hair, the half-braid she is working on resting on Camilla's shoulder. "Well, I hate to break it to you, Portia," the girl mispronounces her name, she trying to keep her calm by digging her nails into her arm, for her name is not Porty-Potty, no matter what someone will believe or want to joke about, "But Camilla and I are already in an alliance. She asked me last night."
That is news to her, eyebrows rising up, but she dares not let anyone else see the surprise that dares cross her face. No matter. Baby steps. "I see," Portia says, lowly, running a hand through her own braid. Wearing that stupid and awful dress for the interviews is in the top five hardest things she's ever had to do in her life, second to that being wearing the tribute parade outfit and having to look happy next to Magnus's dumb looking ass. She will find every opportunity she can to insult him if she can manage it, for it has become one of her favorite past times, a hobby if you will. She smiles, lifting her head back. "Room for one more?"
"Full," Nokomis says instantly, without hesitation. She can hear the desert in her voice, the shifting sands of Ten and the harsh crack of a whip and a rope necklace hanging another criminal from the gallows. Criminals that Portia might have placed there herself if she could be bothered to remember who she hurt. She sends the girl from Ten the ire of a thousand suns in her glare, unable to help herself this time.
"You need me," Portia snips back just as fast. A defiant glow fills her eyes, Portia lifting her head even higher. There have been people in her life that have rejected the Beninblade's help and doing so has not turned out well for them. It'd be a shame to see such girls brought down to their very knees from pride, from their own arrogance that has them stop bringing in help that they need. "I can fight. I scored decently well. And, whether you like it or not, me being from Two has its advantages. Coming from Two means the Capitol already likes me, and being Magnus's district partner," to her credit, she does not puke, there is no spittle that dares to fly out of her mouth at the mention of saying his name aloud. "Will have it perks. Being allies with the guy who scored the highest out of all of us makes me look good too."
"How does that work?" it is Camilla who asks this, getting to her feet, arms crossed over her chest, the general neutrality starting to fade away again, but again, no matter. Portia Beninblade has faced worse odds and won.
"She's faced worse odds and ran," Magnus snickers into his steak. She pokes him in the arm with her fork that is covered in steak sauce, taking great pleasure from the howls of anguish that rise from his lips at the stained material.
Portia shrugs, a smirk on her face. "Guilt by association, I imagine," she says. Some of this might be bullshit, but even if it is, she needs allies. It is her game plan, and it has always been her game plan the moment Merida in all of her competence settles the kids down to talk out strategy and show the reapings. She knows that the Hunger Games are death incarnate, death to all but one, and she is not going to be fighting a war all by herself.
Even if her allies she wants happen to be rebel supporters, for while Nokomis and Camilla did not look at Portia with the evident distaste she sees in their stares, or in the cadence of their voices back at the tribute parade, she sees it now. All fools, fools that need to be brought into the light and cleansed in the perfect Capitol's fire.
Nokomis and Camilla look at each other for a moment, silent but speaking with their eyes. Camilla is the first to nod, Nokomis sighing heavily and pinching the bridge of her nose. "Fine," she says, Portia smiling back immediately, as positive as she can, as happily as she can. They've chosen the road of death, death for all. "Fine. You can join us."
"Is he in the alliance?" Portia looks over and points at Calen, who has his back turned, as if he has been actively ignoring them this entire time.
"No…" Camilla says at length. "And neither is Gemini. He didn't want to join, and Calen said he didn't-"
"Good," Portia interrupts her, not bothering to care if she's made the Rodriguez girl angry. Frowns are unbecoming of such a pretty face, and so are those wrinkle creases she is making in her forehead, straining those muscles as if she has ever had a coherent thought. "I didn't want him anyways," she turns around to exit the way she came, visit completely successful. "In the morning, then, girlies!" Portia calls back out to them.
