*deep breath* So, wow, last time for this story do I ever get to say this; hey everyone, Paradigm here! I'm back with a brand new, the *final* chapter for Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Death, Chapter #41: The Replicant. I cannot believe we are here, and I cannot believe that I am sitting on my third completed SYOT. I never know how to feel when writing these chapters, as usually i am utterly sobbing and also an inconsolable mess, which is great! Last chapter, #40: Change of the Guard, really led to one major development, that being that Friedrich Calvary, the mayor from District 1 was stabbed and killed by Emrick as Adriane called for a rough change of the old guard. This chapter, initially I said was going to be four povs with an extra one from Cain, but I am switching it to just three: Emrick's opening, Poem is bringing up the rear, and Lydia is closing us off! For all of you who are here, I am so happy and proud to be sitting on this story and have you all here through this massive like... 490k behemoth... anticipate my AN at the end to be massive as it always is, and let's get into it! Enjoy Chapter #41: The Replicant!
"They say when you meet somebody that looks just like you, you die." ~ P. Wish
Emrick Israel: President of Panem P.O.V
Friedrich Calvary's dying screams echo in Emrick's ears still, twelve hours later, as he grabs his tea spoon to stir the coffee sitting out in front of him. The murky dark liquid is a tinge brighter today than his usual roasts with pumpkin creamer, the fall tastes tangy on his tongue. His hands are cool, despite the mug being full of hot coffee, unlike how warm his hands were last night holding the stainless steel blade.
"Not stainless anymore," Emrick thinks to himself, dinking the spoon against the rim of the mug, watching droplets of liquid coalesce off of the dip and into the pool of mahogany below. It is like the blood that drips off of the knife onto Friedrich Calvary's unmoving face as Emrick stands above him, looking down at the man without a drop of sympathy for him.
The two Peacekeepers stationed out in the lawn walk up to him, their boots loud on the deck, the soldier in the lead handing Emrick a towel. It is fleecy white, Emrick wiping his forehead first, before lathering the towel up with the knife, its snow streaks ruined by copper stains that bleed through his hands, making the towel heavy in Emrick's grasp. He hands the knife off to the next Peacekeeper who joins them.
"Discard of his body in the incinerator down at the mayor's office," he tells the man, and then, turning to the Peacekeeper who had arrived first, "Get rid of Mrs. Cavalry in any way you see fit. I've spilled enough blood today," and the soldier nods his head dutifully, going off to do his job.
The Calvary family is no more, and although Emrick has no idea how Friedrich's wife meets her end, he suspects it is done quickly, for the Peacekeepers join him down at the incinerator just a few minutes after the president arrives there, carrying a body wrapped up in two hefty rugs on the Peacekeeper's shoulder. He doesn't have to question the man's methods, as long as he knows they're accomplished, and that is all he can ask of the men in his administration.
It is all he can ask of Panem, yet they've stolen that trust with a silver knife and cries for justice that fall on deaf ears. Instead of picking up a picket sign or chanting some slogan, they grab grenades and cry out war chants, as if that'll get the district citizens the action they believe fits the crime.
Emrick wipes at his mouth with a napkin, crumbling it in his hands. The pair of them are dead, and the mayor spot in One is vacant, another politician to fall to the woes of the Israel administration, another politician that could not stand under their might. A stain on the land of Panem, a reminder of old… and the man, even in the end, begged for his life, which Emrick is happy to end. The man had been a traitor, and Emrick is blind to see it, with his ledger consumed in so much red from all of the deaths encompassing Panem that there is no other way for the fairytale to end, no other outcome Emrick Israel can see rising over the horizon.
"It had to be done," the president mutters, looking out the window of the moving train. Going by train is the preferable way to enter District 8, as he wants Poem, who is sitting in another car by herself, holding onto her sketchbook that Cain gives her the day before, to have her home district see her in all of her grown-up glory. "There's no other way around it, and I had to be the one to do it…" Emrick takes a sip of his scalding hot coffee, letting it burn his throat, rasping out a gasp only at the last second.
He cannot believe that Adriane, that hothead escort who thinks she's the hottest shit since Venus had been discovered, turns out to be right, where the smugness on her face cannot be replicated no matter how hard he tries to bat it away with a hand. The woman swears that it'd be bad for the image of the Games, and after some quick consulting with Cain, who is not against the idea at all and rather shrugs his shoulders at it, Emrick knows what must be done. It had to be done in a way where Friedrich is to not expect it, though the man had always been rather cowardly and paranoid regardless of the fact that the president would be in his presence at his abode, rain or shine, day or night.
"Just how did that man end up surviving when all the others didn't?" he questions Cain, yesterday, in their video call, as the president boards the hovercraft. "We killed every other district mayor but him, Cain. Why?"
Cain locks his jaw, gaze passing to something beyond the camera that Emrick cannot see. "Beats me, Emrick. We overlooked something maybe? Were deciding to feel generous?"
"That can't be it," the president's thoughts disagree with him even there, as he takes another hot sip of his coffee. "We aren't generous. We're slaughtering teenagers from the districts for the sins of their parents… we don't 'overlook' things. It was pre-meditated, for all the good that it did."
Killing and deposing of the man is no hard task, and Emrick doesn't lose one wink of sleep after the fact, laying awake in the bedroom car on the train, listening to the clock on the wall tick and tock hour after hour. What is hard, what is what Emrick knows will require many more of these cups of pumpkin lattes, is filling the void that is presented by Friedrich's death.
There could be anyone put in the place of the man, but running a district, even if the job is just called mayor is one that requires someone of stature, someone of importance, someone who won't be hated and immediately murdered in a coup. Emrick nearly vouches for himself, in the dark of the sleeping car while beams of moonlight fall through the open window, but he believes it must be the brandy speaking through him at that point.
