Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a new chapter for Liberty, Chapter #40: Change of the Guard, focused on epilogue two out of three, with another four POVs from the Capitol cast, centering with perspectives from Adriane, Cain, Richmond, and Friedrich. Last chapter, Emrick got a second dosage of reality from outside voices not in his echo chamber, Poem managed to wake up and now knows what it means to be a victor turned mentor, Nyria introduced you all to The Replicant Project, and Lydia received a midnight visitor speaking about names that should be long forgotten. This chapter is big, looking to be the same word count length, and there's some exciting developments coming about that I cannot wait to show you! Enjoy Chapter #40: Change of the Guard.
"Each of us guards a gate of change that can only be unlocked from the inside," ~ Marilyn Ferguson
Adriane Lantham: District 1 Escort P.O.V
Adriane Lantham is running out of patience. She's also running out of time, but at the crux of all things in her life for good and for evil, for what makes her heart beat, and also for what terrifies her when she clutches bedsheets close to her tanning skin, is that she's out of patience. Patience in waiting for the older spinsters to cross the street in front of her, or the time she wastes while watching an English muffin cook in the toaster on a crisp autumn day. There are only so many spotlights she can handle being stuck behind, or enough times reading the 'Elevator is Out of Order' sign that makes her then take the stairs, her handbag weighing her down by the seventh step since Adriane Lantham does not believe in exercise.
Exercise would turn her into Lydia Wickervein after all, and the woman needs help in getting her nails fixed, cause no good blooded Capitolite would be caught dead walking around with those nails like the Head Peacekeeper does. The woman needs a stylist, and pronto. It happens to be that Adriane knows a few people, higher-ups with golden crowns on their heads, eyes pale and skin that comes across translucent if they were to stand underneath a bright light.
The escort from District 1 is not just running out of patience for the menial tasks, such as waiting for her laundry to be finished, or for an email to come in from across the city. It is deeper than that, a philosophical level, in which Adriane is sick of everyone looking at her with such judgement and derision in their eyes, she narrowing her gaze at the occupants on the other side of the table.
Emrick clears his throat, motioning to the avox in the corner to come forward. The servant does as they're told, dutifully, a cup of water clenched in their grasp. Adriane lets her gaze sit on the traitor, a traitor to the nation who is without a tongue, she festering all of her energy into a glare in their direction. The avox spots her out of the corner of their eye, she unable to tell what gender the avox identifies as, though it doesn't matter. They're brooding sows to Adriane, able to be stomped on like general carpenter ants that run up and down logs.
The avox quivers in their stance, as they have their hand outstretched towards the president. Emrick holds a finger up, as he continues to take a sip from the glass. The man finishes it, sighing it with the wipe of the back of his hand on his lips, handing the glass back to the avox. Adriane keeps her glare on the servant even as they stand back in their spot, but as she returns to her normal seating position, her heartbeat skips with a start.
Lydia is standing in the back as well, against one of the bookshelves that line the walls, colored spines meshing perfectly with the leather of her Peacekeeper uniform. Glaring back at her, the Head Peacekeeper crosses her arms over her chest. Judging, judging, always judging. Adriane twists the glare into a sneer, wiping a lock of hair out of her eyes. She has just as much of a right to be in the office as her, regardless of what her official position is.
"I do more work for the Hunger Games than she ever will," Adriane tells herself, sneering, smugness filling the syllable basin with acid. "She can kiss my boots, especially when I rise above her station."
Adriane closes her eyes, curling her hands into a fist, and when she opens her eyes again, her gaze is centered on her fingers, which are in a constant cycle of an open-close motion. A sparkling silver ring sits on one of her fingers, Adriane smiling briefly at the symbol. A man who loves her very much, a man no one knows anything about since he's stayed out of the public eye for so long, has claimed that he loves her. He claims he'll take her all the way to the top, where Adriane can shout her name out and everyone will hear the clamoring noise. Everyone will hear the noise and rejoice.
Adriane Lantham is smitten by Felix Fiore and cannot wait to slip a ring on his fingers, to curl her tongue into the crooked crevices of his mouth, and to have someone who won't judge her because she chose the wrong hair dye that morning when getting up for work.
"I wonder if all the other escorts are getting jealous because of how often you and I are talking to one another, Adriane," Emrick comments, as he flicks through a notebook on his desk. He's bent over the page, not making eye contact with her. The president pauses, the page resting on his arm, as he then looks up at her. She stays silent, until he arches an eyebrow. "Well? Are they?"
"How should I know?" Adriane tosses the question aside flippantly, scowling. "I'm not the keeper of their thoughts."
Emrick rolls his eyes, swiping the page to the side. Judging. Judging, judging. Adriane comes from a world of nothingness, where there are switches getting slapped into backs versus someone holding out a warm blanket and a gentle hand. She finds herself clawing through the ranks of all the other people just wishing and dreaming to be her without an ounce of ambition stewing in their insides, and she's still dealing with blatant disrespect.
"It was just a question, Adriane," Emrick says coolly, grabbing a pen and slashing through some lines on the paper. Another pause, as he caps the black inked pen and picks up one that is red. Adriane can feel Lydia's stare bearing into her eyes, the other woman not having once taken her eyes off of the escort. "So, what can I do for you, ma'am?"
He did not. Adriane's nose flares, she gripping onto the sides of the chair hard enough that she could rip the fabric free with her claws. He pulled the ma'am card. The last person who calls her that adage – Cecelia Blackstone certainly never did; it's a tyke who might only be six or seven with a flushed bright red nose from a cold who says she dropped her umbrella… Adriane punts the kid in the face, not caring that he's crying, or that there's blood mixing in with the rainy sidewalk – did not know who she is, but it doesn't matter.
"Well, there's something important I figured we could discuss-" Adriane stops speaking, her lips pursed in an 'a' shape to indicate the next word in the sentence, her gaze bearing into the top of the president's scalp. "Mr. President, I-" she starts again, but Emrick has swapped out pens, blowing graphite away from pencil markings on the top. "Emrick," Adriane licks her lips, as the man is not paying attention to her, and Lydia won't stop glaring at her, and oh gods above she's about to spear someone through the side with her own arm. Adriane slams her hand onto the chair arm. "Dammit! When I'm speaking, pay attention to me!" she shouts.