She steps into the elevator, trying to suppress the grin on her face, movement out of the corner of her eye catching her as Portia recedes into the cube. It is Calen, rounding around the corner, and before the doors close shut, in a split second, she sees it. It is his glare, his glare that he is sending her direction, and the goosebumps that erupt all over her arms.
Perhaps she has underestimated him.
Portia nods back, before the doors blind her vision to all that moves. No matter, it does not matter. She cannot be intimidated.
She is going to drown everyone in the oncoming tide, pulling them all under the waves, and she'll emerge, glistening in the sun, victorious.
Ramses Boskov: District 12 Male P.O.V (17)
They are at an impasse. Neither one of them is addressing it, but Ramses hears the words that are being spoken in the silence, the words that collide into his cheekbones and dampen his jaw with moist tears that fall onto his lap as he suckles away on an orange peel in his mouth. Kai'sa has abandoned him for the roof with Porscha once again, and there is even the notions that little Cecelia is going to go follow them, but he doesn't care what anyone else does as long as they're not infringing on his time with Orion. Speaking of the sparkling blue-eyed devil, the man is currently lying down on his bed, shirt off like a stupid little cheeky bastard that he is, tossing some sort of ball in the air and hugging it to his chest.
There is an electricity between the two of them, Ramses trying to deny it as best he can, but given that the last two nights with him by his side have been some of his most exciting times experiencing the phenomenon that is living, he realizes eventually the battle will be lost and give away to the stirring darkness and passion that rolls over coldly in his stomach, in his gut. Ramses, if he were rational, would be more hung up on the fact that without Orion or even that head trainer in the center that he has yet to still thank, there being talk that the man has been turned into an Avox with a cut off tongue and a soul sold to the devil, he'd be dead… but that hasn't even crossed his mind. He can still die in the arena, whatever sorts of fresh horrors await them come the morning, when the clock has bled over into 1:11 AM in green text on the digital analog clock sitting on the nightstand, but here, with Orion by his side, he is flourishing.
"I…" Ramses speaks, the two of them having lapsed into silence for a moment, he having started to take off his own shirt to lie next to the guy from Four, the act of piercing the calm causing Orion to look at Ramses in that electric way his eyes appraise the world, a shiver sliding down his spine. "I have a confession to make…" he mutters, fingers catching awkwardly over the cloth of his interview outfit. He can still feel the desire in his hand at the missing fingers, Ramses wondering if the dead individual, a man he does not know whose legs are pinned beneath that building and the roaring fire from a cavernous dragon threatening to devour him whole below, has found his inner peace. Not that he believes in a higher power – well, he considers with a frown, Orion Maythorpe could be the god I am willing to worship… - but it crosses his mind often, deeper still now that he is in the Capitol.
Orion slips off of the bed like an eel, slippery and so devilishly handsome. Their night together last night had been nothing short of magic, despite whatever blushes appear on the kid's face. Ramses never knew he had the propensity to kiss down someone's back and feel droplets of warm water glide over his skin, dark in the shower cubicle with Orion's tanned backside pressed flush against his front, the delicate bits grinding in an awkward space, contained by their shaky breaths. Orion claims nothing happened, and that what they did is just stress decompression, but it is something else for Ramses and he cannot deny that it had been anything else.
He expects it to be the head trainer who pulls him out of the water, when he starts crying and tugging his savior close to him, for the chlorine in his eyes leaves him seeing blurry still, and he knows Kai'sa is there, but he doesn't want the comfort of a traitor's daughter, adopted or not. When he sees it is another one of them, another person – tribute, he corrects himself, use the right terminology – with their heads buried in the sand, he cannot help himself and lets the emotion get the better parts that he doesn't know how to handle, which is why he cries. It is some sort of luck or divine intervention or whatever the fuck to have it be Orion Maythorpe that dives in after him to save him. He had wanted him from the get-go, when he's watching the reaping recaps with Kai'sa who is trying her hardest to not collapse into a heap of tears and sobs next to him on the leather couch with Kenneth's gravelly voice echoing around the chamber. Someone he could mold; someone he could help… but he never expected Orion Maythorpe to be someone who could help him.