It'll be something he'll get to later, as Emrick adds another sugar cube into his coffee, mashing it up. He lifts it to his lips, to take another sip, when a Peacekeeper enters from the south side of the train, in the direction of where Poem Cavalli's car is.
"We'll be arriving in District 8 in about half an hour, Mr. President," the Peacekeeper says, a voice modulator attached to his helmet, causing the speech that comes out to be two octaves deeper than any man Emrick knows could ever speak. The president nods, a bit of disappointment mingled in with the sip of coffee as it isn't Lydia speaking at him; the woman, his ever faithful servant, despite all of her emotional shortcomings lately, has always been the one to go with him on these journeys. Richmond is so convincing however, at needing Lydia to stay behind, and Cain himself, before Emrick gathers his items to leave, asks for her to stay behind.
"We're having dinner together," Cain mentions, flicking a piece of dust away from Emrick's office table.
"Oh?" Emrick asks, quirking an eyebrow. "What's the occasion?"
"We're discussing the sins of sons and fathers," the vice president's eyes flash a dangerous halogen blue, Emrick shivering at the look in Cain's eyes, but he has a hovercraft to catch, and the conversation can be held in the evening after the two of them have dinner.
Emrick sets the mug down, noticing that the Peacekeeper hasn't moved from his position in the center of the dining car, his hands behind his back. The president frowns, placing his hands in his lap. "There something else I can help you with, soldier? Are you are taking in the sunlight?"
The Peacekeeper flinches in place, for the subtle vibrations of the armor are enough for any seasoned professional to hear them. The man reveals his arms, holding out a phone in his hands. Though video calls are the preferred method of communication in Panem now, at times there are phones attached to the walls of every train car in case of emergencies that bring down the wireless calling service.
"Call for you, Mr. President," the Peacekeeper says, voice level, in its modulated state. Emrick rubs his chin, reaching out for the phone. If someone needed to get in touch with him, they could've just as easily buzzed… he supposes it doesn't matter anymore.
Emrick reaches for the phone, it already on, indicated by the green light blinking off of the top of the device, pressing it near his ear.
"This is Emrick Israel, President of Panem," he greets curiously. "How can I help you?" Emrick doesn't recognize the number on the other line, and the name, though he is not sure as to why, reads Unknown.
A far-too cheery voice spills out of the device, Emrick almost cringing in on himself at the sound of the person's voice on the other end. A Capitolite, just in how the voice sounds like it is filled with raspberry cheesecake and macaroons. "I am starting to get the feeling that you're avoiding my phone calls, Emrick," comes the sugary delicacy that is the man's voice on the other end of the line. "And you know I don't like feeling insulted."
"Felix Fiore," Emrick says, sitting straight up, casting a look in the Peacekeeper's direction. Cold, curt, to the point. Get out. Get out right now. The Peacekeeper nods once, silent, and as fast as the man's legs could carry him, casts himself out of the train car. Emrick watches the soldier go, before resuming his conversation. "I am amazed, I must say, that you know how to work one of these phones at all," and then, as the president runs his fingers around the rim of his mug, "The Games are over now, and I don't see why there is a need for us to keep on talking."
A laugh, a hearty laugh that makes Emrick want to strangle the man with his guts. "Oh, you have always been a wordsmith," Felix giggles… he is the only adult that Emrick knows to actually giggle as if he were still a child running around on a kindergarten playground. "But I never expected a member of the Israel family to be rude. That's very unbecoming of you, Emrick," a pause, and it sounds as if Felix is sitting in some sort of creaking chair, for the president can pick up the noise of the chair spinning around in a circle. "You developing many wrinkles because of this?"
"Nothing is stopping me from hanging up," Emrick cuts in, curling one hand into a fist, nearly shattering the coffee mug clenched in his grip. If he could've only sliced into Felix's guts than dispatched of sorrowful Friedrich Calvary instead, perhaps that would've been the better play.
"You know I will just call again," Felix answers smugly, and he snaps his fingers. "Your secretaries are tired of me calling them all the time, and you know that all of your Avoxes are such terrible conversationists that I just have to come and speak to the big man himself."
"What do you want, Fiore?" Emrick hisses, his paper thin patience snapping instantly as if someone had speared a hole through it with a pencil. "Or so help me, Felix…"
"Alright, alright, alright," Felix speaks fast, overriding the president's threat, Emrick inhaling deeply to keep the scream that he wants to unleash at bay. The last thing he needs is every Peacekeeper on the train to burst into the dining car because their commander in chief lets out a harrowed yell at the top of his lungs. There's a pause, more swiveling of Felix's chair, before the Capitolite speaks again. "I was simply wondering if you've gotten the opportunity to tell Poem Cavalli about who I am yet," There's the sound of chewing on the other end, Emrick recoiling from the phone, a grimace on his face. "I figured she'd be dying to know who her savior was."
Emrick sighs, rubbing at his brow. Cain, for all of his egoism and rude tendencies, is still able to carry a conversation, and is someone when it comes time to crunch down for it, can do his job without a hitch. Felix Fiore, on the other hand, a man who has so much money in his coffers, a man who decides to go and get his eyes whited out to look like soulless caverns without any depth, knows nothing else except that the sun is meant to revolve around Felix Fiore.
It doesn't help that he's a spoiled brat and an only child, and a man who is instrumental in making the Hunger Games as entertaining as they are, but nonetheless, Emrick is incapable of simply vaulting the man off of a bridge and watching his body sink beneath the deep, dark waves of the river below. Too many heads would be snooping around, asking questions he wouldn't have answers to. His money is worthwhile to the Capitol.
Emrick slides his thumbs over his temples, sensing the beginning build of a headache. "No, Felix, the opportunity has not arisen yet…" and then, as Emrick presses his hands against the side of the coffee mug, needing anything hot to transfer his own magmatic rage to an inanimate object, "Besides, I am pretty sure she isn't even holding onto your sponsor item anymore," Emrick bites on the side of his cheek. "If you want it back, I am positive it is still in the arena. As is the fragments of Magnus's weapon that you had my Gamemaker team build."