Emrick freezes, Lydia herself freezes, and Adriane is sure the avox in the corner has completely crumbled in on themselves. The president locks his jaw, setting his glasses atop his head, rays of light sending fractals of rainbows along the desk and down onto the carpeted floor. Emrick leans back in the chair, resting a fist against the side of his cheek. Adriane keeps her chin up, her posture straight. She does not bow down to the whims of the lesser. Emrick Israel may be president, but he doesn't know who he is dealing with.
"I think you forget your place sometimes, Adriane," Emrick says at length, his tone very even-keeled. Lydia has stood up into a more stiff position, Adriane already certain that the woman is going to have her hands placed on her weapon at a moment's notice just so she can whip it out and possibly ever use it. Adriane isn't stupid. "I'm going to forget that you just said that to me," he sets the pen aside, closing the notebook. "What can I help you with?"
Adriane extends her hands, letting her nails sparkle off of the sunlight streaming in through the curtained windows, her hands glinting like a field of fresh strawberries. The perfume she puts on for the day is that of dogwood trees, and a hint of lilac. She can tell that the two of them have started to smell it by how their faces scrunch up, but Adriane has stopped trying to please people and wear only what sorts of scents they'd like. Vanilla is overrated. Felix would agree with her.
Felix agrees with every one of her points, and that is why she loves the man so much.
She doesn't hesitate, however, in explaining her reasoning for being in Emrick's office, for there are a thousand things the president can do, and she's decided to take up all the air in the room, filling up every inch of available space with her body.
"There needs to be a change of the guard," she says, keeping her voice level, her gaze centered on the president.
Emrick purses his lips, the creases in his forehead popping into prominence by the frown that stretches from ear to ear. "Adriane," he says, after a pause, holding out a finger in her direction, "If you want to be relocated to a different district because of the performance they did this year-"
"That's not what I mean," Adriane snaps, leaning forward. Why does everyone assume that she's egotistical and that everything is all about her self-image and public perception. "I could care less what district I am placed in, and District 1 is perfect-"
Lydia decides that it is the perfect time to butt in, the Head Peacekeeper venturing upwards to stand by the desk, a similar facial expression on her face akin to that of Emrick's. "Adriane, forgive our hesitancy, but when someone says, 'change of the guard' to a politician, we only have one way to really think of it," the woman's tone is gentle, far less abrasive than what Adriane expects. "If you're referring to a new president, or someone else be placed in my position, then-"
Adriane leans forward in her chair, setting her head in her hands, and lets out an enraged yell. It Everyone in the room jumps, the cry bounding along the walls, and one of Emrick's pens goes flying into the air, hitting the lip of the desk and falling to the floor.
Idiots, idiots, idiots. They're all assuming! They're assuming before the words are even out of her mouth, as if Adriane is so stupid to waltz into the president's office and tell him that he needs to be disposed of.
"You idiots!" Adriane yells, getting to her feet. "I am not talking about either one of you! I'm talking about Friedrich!"
Likewise with her outburst, her rage riddled statement bounds along the room in silence, the president looking at her with a stunned expression on his face, Lydia's more pensive than that.
It is a thought that has been on Adriane's mind for the last week and a half, ever since she gets away from District 1 and no longer has to look at Mayor Runaway Horse. Being on the phone with him every night discussing Catalus's progress to an early grave, nothing else sits on her mind more than that Friedrich Calvary is holding the nation back.
"What has Friedrich done wrong this time?" Lydia asks, she starting to pull the gloves off of her hands, setting them at the other lip of the desk.
"What hasn't he done wrong, you mean," Adriane snips back, crossing her arms.
"Adriane," Emrick cuts in, shaking his head, sighing exasperatedly. "Friedrich and you may have your own personal histories and spats, but I am not sure why you think I need to get rid of him and put someone else in his place-"
"He is tainting this nation," Adriane spits, whirling so she's standing center. It is the truth. She has no idea how the man, whose cowardice knows no bounds, whose guilt is readable on his face in the ways the shadows under his eyes only elongate with every passing day… how does the man manage to weasel himself off of death's grip. "Every single mayor from District One to Thirteen joined a rebellion, including him," she says, placing her hands atop Lydia's gloves, catching the other woman's skin briefly. "Feel that one, bitch," Adriane seethes in her head, and then aloud, continuing her rant. "All of a sudden, out of the blue, Friedrich decides to switch sides. I guarantee you it is not out of the goodness of his heart that he came to his senses and wanted to ensure the Capitol would survive," the escort has the gall to laugh, but she knows she's only speaking the truth. Friedrich Calvary is a worm, an earthworm with no sense of purpose, and someone who is holding her image down. "He should've died that night when you executed all of the other mayors, even the one from District Two, yet he's surviving and living right now!" she casts a hand in District One's general direction, though Adriane doesn't give a rat's ass about it.
Emrick leans back in his chair some more, rubbing his chin, gaze pensively in thought. "I never asked why Cain wanted him to be spared…" the president whispers, although Adriane hears it despite the lowered tone.
"If the Games are meant to be viewed as a punishment," Adriane emboldens the sound of her voice, making the president look at her. "And you have a man who willingly abled insurrection and violence against the Capitol still acting as the face from One. It's no longer being viewed as a form of punishment with him lurking around, acting as if he has some form of immunity," she shakes her head. "He's no loyalist," Adriane sneers, her voice venomous and barbed. "He's just a liar trying to cover his tracks."
A comfortable silence settles over the office as Lydia and Emrick share a glance, the president the first to break away, while the Head Peacekeeper directs hers toward the wooden floor paneling.
"You have a recommendation for Friedrich's replacement, Adriane?" Lydia asks, raising her chin, a bold stare matching Adriane's equally distasteful one. "Or did you come into Emrick's office just to continue a feud?"
"I'm the one who has been on the phone with him all night long for ten days straight," Adriane says, jutting a thumb in her direction. "I am the one who has been hearing how he regrets what he's done; I'm the one who knows that he's sick of it all and feels nothing more than guilt," and, as she rights herself away from the desk. "All you have to do is ask him. Get him to reveal he's full of shit, and that all he's doing is holding us down."