"Confession to make?" Orion smirks, raising his eyebrows and Ramses's knees nearly knock together then. There hasn't been anyone super special in his life, not in the way he is feeling the District 4 citizen burrow himself into his heart with electric kisses and white paint smeared across their flesh, as they spend their entire evening together in this very apartment, in that very shower after he is saved.
However, right now, with Orion looking at him in that passionate manner, with that inquisitive stare and gentleness that simply radiates down through his bones and from his toes, connecting the two of them together in this room, shirtless, barefoot… Ramses looks away, jumping overboard. He can't say how he feels, he can't. He can't admit that every thought has been of those chiseled abs, of that jaw that can slice through the same coal his father mines in the morning, or the way his sister Anastasia would be happy to potentially have a brother-in-law in the family… men had never been an option, but perhaps now it is time to call forth a shining knight in armor from the dense wood, armor glittering silver in the sunlight and sword raised high into the sky.
"It's nothing…" Ramses refutes, in shame, hanging his head low, until he picks up his bare shirt. Even in their shower yesterday, to get the chlorine off, where he feels Orion's body quite close to his personal space, he wears these gloves, they being this last-minute piece thrown in from Kenneth. He forgets to put them on when down in the training center on the day he gets close and personal with the water, but he hasn't forgotten them… his heart skips a beat.
He's not wearing his gloves. He had taken them off to… Ramses's eyes search for them, finding them on the nightstand, but it is too late, for Orion's gaze has flitted lower until they're resting on his hands. Orion reaches out, skin cold to the touch, Ramses warm and feeling hotter every second he has to stare at those stupid washboard abs.
"Your hand…" Orion says, holding onto Ramses's wrist, his other hand reaching out before pausing. The fingers are gone, the fingers that he has always wanted to keep. A leader of a great and magnificent kingdom that shines gold in the sunlight cannot be kept strong by their king who has a mutilation. It makes him ugly, feeling like a roughly stitched together piece of patchwork over one of Anastasia's dresses after Ramses accidentally swings the hot iron skillet too close to her. Or the way he feels his strength slowly waning when he holds onto the knife he uses to cut the bread for that last breakfast he has with his family before being tipped over and dangled above the carrion's nest…
His session is nothing too glamorous, picking up a blunt item, a mace, to swing at some dummies with unrestrained abandon, taking pleasure in the sickening squelch sounds that the impacts make, or the way the navy blood and plastic foam covers the battlefield of carnage, sweat pooling down his forehead. It is his good hand, however, that is the one that has been maimed, even if the gloves hide his handicap. Cain asks him about them, if they are hiding a secret, or simply an aesthetic fashion choice, Ramses sucking down a choice curse word beneath his lips... a yelp of surprise catches him off guard.
Orion brushes a finger over the healed stumps, it sending shockwaves up Ramses's spine. "You didn't tell me about them last night…" he looks back at the nightstand to see the gloves, connecting two and two together. "That's why you wore those in the shower, didn't you? You didn't want me to see you?"
Ramses draws his hand away, hugging it close to his chest. This is not how he wanted to reveal himself. It is a mutiny. Bodies will be found hanging in the morning when the sun rises in a cold dawn over the mist from the highest bridge, so the snap can be felt in the necks of the enemies that have dared throw this piece of wool over his eyes. Ramses withdraws away from Orion, falling back against the door, but he had it locked to give them privacy in case any Avox felt the need to get gutsy, or Kenneth had some late night, last minute wisdom to give.