"Oh," comes Felix's voice after a belabored pause. The man then laughs, but it is different from the one that begins their conversation. "Oh, Emrick, I swore that you promised me that I would get a chance to meet her in the flesh, and that she'd know that the sponsor item that saved her life came from my pockets…" he makes a tsk-tsk noise in his throat. "I thought you were smarter than that."
"It hasn't come up," Emrick hisses, clenching his teeth together. This dolt never gets anything unless it is about him. His parents had that same issue, not believing results staring at them dead in the face unless it built to their reality, to their version of the world they wished to see fit... idiots, all of them, which is why they lost the good fight.
"Maybe you forget who I-" Felix goes to start, but the president beats him to the punch.
Emrick thunders to his feet, rattling the tray with his coffee on it, fury flooding into his voice, eyes bulging out of his head. "I think, boy, you forget who you're speaking to!" Emrick screams into the phone. "I am the president of Panem, Felix, not you. No one gets to dictate what and when something happens just because they have a lot of money," Emrick can hear Felix's seething breath, picturing the man turning into some sort of clawed beast with tuffs of air flushing out of its nose. "Your last name, Felix, doesn't mean anything anymore. You don't mean anything anymore." Emrick can hardly see his own hand in front of his face, it replaced with a ledger full of crimson, black lining out the edges. "You can take your privilege and shove it up your ass, Felix Fiore. Take it with you to hell!"
His voice echoes around the dining car, the Peacekeeper from before bursting into the room, his weapon trained on any adversary in the corner of the cars, not even relaxing to a stilled position when he realizes it is only Emrick in the car. At least he is a soldier Emrick can count on, he notes, even as the president lets the residues of rage flush over his body, pooling down underneath his feet.
Emrick can hardly hear a sound over his own breath, for he knows he must've stunned Felix into silence, for this is the longest the man has ever gone without speaking.
"Alright, Mr. President," Felix says, hanging onto every syllable, every word, every sound slow and deliberate, like dying of diabetes. "If I am going to hell, Emrick, just know, I am absolutely dragging you down with me," the threat hangs in the air, Emrick's heart beating in his chest. "This is not over. We are not finished here."
He is not going to let this uppity brat have the last word. Emrick would rather roll over in mud and go to a banquet with the brightest stars in Capitol before he lets this happen. When pigs fly, perhaps. "Knowing Cain and Nyria, they'd attempt to make that happen," he mutters to himself, and then aloud, into the phone "I believe we are, Felix."
Emrick hangs up, and without another word, throws the phone in the direction of the Peacekeeper positioned in the car. To the man's credit, the soldier catches it in his free hand, but neither one of them speak to the other.
The president collapses onto his chair, this time the rattle and subsequent shake having the coffee mug tip over and spill onto the carpet. An avox could clean it up if they wish, but from how Emrick clenches and unclenches his hands into fists, he is unsure whether or not someone coming near him is the safest move, and that he wouldn't punch their lights out.
Too many headaches coming from all over, and Felix Fiore, a man who loves to claim himself as the Sponsorer of the Hunger Games… he is a tiny little breeze blowing over stony pathways and sandy beaches.
He does not know, however, as Emrick simply snaps at an avox in the corner of the dining car to clean up his mess, is that Emrick Israel, who successfully brought Panem through a rebellion and out of the Ash Wars, out of the Dark Days, is a tempest, the storm to end all storms.
Poem Cavalli: Victor of the 1st Hunger Games P.O.V
"I know it's a lot of houses in a relatively short period of time," Damien is speaking at her, speaking to her rather, for Poem is simply looking on in amazement at the ovation in front of her, as her escort fumbles with the set of golden keys in his hands. "But," as the man pauses, righting himself upwards, the victor getting a good look at the shiner on his face, and the gap where his missing tooth should be, "The perks of being a victor, I suppose," he finishes, unlocking the front door. "But come on! Let me give you a tour! I got to see photos and the place is beautiful!"
"Right," Poem says, drolly, pocketing her right hand again to feel the cool, sharp comfort of the needle in her pocket. The woman's words, the words from that Gamemaker who designed mutts with the tanned skin and dark black hair – Nydia, isn't that her name? Nya? Doesn't really matter, Poem has only had the one conversation with her – who said that the district citizens need to stick together… they haunt Poem, sitting in her skin and latching onto her like some bloody parasite who refuses to let go. "District citizens?" she echoes the sentence in her head, frowning. Why would a woman from the districts, if this lady claims to be one, be in the Capitol? Working on the Games no less. Poem's head spins, as if she were given a few rounds of Ring Around the Rosie by her father, back to a time when her hair is kept in pigtails and her father didn't complain of back problems. "Murder," she mutters, pressing the top of her thumb against the point of the needle, grounding her to the ground.
All of this, being a victor, centered on her shoulders with the act of murder weighing down on her body. When she dispatches of Nokomis, staring down at the girl from Ten who is looking at her like she had dove out of the dark, akin to some hell-hawk bat, the only thing she feels is the rage coursing through her body at the snowball effect that her mind goes through when seeing the girls shining in the sinking sunset. It hadn't even been until Catalus forces Camilla away, with the girl from Nine howling to herself, crying her eyes out, does Poem realize what has happened… she ended someone else's life, nearly lost hers if Camilla had gotten just a few steps closer with her outstretched blade, and that Catalus is looking at her with morbid disappointment.