It is a rather large ask, and Adriane knows it, but none of her gut feelings have ever been wrong. If she gets this right, would they even be able to look at her with judgement in their eyes any longer?
"I hope you know what game you're playing, Adriane," Emrick says, levelly, keeping his voice low.
Adriane smirks, shrugging her shoulders. "Who are you going to believe, Emrick? Friedrich, who turned his back on his nation… or me. The one who is telling you this for the good of Panem?"
She can see it on their faces, the gears turning, the fumes spilling out of their ears that is black and sulfurous, but full of thought.
Adriane tries to suppress her smile, but she can see it, she can see Lydia's eyebrows rise, and Emrick's frown start to flatten out.
It is all going to plan; she and Felix Fiore… they're going to be changing the guard.
Cain Passionia: Head Gamemaker P.O.V
A man of Cain Passionia's importance, where his dignity is at the highest it can be, should not be sullied through the mud in some hideous way. He's been biting his tongue to try and stop the screams that wish to stem from his throat all afternoon, especially as he greets the first victor of the Hunger Games, Poem Cavalli, at the front door of the new residence, the girl putting on a brave face through the darkness that hides in her frown lines, and in her brow. Emrick and Lydia and Nyria and Richmond… they all have business elsewhere that forces Cain to take on… babysitting.
He hates it. He should not be subject to this. The girl can handle herself fine, and there already is an adult present, that being Damien Paladine hovering over her shoulder, and although he's changed out of his commiserating black ensemble from a few days ago into much brighter floral shades – it looks like something Poem would design for him, honestly, the hideous poppy seed color of the fabric down the front – the glint of bleakness is not lost in the escort's eyes.
It is ridiculous, Cain feeling like he's been knocked off of the totem pole as he shakes Poem's hand, and then shakes Damien's, though he doesn't take his gaze off of the other man even after they break away from the formalities. He knows, however, how to handle himself in all sorts of social situations – he didn't become the vice president of Panem just by having irresistible good looks or being acutely aware of how to politicize anything – and this'll be no different. Despite having the urge to get rid of Poem Cavalli and finish the job Vesuvia Vocanova is incapable of doing, it looks like, to him, that'll it be a pleasant and typical afternoon.
In the center of downtown, where the Capitol has many parks and shopping malls and fountains and all of these homely, brightly painted buildings, the Israel administration kickstarts a new set of condominiums. Cain likes the design of the homes, each painted a different color to whatever the tribute choice would fancy, and over eleven days, the Avoxes hired – "As if they have a choice," Cain snorts to himself, fancying a light laugh at their expense, "It's either hand them an executioner's blade or a paint roll." – started getting to the single home that had been finished in its construction. Each tribute, the morning of, before they were to be shipped into the arena, were to pick their favorite color… and Poem Cavalli sets on magenta.
"So," Cain drawls out, as he introduces them into the foyer, so small and tiny in the face of Panem's newest and brightest star, his hands splaying out in a circle by his side, "This is where you'll be staying whenever you're here in the Capitol on business that isn't during the Games, and in that case, you're staying in the Training Center with the other tributes." He lets the last of the words fall off of his tongue, implanting a serious tone into them so they land like cinderblocks atop Poem's feet.
The girl, who has not taken her hands out of her pockets after he shook her hand, blanches for a moment. It is a slow process, getting her to come around and see the utility of her upcoming position and what it'll represent for everyone when the Games kickstart next year. At first, Poem is apprehensive towards the idea of mentoring, as in how their first meeting went with the victor that ended in total disaster. Cain knows she heard every word he said, how Vesuvia should've won over her, for it'd be someone they could use, and he hopes those statements settle into Poem's skin and make her crumble to her knees on a nightly basis.
No one else in the Capitol is allowed to feel kingly, no one else is allowed a sense of grandeur, for Cain Passionia takes up all the available space, drowns in whatever the spotlight will give him, and he'll push everyone else off center stage, for there'll only ever be room for one.
"You like it, Poem?" Damien asks her, resting a hand on the girl's shoulder. Cain swallows another simmering scream of rage. He could do it, this could be the escort's job, but he's… he'll be buried in Kingsmark Cemetery, yet he's handling the menial jobs like an avox. There is one in the corner of the room, holding onto a plate of chocolate covered strawberries, but Cain doesn't want to give the buffoon a single iota of attention. They don't deserve it; he knows what that servant had done – stealing, he believes, from an orphanage, in such a cruel fashion as pretending to be an adoptive parent of the kids who are all dead now – and they'll stay dormant the entire time. They're Poem's now, and he hopes the girl is cruel to those who are certainly beneath her. It's what they'd deserve. "They designed it specifically to your tastes."
Poem nods, moving the escort's hand off of her body. She takes a step into the center of the foyer, Cain pressing himself into the cold countertop that circles around the kitchen. The radio chatter of the Peacekeeper stationed at the front door consumes the air, save for the quiet chirping of the sparrows nearby in the tree on the front lawn. The victor pauses, spinning around once, then twice, her dress floating up like the petals of a blooming flower.
She's way too old to act like this. Cain scoffs at her antics, a jubilant look spreading across the girl's face. Raziel, when he had been alive, would have never acted like she is doing right now, and he had seen the horrors of the war firsthand, when there are acts of violence happening in the districts that hadn't been made public yet, as Cain comes home and sets his head on the dining room table and weeps about the loss of product.
"It's lovely," Poem gushes, holding her hands close to her heart. When she makes eye contact with Cain, he smiles warmly back at her, and her grin wavers. The darkness appears once more, this time as a breaking shadow over her forehead to where her scalp starts, her hairline pressed down onto the skin. She breaks away to look at Damien, holding his hands tightly. "You are more than welcome to stay here too! There's a couch," and the girl points, to where the couch is. Smooth leather, antiquated from District 1 from someone who no longer had need of it.
"The avox in the corner, in fact," Cain thinks to himself, smugly. The avox had been from One, who stole from kids in orphanages… and they're staring at a piece of furniture they used to owe. Is there anything crueler in the world to do to them?
Damien's warm laugh breaks Cain from his inner monologue, the man scowling at the escort, whose hands are clutching at his stomach. "That's awfully sweet of you, Poem, but I have my own place."