Orion takes a step forward, lips parting, his gaze only soft, but he feels exposed, he feels naked… he'd rather be back in the shower. Ramses lets out a low hiss from the depths in his throat. "You… you weren't supposed to see…" he cradles his arm close to his chest, moving in an almost rocking sort of fashion. "It makes me look hideous. Deformed…" and then, to himself, a whisper that is only audible to his ears. "A monster not worthy of love or affection… a king to lock himself in the highest tower or deepest dungeon he can find…"
However, his words are met on deaf ears as Orion takes another step forward, though it is much smaller this time, much more lax, and his arms are down by his side. When Ramses finally looks up, he sees the crystal-clear formation of tears. Real tears, the same tears he sees slide down Anastasia's cheeks as she hugs him tight with her bony and frail little body.
"I think you look even more beautiful…" the other boy whispers, and Ramses drinks in the movement that Orion makes with his muscles.
He is not sure who moves first, but all Ramses knows is that he is crying again, even when their lips are pressed together, he wrapping his good hand around Orion's waist and pinning the two of them together. Orion places one hand under Ramses's jaw, tilting it upwards some more to give him better access to his mouth. No one has ever called him beautiful before, especially with the added phrase more beautiful… he had been beautiful to Orion in the first place, before he even misplaces the gloves.
There is not a word on Earth or in any Panemian book that is able to describe the warmth that Ramses feels filling his chest, especially after the lustful groan he makes as Orion lifts his knee between the two of them, and into the private spaces. Ramses chokes on a stunted gasp, his bad hand going to rest on the side of Orion's face, stroking down with a few fingers until the two of them retract for a split second of air.
Ramses fills the gap this time, with tongue and teeth and there's more moans and them even bumping into the door and the bookcase, but he doesn't care how much noise he makes… all he can focus on is how real this feels, and how alive his heartbeat has become roaring in his chest.
When the two finally split from each other, a trail of saliva breaking their tether while both have their arms wrapped around the other, knees pressing against one another in a slow and delicate grind, all Ramses can think about is how effervescent Orion looks in the low light of his room… how happy he is to have invited him back…
"Stay with me tonight?" Ramses begs, eyes wide and filled with darkening lust, going colder and deeper by the millisecond. "Don't go back to Diana…"
Orion chuckles lowly, kissing Ramses again. "Wasn't betting on it, my Lord."
Even with the threat of the Hunger Games nigh upon them, Ramses can only feel a single striking thought of clarity in his mind. He has found the person to rule alongside him… every king needs their queen, and he has found it in the soft and delicate curves of Orion Maythorpe.
That was Chapter #19: Creation's Cruelty, of Liberty! Well, ladies and gentlemen, another chapter for the books, and quick too! Man, can you believe it? Just one chapter away from the bloodbath, but of course, focusing on what has transpired. Nevaeh and Sylvan bridging their friendship together, but like my other D7 pairs in my Slaughterverse stories... will it stand the test of time? Portia has found allies in Nokomis and Camilla, while the boys from each respective district are rather shunted to the side, and it seems that a few of our lost and broken souls have found solace in each other's arms and spaces, but I am curious to see how many of you predicted that.
Posting this chapter has also made us reach a few other crazy milestones, guys. Liberty's wordcount has reached over 200k which is absolutely batshit insane, and we haven't even gotten to the arena yet... and we have so much more to go; the amount of time and effort and love and passion I have poured into writing this story goes a long way to that word count. The other insane milestone is that with this update I have officially breached 3 MILLION written words on this account; I've had an account for seven years, and it seems to be that somewhere around every two and a half years I hit a new 'million' scope which is just freaking nuts, but I can't have done it without all the support I have received over the years, so thank you so much.
Remember to vote on the bloodbath poll if you still haven't yet, as the last continuations of Round III arcs continue with one more chapter, #20: The District's Punishment, with two Capitol character povs from Cain and Friedrich to start and end the chapter, and tribute povs being from Pierce, Cassiopeia, Sylvan, and Vesuvia. I am so excited and so hyped... I am aiming for this update to be on Thursday which gives me nine days to work on the bloodbath and the arena, which again, ya'll ain't ready for. I hope you guys review and stay awesome, and again, thank you for your support. Have a great day! Love you all! Bye!
~ Paradigm