Vesuvia is different for Poem, and in the two weeks it has been since getting plucked out of the arena, where the wound in her side, or the bite on her shoulder, and the other various nicks and cuts no longer hurt – did they ever, though? Besides on the bloodied beach, did her body ache with the consequences of mortality? – from the Capitol's medicinal tactics, reserved for what the vice president calls honorary citizens, and Poem nearly has to snort. She's done nothing special, besides having been counted out the entire time, where Poem herself doesn't believe that she had a chance in hell in making it that far. There had been no rule book forcing Niklaus to stay tethered to her.
He could've abandoned her, but he didn't, and they spend their nights kissing and staring up at the stars until his head is cut off from his body, and Poem loses all the feeling in her throat, the cords strained from having screamed so hard. Orion and Ramses were just playing the Hunger Games, and she cannot fault either one of them for it, but the loss is still raw on her hands, as if she had rubbed them together with a stick trying to create a fire. They were playing by the rules, for Damien reminds she and Niklaus at their last breakfast together about what the Capitol wants.
Did they perform well? Poem supposes so, given she is living and breathing to tell about it.
However, with Vesuvia, unlike how she secretly feels a seed of regret at witnessing Orion Maythorpe's head shine bright in the sky, she does not extend the girl the same mercy, let alone any benefit of the doubt.
The girl liked to hurt, liked to crow about it, and Poem spends some of her free time wondering, debating, begging to find answers in how someone could be twisted into that bemoaning behemoth?
On the Vesuvia note, the guilt is not there, with the girl from Three dead below her as Poem lays awake slipping in and out of consciousness atop the tower in the fishing village. After she sees Catalus, Magnus, Porscha, and Camilla's faces all fill the sky, she knew perfectly well then that it is boiling down between her and a psychopath between living or dying, and it is clear to Poem that she is not leaving Panem stuffed in a wooden box.
The girl needs to die, and Poem wouldn't be shedding any tears at a proposed funeral for her.
There is almost a gleeful way Poem laid there atop the tower, listening to Vesuvia's panicked croaks and cries, though there isn't much noise coming from the falling girl anyways, as her stab wound to the heart is going to kill her in seconds flat before she ever hits the ground.
"A pretty girl like you," a voice tells her, a voice she's tried to block out. Her first rejection, a Capitolite who smoked cigars and had two cats that looked more like corpses than felines, as the man appraises her with a sickening, tainted look in his eyes. "A pretty girl like you should learn how to defend yourself when the monsters come knocking on your door, Poem Cavalli."
She hates the man, more for the fact that she isn't picked up by a Capitol brand that day, and her parents cannot understand as to why she's so upset for there'll certainly be other opportunities. Dispatching Vesuvia Vocanova does not make her lose sleep; the girl she kills is not innocent, but now, neither is Poem.
The home in front of her, which is one of twelve sitting in this private parade of homes, may be the prettiest thing she's seen in years, especially in the smog filled skies of District 8. Out here, in something called Victors Village, the name tart and heavy on Poem's tongue, it has not yet been corrupted by the smoky skies and the taste of rubber between her gum line, like a thick band-aid had been stripped atop the organ and ripped away time and time again. The home is made entirely out of brick, it being two stories – all the homes are – with a winding cobblestone path leading up to the front door. The front door, just like the apartment she is given in the Capitol, is painted magenta, fresh by the looks of it, and for how Damien avoids plastering his arm over the side of it when stepping inside the house.
She can step inside if she wants, but Poem wants to get a look at it. It is her new home, where anyone, as long as they have her permission, can stay for as long as they like. Her parents, who Poem notes, are absent, wish to keep their home down in the merchant side of Eight, and while her parents were certainly rich, their home, to Poem, is still nothing as glorious as this reward. A fancy white trim lines the front and side porches of the house, with it extended towards a miniature garden that Poem sees no need in filling out. Keeping things alive has never been a strong suit of hers.
"Killing them, however…" Poem tells herself, rubbing a hand over her mouth. "Seems like I have a knack for that…"
The victor looks behind her, turning her back to the front door, to stare over at the gathering of Capitolites in the center of the village. The twelve homes are all equidistant from the other, and down the middle, with multiple fountains with glistening pearlish-white marble, statues of cherubs and dolphins and other assorted objects are interspersed along the brick path leading to each home. Hers is on the first left, but that is not what draws her attention behind her.
The president is standing in the center of his group of Peacekeepers, the men in white arranged in a circle around him, backs turned to the politician with their guns trained on the distant outskirts. Snipers are positioned in trees at the other ends of the lot, and when Poem is finished with seeing the home and the surrounding property concerning the Village, it'll be one lovely walk down to the train station to meet her district for the first time since leaving. On the platform, she is expected to deal with a camera shoved in her face to go over her reactions and all the tumultuous feelings circling within her at what has been presented to her.
The only feeling Poem is capable of expressing is tiredness, a tiredness that soaks into her bones, threatening to have them snap like brittle bits of candy bars tinkered down behind her for the homeless, impoverished children of District 8 to eat while she walks by. Being in the Capitol before the Games began, which truly, is when her interview ends and Richmond Anvil is too happy to rub her idiocy in her face – "To be fair," Poem mulls to herself, biting on her cheek, "Niklaus and Damien did try to give me many warnings beforehand and I just… didn't listen," – she spends so much of her energy working on the designs in her sketchbook. Multiple tributes that'll never get to try on one of her ideas, Poem clutching her chest with her hands, feeling the beat keep her feet tethered to the ground.
"I can only imagine the president in a white veil," she thinks to herself, making eye contact with the man, who holds the gaze, hardened, but Poem does not flinch away. "Laying down in a coffin buried beneath the ground."
There had been an outfit for Jasper Overheart, swarthy grays flushing over his shoulders, bringing out the red in his face, the build in his shoulders. A blue tracksuit fits Magnus perfectly, but Poem has to rip the design out of her sketchbook the instant Cain gives it to her in the apartment yesterday, for the only thing she sees now staring back at her when she looks at the boy from Two's face is that of a killer. Kai'sa Shadow, in her elegance, is in something similar to a wedding gown, with parted holes for someone to see her leg muscles so the girl could twirl and twist her way across a ballroom.