"Rat infested…" Cain whispers, but it seems to be that the other man hears it, flashing him a glare. Poem, however, goes to flop onto it, the couch giving a little groan as it buckles from the inertia. "Don't break the floor," the vice president groans, looking towards her. "Or it's coming out of your winnings."
"Sorry…" Poem laughs, tucking a lock of hair around her ears. The girl stands up, brushing off her dress, which for once, is not horrid. Which means it most likely isn't hers, then, Cain giving her a one over. "It's just… I've gotten used to a hospital bed and the ground that…" she pauses, breaking the happiness on her face one more. "I forget what it feels like to have privilege," Poem looks at Cain in the eyes. "I'm sure you understand."
"I'm afraid I don't," Cain says, shrugging his shoulders. He does. He remembers the privilege of being a father, of being a parent who had someone to care and raise for. Raziel is everything that Cain isn't – wasn't, you moron, wasn't, Cain has to harshly correct himself – where his sweetness comes from a genuine place, versus one of facades and masks and ivory gowns. He remembers what it was like to have a wife who wanted to kiss him, who wanted to be with him, but now the two sleep in separate beds for any idea of physical activity is so disgusting with him that Cain drags those feelings into the Gamemaker Center, as if he were wearing ankle weights pinning him to the floor. At his words, Poem's shoulders deflate, which gets Cain's mind spinning. "Oh! I almost forgot to give this to you," he says, beginning to walk around the back counter.
There is a package for Poem, it addressed to her with her name written on a sparkling golden calling card attached to the center of the rather light item. It is wrapped up in a velvet covering, Nyria claiming she had pulled the fabric off of one of the First Lady's dresses, but Cain is sure she's just saying it to act macho.
"What is it?" Poem asks, taking a step back from the vice president as he approaches her with the item in his hand.
"It won't harm you, I promise," Cain says, smiling as realistically as he can. He senses Damien staring at him again, which makes a vein in the man's neck bulge in prominence; the escort will get his just desserts soon, Cain just has to wait. Of course it is natural that the girl, who had been given multiple gifts in the arena, would be wary of them. It makes perfect, completely idiotic sense to him.
The victor takes the package from Cain, testing the lightness in her hand as she bounces it up and down a few times. She begins to tear into it, pieces of wrapping paper crumbling onto the floor, the avox in the corner not taking their eyes off of the mess. Cain is impressed. At the very least they know their place, and what their duty consists of.
Poem's breath catches in her throat when the last bit of covering has been torn away, and the girl is staring at her sketchbook in her hands, Cain keeping his face relatively level as the girl looks at it. A light whimper follows suit as she opens it, the flap going to the side with the golden buckle attached to it clinking when it makes contact. Her eyebrows rise, mouth parted open slightly, and it is all that Cain expects her to do.
"Nyria had it taken out of the backpack that you left behind on the obsidian beach in the arena," Cain tells her, placing his hands in his pockets, mirroring how Poem once again, with her right hand, is digging the limb around where he cannot see it. "She wanted to make sure it was completely clean, and that the book was in pristine condition before we handed it back to you," the vice president bounces on the tips of his toes, rocking in a seesaw motion. "I hope you're happy to have it back."
Cain sees a glimmering shard of crystal fall down Poem's face, and beyond that, her lower lip quivering. The victor tilts her head to the side, running her fingers over the first design in the book. Most of them were beautiful, as Nyria claims she went through all of them in curiosity, which earns her a sharp reprimand from Emrick and Lydia both on invading her privacy – "We killed her lover and her best friend," Cain retorts to them, surprised he'd even be jumping to Nyria's defense in the first place, lips centered around a grape clenched in his hands, "And we're concerned about the privacy of her drawings?" – that all of them had been absolutely lovely to look at it. It surprises him, and even amuses him as well, that the girl then cannot execute her visions properly.
"Can- can I have a moment?" she asks, Poem lifting her head up, tears spilling freely down her face. Cain stretches on the tip of his toes to see what drawing she's stopped at, his heart skipping a beat as he sees, on the page, in etchings of graphite and dark swathing fabric that swoops off of the boy's body, who is now a corpse buried six inches deep beneath a birch tree, the haunting look of Niklaus Peverell's body. "Please?" Poem rasps.
"Of course, Poem. Bathroom is straight behind me," Cain nods his head, jutting his thumb in the direction behind him. She scampers off without a word, holding the sketchbook in her hands, it tight to her chest, as Poem blurs by the vice president towards her sanctuary.
The vice president keeps his head down low, chin tuckered in towards his sternum, while Damien simply looks at him from his spot in the foyer.
"You think she was going to react in any other way?" the escort asks him, the gall at having humor in his tone.
"I'm not a psychic, Mr. Paladine," Cain snaps back, taking a menacing step towards the man. He cannot forgive him for the outburst he had a few days ago in the hospital room, with Poem sleeping in solitude, and the man who he always believed to be a staunch Capitol supporter with feverish love for the Games espouses such treasonous rhetoric.
"You are going to break her," Damien rasps, his eyes freshly wet with tears as well. What a happy moment between everyone, when the pair from Eight is able to share their feelings and link them well. "If you haven't already. Forcing her to do all these things, giving her gifts at every corner. She killed people, Mr. Vice President," the man shakes his head. "She's not a celebrity through her designs, but her savagery."
Cain's eyes alight with the fierceness of a volcano, spewing hot magma down his arms, incinerating around his fingers, dripping heat onto the floor. He takes another threatening step in Damien's direction, getting right into the man's personal space.
"You are getting on my last nerve, Damien," Cain hisses. "You best watch your tongue before I cut it out of your mouth. You better watch what you say," he warns.
Damien cocks his head to the side, eyes glinting a challenge. "Or what, Cain?" the man taunts him, and there's so much vitriol behind the words, so much sleaziness and trash in the man's throat. "You going to make me sleep with you like Friedrich Calvary did to deserve your forgiveness?"
Cain's nostrils flare, and his ledger goes dark with crimson blotting out his features.
The vice president takes a step back, raising his right hand. He will not get himself dirty for this, as it isn't his calling. Violence is the mantra of someone else in the room, however.
The Peacekeeper in the corner is the one to slug the escort across the face with the back of their gun, a tooth flying out of the escort's mouth, and Cain's heart beats quicker and quicker at the sight of scarlet splattering onto the wooden paneling beneath their feet.