And there's Catalus-
"Catalus…" Poem whispers out his name, lower lips trembling at the face of her ally, the face of someone she loved who she couldn't love in the way he wants her to… the world is cruel, the president is cruel, Panem is cruel. The Games are evil. Poem wipes at her eyes, stemming back the tears, as she flicks to the page in her sketchbook to look at the design. While it is not a perfect portrait of him, for she doesn't get how the light is always capable of angling just right down his face, or the look of humbleness in his eyes, as Poem pictures him to be a cocky shit before they speak their first words together in the cabin that she camps out in, it is him, his essence, personified to a page in dark lightning.
Shades of ivory and gold, a suit, matching Kai'sa's wedding dress, a brocade of violets and rubies placed just above his breast, a golden pocket watch dangling from the side of one of the pockets… "He can still wear it," Poem whispers to herself, smoothing a hand down her side, swishing her tongue atop her teeth to keep herself from crying. "I can design it and have someone dig up his corpse and then everything will be okay…"
She cannot turn to Niklaus's design, and she is kicking herself still for losing her composure in front of Cain yesterday when he hands her the sketchbook. The remnant that she takes with her to the Capitol, to be her token, since her suitcase and other luggage is forbidden, and Poem cannot believe that even back then, even when the Peacekeepers are treating her like trash, she doesn't pick up on the warning signs and flashing red lights.
"And others will have to pick out tokens too, in the future…" Poem runs a hand through her hair, hearing the front door to the home slam shut, as Damien must be now just rejoining her, the man probably having realized she hadn't been following him the entire time.
"Why didn't you come inside?" Damien asks, reaching her, the man a bit taller than her, even if she is in heels, a simple sun dress tacked to her body, much lighter and appealing than the hospital gown she dons for an entire week, as well as the cumbersome outfit she has to wear in the arena. It is a much needed change; Poem can agree to that.
"It feels too nice out here," Poem lies, looking at her escort, flashing him a smile, hoping the pain doesn't reflect in her eyes. He doesn't return the same gesture with the right amount of amicability, which has Poem look back down at her sketchbook.
She cannot tear out any of the other pages, as there is a sketch for each of the tributes; she'll have to redo Magnus's, but it is only fair, the only right thing that there is to do in honoring those that died for her to even be able to see the home that is vacant behind her.
Will she have to make others for the kids she meets in the future? Poem knows she's avoiding the topic in her head, on what it means to be a Hunger Games victor, but even as she decides to approach the subject, turning towards Damien to ask him a question, her train of thought is derailed.
In the flesh, her heartbeat begins to pick up, and her eyes widen.
Niklaus's description of him is apt and to the point, where she can feel his sleaziness, she can taste how his kisses would be like if his lips were connected to hers… her mind goes blank, Poem reaching back into her pocket to grab the sewing needle.
She could rush him right now, and no one would stop her… Niklaus's choice of words make it clear to her that no one would miss the scumbag, someone who isn't even on her radar since she's so caught up in a world of needles and fabric and plastic mannequins.
Poem makes eye contact with the face of Rudy Patterkinn, and his father, who Niklaus claims in their bedroom the night before the Games, to be the Head Peacekeeper of District 8. Rudy Patterkinn, with his copper hair and dangerous dark blue eyes, wearing a blazer, a smug look on his face. The man who made her Niklaus whore himself out for packets of cocaine, to give loan-shark money out to a man who is on his last legs, crawling around on his hands and knees… the man Poem cannot see any redemption in.
"Poem?" Damien asks, pressing a hand gently on her arm. "What's the matter?"
"That's him," Poem hisses, digging her nails into the escort's shoulder. "Rudy Patterkinn."
"Oh," the man raises his head, eyes appraising over the newcomer to the gathering of Capitolites out in the center of the bricked pathway. Damien pauses, eyes glazing over for a second, Poem locking her jaw, giving the escort a glare, which has him curl his lips back in disgust. They've gone over this a thousand times before at this point over the last week and a half when Poem is lucid enough to speak. "Oh," Damien repeats. "I see."
Poem has run this encounter over in her head day and night, hour by hour, letting the seconds tick by as she lies in her hospital bed waiting for the morphine to wear off so she can walk again… now that she's a private citizen in Eight, there are people who hate her, people who'd want her dead – "Not out of the clear just yet," Poem tells herself sardonically, scowling, "Great, I don't have to just worry about a Vocanova now…" – and it is up to the Peacekeeper team in Eight to do the defensive contracting in ensuring that the first victor to grace Panem's soil does not die.
She will not falter now, even as she nods in the president's direction. If she is going to play by Emrick Israel's games now, where she's their darling little puppet to parade across a gilded stage, he can grant her this favor.
Rudy's father approaches first up the path, the man wizened and nearing his sixties, if the graying hair is any indicator, Poem keeping her expression level, arms down at her sides, careful not to curl her hands into fists. "Miss Cavalli," the Head Peacekeeper greets her, there being a cold smile on the man's face. "We haven't had the pleasure to meet," and he sticks his hand out, "I am the Head Peacekeeper of District 8."
"Pleasure," Poem greets, swallowing the bile that nearly turns into vomit that'd get over the man's pristinely white suit of armor. "I appreciate taking the time to come out here."
"It's my job, ma'am," the man says, Poem's nose wrinkling in annoyance. Ma'am? She isn't even at the legal age to consume alcohol without a fine and some heavy whipping, the phrase of politeness antiquated as it settles onto her shoulders. The Head Peacekeeper steps back, this time around Rudy, who has advanced up the pathway. "And this is my son Rudy. He wanted to see what it was like meeting the first ever victor of the Hunger Games."