Let the man have his quick wit and his words, let Poem have her designs and her darkness.
Cain will not allow any of it to go unchecked without punishment.
A Passionia does not allow one to be humiliated and let someone else get away with it.
Richmond Anvil: Master of Ceremonies P.O.V
Being married to Lydia Wickervein, Richmond metaphorizes to himself, in his journal, is like having an endless supply of lollipops at his fingertips. He's not entirely huge on sweet, sugary candy for it rots his teeth and would mean that the sexiest man alive in Panem – Cain Passionia can think he's the hottest shit there is, but everyone knows that they just let the Vice President have his fantasies to keep himself occupied – would then have to wear dentures. Richmond shudders at the thought sometimes, the very idea that the Master of Ceremonies in all of his gloriousness would have to resort to false teeth, sparkling whites that give an off-white bleach look to them under the halogen lights. Would the audience be able to see the spots that'd come out with every fresh batch of orange juice?
Not getting too lost in the metaphor, he knows it means his wife is sweet, a lovely delicacy to have and always cherish close, for if he were to drop his lollipop, he'd be saddened. Reaching the end of the candy, when he's just holding the pale, saliva covered stick, there'll always be another one to satisfy his craving. He and Lydia may have their ups and downs, sure, but he loves her for the strength he can rely on when she's rising and he's falling.
"You look beautiful tonight," he tells her, keeping the smile on his face as he places his napkin into his lap, fingers reaching for the straw in his glass of sweet tea, to stir it. Lydia blushes, or at least, he believes it to be a blush rising on her face as the candlelight does not illuminate her wholly. She, however, does look radiating; any time she can slip out of the gaudy Peacekeeper leather in a uniform that is designed to be too large for her – Richmond whole heartedly believes that Cain does it on purpose, just to screw with her over some sort of vendetta that he's unaware about – is a time to be celebrated. She's in a golden gown with sparkling diamonds cresting down the center around her chest, light makeup applied to her face, and for the occasion, as a birthday present from a couple of years ago, the ruby earrings he buys for her. It had been a payment for the watch Richmond is wearing on his wrist.
"Richmond, you say that every night," Lydia smiles at him, she stabbing a piece of lettuce with her fork, the vegetable coated in a strawberry vinaigrette, a pool of pink and dark magenta building on her plate. "I am starting to think you don't mean it," she says, winking at him as she takes her bite.
He notices she's wearing the wedding ring, the halcyon band there on her hand as he expects it to be. He isn't sure, truthfully, why she forgets all the time to wear it, for even if they do not have Emrick's blessing in their marriage being successful – it confuses Richmond, as to why they have to even get his blessing, he isn't a parish, and they're adults, not young teenagers acting foolishly – Richmond wants their union to be stout, to be real.
"It's my job to make people feel good," Richmond grins, blowing cold air onto the spoon in his hand, tomato soup filling the utensil as he brings it to his mouth. It's a bit warm, but the heat keeps Richmond's mind off of the intensity that is staring at his wife's face. She is always surprising him, whether it be with performing an act of heroism that'll always go undocumented, for the Capitol festers on the drama and the bad deeds versus the acts of valor and honor. He can only hope that he brings as much to the table as she can.
There's a pause, another blush on Lydia's face, the wick of the flame highlighting the jade in her eyes, while the two eat their appetizers.
"I have to give my thanks to Emrick in letting you have the weekend off," Richmond comments, as he takes another swig of his sweet tea, pulling the glass closer to him. "With the preparation for the Games and everything, I feel like we've hardly seen each other."
Lydia nods and hums a comforting sound as she spears a strawberry with her fork, lifting the fruit to her mouth. "Emrick got called away on business to District 1 tonight, and he felt that having me along would sour things," Richmond pauses in setting his drink aside, it held in midair as he pauses. Why would the president be in District 1? There were many important things that needed to be done at home, the Capitol needs their leader more than the districts. "Well, not sour things," Lydia corrects, after taking her bite, a pensive look on her face. "I make Friedrich nervous, apparently."
"You make everyone nervous, Lydia," Richmond says, reaching across the table to pat her hand. She retracts it away from him, she frowning, judgement in her stare. "I mean it as a compliment, I swear," he adds, smiling, patting her on the hand again when she places it on the table once more.
They're waiting on their entrees, Lydia having ordered shrimp and scallops, and Richmond wants a hearty sirloin to fill his stomach before bed, when he and Lydia lay side by side together, locked arm in arm, hand in hand, listening to each other's heartbeats and the sound of their breathing, to ensure the other is still alive. Occasionally she'll ask him what he's writing in the journal that he jots ideas down in, but he'll simply tell her it's a secret and they leave it at that.
He has questions of his own to ask her, such as when the random stranger bursts into their bedroom a few nights ago in the middle of the morning, babbling about some name of a boy Richmond has never heard of, and he's also never seen the look of terror that flashes across her face before. Lydia is stout-hearted, and even in the weather of all the terrible things she's seen – Richmond knows what they are, for he's had to report them to the populace of Panem, faces glued to static screens begging for answers that he doesn't know he actually has – but the look on her face then, back in their bedroom, to make her drop her weapon… that is a rare event.
However, he knows it is in over his head, for matters that do not concern him, and she never talks about work as is, not on an open level.
"And from One," Lydia continues speaking, after their silence has passed, and she's finished her salad, taking a sip of her water, "Emrick is going to go straight there to District 8 tomorrow, since he'll be showing Poem her new home because of her victory," She pauses, locking eyes with her husband, Richmond smirking back at her. "And our Master of Ceremonies will get to show the entire nation what it looks like when you win big by interviewing her," Lydia sets her glass aside. She wipes at her mouth with a napkin. "And then tomorrow, I think Cain and I are supposed to have dinner and talk about next year's security measures."
"Don't you think it's a bit too early for that, Lydia?" Richmond frowns, pushing the soup around with his spoon. A middling tide of red, a tide with no discernible direction, a flooding gush of blood that pours out of stabbed steak, or a speared side… Richmond sets his soup aside, leveling his mouth at the thought of seeing Sylvan Adello get pinned to the cave wall time and time again.