Rudy steps up, outstretching an arm, but Poem does not shake it. She doesn't take her eyes off of him, judging him with her stare, hoping to all the high heavens it is malicious looking enough, or all of this has been wasted into a cruel joke. "I'm acquainted with him," Poem spits out, as Emrick, who has been dormant the entire time by the hovercraft in the center of the fountain walkway, begins to ascend as well. "Niklaus Peverell told me a lot about Rudy."
The man's face falls, he outstretching his hands from his pockets, making the flaps of his blazer flutter. Niklaus describes the man's eyes as being a ring of cold, cruel cerulean, the rings of an octopus with venom that with one bite could kill her and cause her to drop dead… they're intimidating enough to make her lover drop his pant buckle and to his knees, so she figures there must be some sort of power there.
"He-"
"Sometimes," Poem drawls out, a vein in her neck beginning to seethe with rage, as Emrick hands something to Rudy's father behind the loan shark's back, "I am happy that Niklaus at the very least died so he doesn't have to deal with you…" the victor takes a step forward towards Rudy, looking at him as if he were Vesuvia in the flesh once more. "The way you made him feel like he had zero worthlessness. How you thought he was just another plaything to screw with!" Poem hisses.
She could stab him through the heart with the sewing needle, but she can't, as it is not poetic enough.
Rudy stammers, eyes darting back and forth between Poem, and Damien, who has fallen silent, but the statement he may wish to spill out never gets made.
A Peacekeeper, unlike Rudy's father, one part of Emrick's collection, steps forward from the crowd, gun raised, and smashes the butt end of it into Rudy's skull. The man collapses to the ground with a groan, face planting onto the stone pathway. Poem watches him fall, raising her head high. She will not look away. This is… this is what Niklaus had always dreamed of doing if a morsel of power had laid within his grasp.
The same Peacekeeper, who pockets his gun, holds Rudy back up, making the man kneel, tugging his arms tightly behind his back, feet crushing Rudy's legs. The man is swiveling his head from side to side, but there is no running away this time, no way he can outtalk this fate.
Poem extends her hand out towards Rudy's father, the Head Peacekeeper retrieving a knife from his hip, and in the left side – the blade had come from the right – a pair of forceps. Emrick stands back, but Damien has turned his head away.
The blade hasn't been heated, and this is going to hurt, as Rudy makes noises of protest, aimless babble cut off by his own father forcing his mouth open and grabbing his son's tongue. It is yanked out of his open mouth, the forceps keeping it in place, as Poem holds her grip on the blade in hand.
The one promise she makes Emrick Israel swear to her, that she gets justice for one who cannot fight for it themselves any longer.
"Niklaus wanted to drain you empty of money, drugs, and blood," she says, tears starting to prickle at the corner of her eyes, Rudy fidgeting in place. "He wanted to kill you for what you did to him, and I don't blame him," Poem leans down, getting in Rudy's space.
She never said she wouldn't hurt another soul when she leaves the Games, for Poem, in the back of her mind, knows that a cruelty will always be able to be touched if rooted at hard enough.
"You won't get to hurt another living soul for as long as you live," Poem says, her voice breaking, a rough stutter breaking from her lips. "And by I really hope that it isn't for a long time…" she shakes her head. "You have no idea how much I've wanted to do this," she snarls at Rudy Patterkinn, his eyes wide with fear.
Let him feel what Niklaus felt for two years of his life.
He can have justice, and she can be at peace
Poem slices the knife quick and fast down across Rudy Patterkinn's tongue, severing it from the rest of his mouth, she tilting her head back and absorbing the guttural scream that rises from his throat, scarlet splattering onto her gorgeous sun dress. The appendage is severed quickly, and Poem is fully aware of how alive she feels.
Being a victor has its perks, she supposes, as copper leaks out of Rudy's mouth, and his screams of pain fall on deaf ears.
Poem Cavalli closes her eyes and listens to the noises… people counted her out, she counted herself out, but now the arena is behind her, and the future is ahead of her, she knows… her work is not yet done.
There is much to do, and not a lot of time to do it.
Lydia Wickervein: Head Peacekeeper P.O.V
The streets of the Capitol, the downtown alleys and avenues and off-beaten paths, sit in a honey, near-amber like glow with the setting sun cascading down the sides of the buildings. Lydia rests her chin on the railing of the trellis, staring out at the vista, letting the warmth fall onto her exposed arms. It is another day without having to wear her Peacekeeper uniform, another day without orders or having to give them, but it is also another day where she has to bear the existence of lesser men that she chooses to have company with.
Behind her, inside their house, Lydia hears Cain bustling about in the kitchen, grabbing wine glasses and opening the refrigerator door with a shucking noise. He has given every avox in his service the night off, which Lydia finds surprising, for the man would open a door and complain about it if he had to. She remembers the downturned curve of Richmond's mouth at dinner last night when she mentions meeting Cain for a get-together, in which Lydia dons the prettiest dress she can find to commemorate the occasion, disapproval flickering in his eyes, but Lydia waves off the concern.
She is loyal to her husband, even though he doesn't come to bed last night after their… discussion at dinner on their date. Lydia presses a hand against her stomach, feeling the blood pulse and beat underneath her open palm, the thrum of life that reminds her she is alive and that she has agency.
"Agency to do whatever I want," Lydia says, turning her head back to gaze at the face of her host for the evening. Cain is a suit, a gorgeous dark and silver ensemble with his hair slicked back, face free of any blemishes, and while he looks dashing and handsome, all she sees is a liar. A viper wearing a crown, the angled tail ready to strike and hurt any unsuspecting visitors who dare walk into its lair. "I willingly walked myself into his…" she thinks to herself, morosely, before standing upright, for Cain has two wine glasses in his hands, and a bottle of Chardonnay sitting and waiting to be uncorked.