"Nothing's ever too early here in the Capitol, darling," Lydia admonishes sweetly, as she takes her spoon and grabs the last droplets of the dressing, pouring them into her mouth. There's another pause as the couple locks their gaze across the table, he smiling, breaking the look first. Lydia lets out a light laugh, pulling at her hair. "I know that we often have a date night when I have time off, but it's usually a little more quiet than this," she says, looking around the empty restaurant; it's bought out because Richmond asks it to be. Being pretty and wealthy has its privileges. "You brought me out here and asked me to get dressed up for something else, didn't you, Richmond?" His wife leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, ducking her hands under her chin. Richmond knows his parents would simply be mollified by her table manners. "What's up?" she asks, sweetly.
Richmond sets his spoon aside, sitting up.
He has known Lydia Wickervein for far too long, where the way they met sometimes is muddled together in incoherent stories that do not make sense, details forgotten, extraneous pieces of info added in that have no right to be there… but one thing has been constant in their relationship. Many nights of romance, of pleasure, of sweet talking and pillow talk and chocolate candies placed in his hands. Nights where banter consists of what wallpaper they'd get for their first house, for the luxurious apartment is indeed beautiful, but it isn't a home. A home that Richmond wants.
A home requires a family to be seated in it.
He reaches out, grasping for Lydia's hand. His skin is what is cold this time as he holds onto her, she moving them absentmindedly to be near the flame. It flickers across her face, sparkling Lydia's gorgeous eyes, and Richmond forgets himself.
"I want to try for a family, Lydia," he says, tightening his grip on her hand.
She's pulled away a thousand times before this, where her face sours as if she's placed a lime between her teeth and sucked hard. The idea had been, once they say their vows, and he lifts the veil off of her face, and they kiss under the stars and let rose petals decorate their backsides from the happy onlookers, they'd discuss children at another time. Lydia isn't ready, and soon after their marriage is agreed upon and official, Nathaniel Coin does the barbaric acts that he commits, and the dream that Richmond wants is just like a wisp of cloud floating between his fingers.
Lydia doesn't react at first, which only makes Richmond notice the harsh beating of his heart in his chest, against his ribcage, where he's begging, pleading that she say something, but it's just her rubbing her thumb over his knuckles.
"Now?" she asks, it hardly in a whisper, where he almost does not hear her, as if she hadn't even spoken at all. "It's been a long time since you asked. Why now?"
Richmond bites down on his cheek. It is the thoughts in his journal, what he has been scribbling down night after night is one phrase, a mantra, 'Ask her.' It could be about anything, but sitting at the table, watching his wife's face get lit up in a glow of warm oranges and fierce cardinals, he wants to take that next step.
"Why not?" he goes for the leap, shrugging his shoulders, keeping the smile on his face, for if it falls, then Lydia gives in to the easier answer; she'll crumble too. "If we push it back forever and ever then it'll never happen, and we'll die without having anyone to our name…" Richmond rubs his thumb over her knuckles in a similar fashion, keeping his smile on her. If she gets it, if she gets this, between them… it'll all be worth it. "You know we've been wanting to be parents for a long time."
"You have," Lydia corrects, but her correction is everything except harsh, as if he were tasting some of her own strawberry vinaigrette. "I just don't know if motherhood is something I'd be great at, Richmond. Besides, I don't think being Head Peacekeeper and pregnant is something that'll go together," Lydia's other hand goes to her stomach, Richmond swallowing hard. "And you know how hard I fought to get this job when everyone had already counted me out."
Richmond looks down at his soup, at the idea at burying his head in it and screaming where only the tablecloth would be able to hear him and his desperations. He hates having to be barbed, but sometimes all Lydia knows is aggression. "Three years ago, we didn't have a baby because you didn't want to make Cain and Bella jealous," Lydia's eyes flash akin to that of a viper's, Richmond swallowing the heavy gasp in his throat. "But… are we going to be self-conscious of someone's misfortune our whole lives and let it pass by our own happiness?" he shakes his head, trying to keep his calmness afloat before it turns into a pathetic plea. "I don't want to be stuck on a platform with a golden ticket in my hand waiting for the train to arrive," he tightens his grip, only a little, and Lydia's face does not waver. "I have to take that next step to walk onto the tracks myself, Lydia," he tells her.
She nods, biting down on her lip. "Can I be candid, Richmond?" Lydia asks, after a pause, where the crackling of the air around them is the only noise covering the table. He nods at her, and Lydia withdraws her hand, placing both of them in her lap, Richmond keeping his arm outstretched; it'll always be there for her to hold. "I don't think I want to bring a child into this world, Richmond," she says, and the man sits back, letting the cold tide of disbelief crash directly into his head. "With the Hunger Games going on, and the death of all of those kids," Lydia bites out a gasp, squeezing her eyes shut, tilting her head to the side, "They all had parents, who I am sure loved them all so very much and are mourning all of their lives right now…" Lydia rasps, and there are tears going down her face. "How do I explain to our child why their life is more important than the ones who live in the districts?" Richmond is at a loss for words, only mutterings and stuttering syllables leaving his lips. "How do I show them that I am anything other than a monster?"
His wife leaps to her feet, throwing her napkin to the table. She bids one look at Richmond, balefully, where he can feel her stare piercing through his heart, and he's dying like Vesuvia Vocanova did with the needle stuck in her skin, before she wipes her face with the back of her hand, Lydia racing towards the entrance of the restaurant.
"Lydia!" Richmond calls, turning around in his seat, but his voice does not get her to stop, despite how hard his voice cracks, despite how he'll know when he wakes up tomorrow to show the world Poem Cavalli's new lifestyle, it'll be sore and hoarse. "Lydia!" Richmond screams.
He's crying too, as he watches his wife flee the restaurant, and all the words he's ever wanted to say die on his lips in a tantalizing cry of anguish.
His future steps out of the door, and his heart snaps in two.
Friedrich Calvary: Mayor of District 1 P.O.V
Friedrich wants to do nothing else but go back inside and wait where it is safe. Safety is just a falsehood, wool pulled over his eyes to make himself be convinced that he won't end up dying with a knife in his throat, as he drowns in tides of sanguine spilling from his wounds. He's sent his wife to bed, letting her stay inside and bolt the door for the men are talking, which is what he uses in the loosest sense of the word as Friedrich maintains eye contact with the president, who is standing, for no real reason at all, on his outside porch, with a glass of brandy in his hand, nursing it slowly as if he were drinking a medicinal sleeping potion.