Dinner is nice, though Lydia sits upright with her shoulders back, hands ever present on the underside of the table where her gun is placed before the evening is done. She is dropped off at his residency first, Cain staying behind for an extra minute to speak to the wait staff, which gives Lydia the time to place her weapon now underneath the counter on her side where she'll stand.
Cain Passionia is in her sights, and she won't let him go.
Lydia steps inside of his apartment, closing the screened door to his outside patio. The warm smell of pumpkin spice fills the air as Cain lights a candle, flicking the match back and forth while the smoke rises in a lazy spiral up to the ceiling.
"I have to thank you for dinner once again," Lydia says, keeping her arms by her side, the muscles in her neck starting to bulge, as she reaches her side of the counter. "You really do know the best place to get a good watercress salad," she smiles, hoping the fakery doesn't reach her eyes. "You're screwed, Cain," her voice in her head is cocky, a sort of tone she is not used to, but there's no way to fully hide it, even as the vice president beams back at her.
"After the horrid place Richmond took you to," Cain says, as he begins to uncork the wine bottle, letting the pop fill the residues of silence between their sentences, "I had to treat the finest soldier Panem has to offer."
How much of what he says is even real? Lydia has had to debate that ever since the man gets in her face and thrums a finger at her chest for failing him in keeping his family alive and safe when the rebellion breaks out, for how the man vouches for her, and she ends up letting him down… and how all of that is a lie.
"Richmond's taste is just fine," she says, crossing her arms over her chest. Dinner is insufferable with the man, and she still has no real idea why Cain invites her out to dinner, for there is nothing for them to discuss with Emrick and Poem both being out of the Capitol. He does not know how to shut up about himself, and every single thing he does is something of magnified importance that Lydia would rather stomp out with her shoes.
"Tell that to the man who does his hair, then," Cain snorts, grabbing a wine glass, tilting it back and filling it up, the maroon liquid spilling into the basin. Lydia's eyes swim in the murky black, as if she's dipped her feet into a pool of blood, letting it bathe around her.
Lydia opens her mouth, letting it snap shut before a protest can form, for she feels the instinctual need to defend her husband and his styling choices… Richmond can handle himself around a pair of scissors and around a closet full of clothes, regardless of what Cain Passionia thinks.
The vice president finishes pouring his glass, pushing Lydia's close to hers. The Head Peacekeeper grabs it, her heartbeat starting to pick up as her fingers encircle the twig-like form of the glass. It is hefty in her hands, and the wine smells tart, with a very low hint of sweetness… perhaps strawberries, for they are Cain's favorite fruit.
"What are we toasting to tonight?" she asks. Dinner conversations included Cain's designs for the arena for the next Hunger Games, or wondering what Nyria Kirchner's real age is, though it only makes Lydia roll her eyes while cutting into her portabella mushroom.
Cain frowns, straightening out his tie, letting it hang in two halves over his neck. After a pause, in which the frown curls upside down into a smile, he holds the glass out to her. "To you, Lydia Wickervein, and your exceptionalism at not allowing anything terrible to befall the first iteration of the Hunger Games."
Lydia smiles softly, trying to ignore the blush that rises to her neck. She'd rather toast to Cain's intellectualism, for no matter how much she hates the man and his guts with each passing breath, there is a brain in his head that works, a cogged machine that churns and turns and spills out smoke with each grind.
A bit of liquid courage, she supposes, before taking a long sip of the wine in her glass. It is a lot sweeter than she anticipates it to be, for many bottles of Chardonnay do not end up tasting like she's had strawberry pie. Cain takes a much smaller, much lighter sip, his eyes not leaving her face, but Lydia is consumed in looking at her glass.
She sets it down, having taken half of the glass in the one gulp, pushing it back some.
Now or never, she supposes.
"If I don't do it now, my life is forfeit," Lydia coaches herself, each breath causing her shoulders to rise and fall. Wow… that wine is incredibly sweet, it thick on her tongue. The Head Peacekeeper reaches for the gun placed under the counter, ripping it free from its confines, turning her back to Cain, beelining for the couch he has placed on the other wall.
She is thankful that he sent Bella out on a girl's night, or otherwise Lydia is unsure how she'd force his wife out of the room.
"Lydia?" Cain questions, concern in his voice, though she knows, she knows it is just the serpent speaking.
Lydia turns around, levelling her gun at the vice president, Cain standing up straighter on his side of the counter. "I know, Cain," she begins, hoping each word, each syllable lands where it is supposed to. "I know…" it is impossible to even get out, for what it all means, but she has to. Or all is lost. "I know Raziel isn't dead."
The bombshell of it all, one Lydia cannot believe, even as she stares at the man that is Raphael Passion's father in her bedroom two weeks ago.
Cain can only tilt his head back and laugh in the face of that information, Lydia narrowing her gaze at him, since Cain picks up his wine glass, but doesn't sip from it. "If my son is alive, and I ended up burying-"
"He came to see me," Lydia grits her teeth, tightening her grip on the gun, pointing it at the vice president's head. "Raphael Passion's father," she continues, as Cain furrows his brow. "The poor man you made swear to secrecy. A boy who looked like your son, with a similar enough name and the same initials, who died in his place of your son."
The vice president quirks a brow in her direction, she whirling with every moment he makes. Though she has no idea, for the stranger in her bedroom from two weeks ago never explains all of it, why, the fact is beyond indisputable, from the letter she finds in Cain's office in the presidential mansion, to the confession spilled over her paisley patterned carpet.
"What exactly are you accusing me of, Lydia?"
Cain smiles a wolfish grin, and Lydia's entire world slants sideways. She gasps, moaning, clutching her head, her tongue all of a sudden feeling extremely thick now, as if someone had placed a lead ball atop the appendage. What… when did strawberries morph into vinegar? Lydia sways a bit, tightening her grip on the gun.