The mayor prefers to go cold turkey for the evening, letting the warm September breeze flutter over the trellises and into the back side of his shoes, which leave wet imprints in the wooden deck from the light rain that had showered earlier in the day. It takes all of his willpower to keep his hands by his side, versus wrapping them along his waist, trying to keep all of his warmth and security tucked into his soul.
"Again," Emrick smiles loosely, keeping a light grin on his face which does not put Friedrich at ease at all, "Sorry for dropping in so late. Checking in with all the mayors about discontentment and whatnot with the new victor and everything," he takes a sip of his drink, Friedrich watching the bob of his throat, of the bulking that the man's neck muscles do which is so ridiculous… he could tear that part of the man open and watch him bleed copper, but Friedrich knows it'd be the end of him as well, with the two Peacekeepers stationed out in the lawn, their white ghostliness visible like pale specters under the flickering twinges of moonlight.
"It's very appreciated, Mr. President," Friedrich nods, keeping his voice low, nodding his head. It's all a trap, it all instinctually feels wrong, like he's about to be carved up into a sirloin and served with a side of garlic butter. Whenever an envoy from the Capitol is to arrive in the districts, there is always a team set ahead of them to prepare the meeting. Someone calls his secretary and notifies her of a presumable meeting… not- not this, which has Friedrich shudder, biting down on his lips as hard as he can to break the plea for mercy from leaking out too early. No one does this, no one arrives at his residence – it isn't even the Justice Building, he isn't even there for this – when it is almost midnight, flanked by his hideous goons. "Everything has been peachy."
Peachy is not the word for it, Friedrich lying through his teeth. There haven't been riots, and luckily for Friedrich, no civil unrests that he needs to put down, but there is, between everyone, a collective gasp of horror that rises through all of District 1's streets as they watch Catalus Drachma receive his grisly fate by having his head smashed into an orange pulp against the side of the cornucopia. Friedrich's wife, who's only real talent is making scrambled eggs that taste like they come from heaven and were locked away in a chest filled with gold, even has to turn her head away from the carnage, covering her ears from the pitiful screaming coming from the boy before Vesuvia finishes the killing blow… it makes Friedrich lose his breakfast, the heaven-esque gold slipping out of his mouth before he can help himself all over the carpet.
"His blood is on my hands," Friedrich thinks to himself, morosely. "It had been his side of the Conglomerate in charge of that prisoner who told me their plans. I am the one who forced them to offer Catalus up as a blood sacrifice…" he turns away from the president, staring up at the moon, trying to find comfort in the surface of the celestial object, but he can only see a face in the rocky surface.
Catalus's crying face, tears of blood streaming down the rocky surface, where there are craters in all of the wrong places on the boy's skin.
Friedrich gasps, stumbling back, knocking into a potted plant sitting on a stool that is by the glass door. The plant falls off of the stool, smashing into pottery pieces, dirt spilling everywhere, bright green leaves a pop of color in the black soil. The mayor wipes at his mouth, flicking himself in the face with his fingers up and down a few times to snap himself to attention. It is a tic of his as of late, where there are too many faces that he sees, and triple the amount of voices that rise from the bathtub drain, bemoaning for their lost lives, begging for him to give them mercy… all of it is his fault, his fault, his fault, his fault!
"You're weak!" Friedrich hisses to himself, in his head. "You've caused all of this suffering to all of these people, and you can't even withstand it! Someone else in your position would without guarantee not have the word 'runaway' attached to their nickname! Coward, coward, coward!" the man starts to crumble in on himself, sinking to his knees, forgetting that Emrick is even on the patio with him, even as the older man starts to make his way over to the mayor.
"Friedrich?" Emrick says his name, concern filling the void, the scorned yelling in his head that threatens to bombard him over the skull, to leave him lifeless like a corpse staring up at the sun, wide-eyed, pale faced, gaunt and so hideous… is this to be his fate? Friedrich hears the president's shoes making clattering noises as he kicks aside some of the broken pieces of pottery. "Friedrich, what's bothering you?"
"I'm-" the mayor rasps, leaping to his feet, rubbing his cheeks with his hands to bring a rush of color to them. "I'm fine, Mr. President," he says, shaking his head, dusting his blonde hair off. Catalus had dark hair, Cecelia had dark hair… he's always wanted dark hair; Adriane has dark hair, he's surrounded by heads of black where Friedrich's brightly haired head has the blackest soul of the District 1 group. "I just see things sometimes, it's no big deal."
"That wasn't ever disclosed to us," the president frowns, crossing his arms. The Peacekeepers are still always where they were in the lawn, and they haven't even flinched. The older man sets a hand on Friedrich's shoulder, forcing him to turn and look at him. "I know that this is unprecedented, but truth be told, you were the last person left in the list. I have to head to District 8 in the morning to move Poem into what we're calling the Victors Village."
It's another lie.
Friedrich has not heard of any meetings with the other district mayors and the president. Just him. He's so lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky… screwed.
He shakes his head, his body shivering despite it being comfortable outside. The Victors Village, however, is not an unknown term to him; he's seen one being built out west in the district, near the gemstone factories where the streets smell of lilac and ruby gold, perfume wafting up through smokestacks. There is also other construction going on, there being contractors that Friedrich knows he does not approve of being there, and when he asks Adriane about it, for it reeks of her own doing, she simply smiles at him and waves her fingers, hanging up the phone calls.
"I hope your travelling goes well," Friedrich says. "I want your plane to hit a cell tower in District Five and explode," he thinks, darkly, as the president smiles and claps the mayor on the shoulder again. "I have to ask, Mr. President," the man continues, which gets Emrick to raise an eyebrow, "I feel like there have been developments in my own district happening without my approval, and without my knowledge that they're taking place," Friedrich keeps the rattle in his voice low, though his hands are shaking, he ameliorating that by placing them in his pockets. "The construction out north," he juts his head in that direction. "All the tow trucks and tractors and workers… something happening I'm not privy to?"
Emrick smiles appealingly, though it only makes waves of nausea churn in Friedrich's stomach. "Adriane had an idea about turning District 1, as well as Two and Four, into something called the Careers," the word sends shivers down the mayor's spine. "Since Catalus, Magnus, Diana, and to an extent, despite not being in an alliance with the trio, Portia and Orion from your district and those two, were all so capable, and provided so much of the entertainment, we are debating on installing a program that lets prospective tributes train for the Games."
Friedrich raises his eyebrows in surprise. Adriane had been so smug over the last week, this is why, he figures… she had somehow convinced the president of Panem to act in her favor. She's climbing the ladder, and she isn't even having to sleep with anyone.
He didn't mean to take Cain up on the offer, but the man had lost his son, is waging a war, and Friedrich sees an opportunity to save his skin, for everyone else is going to be executed, even the mayor from Two who saw the light way earlier than Friedrich ever did, so he prostrates himself before the vice president, and without even knowing it, his fingers have found belt buckles and straps of underwear.
His lips were bruised for weeks, he having to lie to everyone who saw him that he had gotten into a bar fight, which isn't a total lie, but-
"Good for her," Friedrich keeps his arms crossed this time, rocking back and forth on his heels slowly, sucking in a deep breath. "I am glad Adriane was able to do something for once with her life," he insults her, making a sour face. Emrick hums a non-committal sound again, as he starts walking back to the center of the patio, over towards his glass of brandy.
Adriane Lantham, the thorn in Friedrich's side, where the woman is undermining him every step of the way, because she can, and he's watching helplessly as his position is knocked time and time again, and there's nothing he can do, for he's already stepped out of line once, and-
"Can I ask you a question, Friedrich?" Emrick questions, turning on his heels, the ice in his glass jingling together in soft clinking noises, another shiver sliding down the mayor's arms at the noise.
"Of course, sir," Friedrich nods, the water in his mouth drying up. Cain had asked him only question before they had absolved themselves of bedsheets and their clothes. "How loyal are you, really?" the mayor repeats the question in his head, expecting it to be the trademark statement that comes from the president.
"How are you handling the job of being the mayor?" the president asks, finishing the last drop of brandy, the murky liquid vanishing behind a set of pale lips, lips that resemble a frozen star crashing into the ground. He doesn't take the ice cubs, Friedrich realizes, as Emrick then decides to toss the glass out over his shoulder and into the lawn. The mayor doesn't see it land, nor does he know if it breaks or not, but a cold, malevolent chill seizes up his spine, leaving him frigid and stock-still. "I've never asked you how you took everything, in being the only one from before," the president adds, heaviness in his voice at the last word.
Before. What a word, where Friedrich is unsure what it even means to him anymore. What does it mean, to be in the before? Is there any other existence than the one he is now trapped in?
"I'm tired," Friedrich admits, wiping at beads of sweat dripping down his face, closing his eyes when one bead gets to close too his vision. "I am mentally exhausted, and I can't get enough sleep, and-" he stops speaking, noticing a heavy creak, as if someone had walked briskly up to him. When Friedrich opens his eyes, Emrick is directly in his personal space. "I-"
Friedrich notices the knife in the president's hand way too late, it only registering in the other man's hand when the burst of blood splatters over Friedrich's shoes.
The mayor lets out a frightened gasp, it turning into a revolting scream as the president plunges the dagger straight into Friedrich's stomach once, then twice, three times, stabbing, stabbing, and oh god there is so much blood…
Friedrich collapses to his knees, hands going immediately to his wounds, a bubble of blood croaking out of his lips and down his face, dripping onto the deck, onto the patio he has been so comfortable in for so long.
He is left out of all the projects concerning him, for he is no longer a concern to the administration. More scarlet dribbles down Friedrich's chin as he rolls over, laying supine on the deck, staring up at the president's face. It is unemotional, not even a single hint of morosity or apathy… Friedrich is not sure which is worse.
"I am sorry Friedrich," the president admits, but his voice is level, and there is no sorrow in his tone. "This is something I should've done a long time ago."
Emrick leans down, getting atop Friedrich, and the man is unperturbed by the amount of blood that is getting on his clothes, and the mayor is screaming, yelling, begging, but he knows it is all worthless.
Even as the cold bite of steel slices through his neck, Friedrich is trying to run away, trying to hide, trying to get all of the screams and voices to stop making him feel so guilty, for he did nothing wrong!
The president slices the mayor's throat open, and unlike in the arena, there are no cannons to mark his death, when Friedrich Calvary's head lulls back onto the deck with a thud, and there are no anthems in the sky to commiserate his passing.
The mayor dies, and the old world is pushed out to open up the new, a change of guard instilled as his blood freshly dries on the patio, with the rising of the dawn.
Well, ladies and gentlemen, that was Chapter #40: Change of the Guard, the second of three epilogues that are marking the end of Liberty's reign, before we jump into Declaration of Death. Adriane demanded results, Cain felt demoted, Richmond pushed out a wish that was harshly rejected, and Friedrich met his end. It wouldn't be a Paradigm SYOT series of epilogues without some character death or intrigue, and Friedrich's passing was one I initially had saved for next chapter, but I felt it fit more here, for there are still explosive things to come in the last chapter of the story, #41, which I am so excited for.
Chapter #41: The Replicant, is going to be another four-person pov chapter, and it may bleed a little bit onto the long side with two of the povs I wish to have, but I am going to try and be as even keeled as possible. I am expecting to update that on September 30th, like I have been planning to do for over a month now, and there's one thing I am good at: reaching those deadlines come hell or high water. POVs will be from Emrick, Cain (he may be one of the povs I omit depending on how things shape up), Poem with her last pov of the story, and Lydia to finish us off. I cannot believe I am about to reach the end of this story, and for all of those that have stuck with me on this ride, thank you so much.
I hope you all enjoyed this epilogue, and I do hope I hear from you and your thoughts. Remember, submissions are open for the sequel, Declaration of Death, and planning has been fast underway, it is going to be another intense rollercoaster and I'd love you all there. The guidelines and rules and the submission form are on my profile, and the first prologue has been posted; hope to see you there! I love you all so much, and I will see you guys this Thursday for the last epilogue, wow! Have a great day! Bye!
~ Paradigm