"What- what the hell did I just-" she gets out, but the world is starting to blur, and Cain's face is a pale dot underneath the halogen lights.
"You're right, Lydia," the vice president says, Cain walking around the counter, this time both hands holding onto the wine glasses left on the counter. "Raziel, my son, is alive." She… she didn't believe that he'd admit it. "A boy named Raphael Passion, who I found through an extensive search died in his place in my arms as I cut the boy's throat to the bone."
Lydia cannot stand on her own two feet anymore, falling back onto the couch, gasping as a stabbing headache comes around to the forefront of her skull, but she still doesn't drop the gun.
"Then- then that means…" she cannot form the words, the unspeakable horrors hidden behind them. "I'm a fool…"
Cain lifts his head up, eyes bright, as he then pours both wine glasses down onto the tile floor, a murky tide of Chardonnay crashing onto the surface. "Nathaniel Coin from District Thirteen never stepped foot inside the Capitol until his dying day when you helped us execute him and his family," the vice president gleefully says, grinning, why are his teeth so bright? "If he never set foot in the Capitol until then, then that means he couldn't have be the one who killed my 'son'," Cain makes air-quotes around the title, taking a step forward over the puddle of wine, Lydia shirking back into the couch. Her fingers cannot find the trigger, fuck… fuck… "And he wouldn't have been the one to force himself on my wife…" Cain draws it out.
"No…" Lydia shakes her head back and forth, and she believes that she's crying, though she cannot tell, for her head is starting to feel like she's carrying around a bobblehead. "Nononononononononono…" she babbles back and forth. "No!" Lydia screams at him, but she can't keep the gun upright.
"I mean, who do you think the Capitol would've believed, anyways?" Cain cocks his head to the side. "A mayor from a district that mines graphite," he spits it out with such venom that Lydia recoils to the best of her ability, though the ceiling is gone, and her tongue is so heavy that it is like lifting an iron coffin up by her pinkie fingers to speak. "Or the silver tongue of Panem?" Cain asks, as he begins to spin the wine glasses in his hands over like airplane turbines. "Emrick and I knew a rebellion was coming, and I decided to put it into my own hands."
"All a lie…" Lydia rasps out, feeling her dinner rush up her throat, she leaning forward, though the momentum crashes her onto the floor. The vomit never comes, but Cain's words… they've done their job. "No!" she screams out again. "All those innocent people…" she can barely get the words out, but they force themselves from her throat. District Thirteen, who she massacres. Watching little boys and girls, the elderly, soldiers fighting for a cause that they believe has been turned on its head… all the lives she's taken, all the people she's killed… what has she done? All of it built on a lie? "You monster!" Lydia howls at him.
Cain shrugs his shoulders. "I've been called way worse, and I embrace the title," he smiles at her.
"The Games…" Lydia crawls over to her gun, though it is just out of reach, Cain is not making any effort to stop her. "You and Emrick chose children cause you lost yours!" she spits out, the tears starting to thicken down her face. "Because of Raziel!"
"My son would be honored to know something is inspired by him," Cain says, and this time, as Lydia's hands barely grasp around the gun, he kicks it out of her way, then dropping both wine glasses atop her head.
They hurt like hell when they crash land atop her skull, Lydia crying out in pain, ducking herself under the blow. The guilt she's felt at not being there when Cain needs her the most, at how she cannot save- no, she cannot let him have the power anymore.
"I invited you here to talk about your treason, Lydia," Cain says, as he grabs the woman's gun off of the floor, holding it in his hands. She snaps her attention towards him, heart racing a mile a minute, her headache agonizing now at this point. "You received a letter from an unknown source the night of the tribute parade," he says, smiling at her through the fog. "Oddly worded instructions of a man threatening to kill all of the tributes if someone were to get in his way of stopping the Games," Lydia lets out an exasperated groan, unable to even think straight, struggling to get into a seated position. Cain is winning, he cannot win! "And if you were to go to your superiors, he'd kill the tributes in one fell swoop… and yet, you never went to your superiors. Never told Emrick or I about the letter."
"How-" she mumbles, reaching for him, but he's so far out of reach. How would he know about that?
"I am disappointed to say you failed that test, Lydia," Cain says, though there is no sadness in his voice. Glee, like smashing someone's art project under his feet, at watching it crumble. "I knew that I'd put you in a difficult spot when I sent that letter, but I didn't expect your loyalty to be so poor…" he makes a tsk noise in his throat, shaking his head.
All of this has been Cain. Every step of her life, every antagonizing thing… even with her vision going darker by the second, Lydia knows that she has to take life into her own hands. "You…" she whines. "You aren't getting away with any of-"
"I think, on the contrary," Cain interrupts her, a glint in his eyes. "I am." He pauses, before cocking the chamber of the gun, of her weapon in that monster's hands. "There's someone I'd like you to meet, Lydia."
He turns to the left side of the apartment, a part hidden in the shadows with the lights off, but Lydia doesn't ask Cain about it for she is too set on shooting him dead in the heart, pinpointing all of his evilness into one place. A shape moves in the dark, after Cain claps his hands together, Lydia's eyes widening as she stares at her worst fear.
"What the hell…" she barely gets out, and the headache continues to ravage her… this must be a trick, some fooling wool over her eyes.
"Nyria and I have a project together called The Replicant Project," Cain says, making his way over to the object that moves out of the shadows, standing side-by-side next to it, Lydia unable to take her eyes off of the form. "She thinks it is for science, being able to duplicate any living thing… but so far she's done plants. Insects," Cain wrinkles his nose, before turning to Lydia. "And I wanted to take it a step further," his lips curl into a wicked grin. "Humans."
Lydia Wickervein's worst nightmare stares at her directly in the face, half covered by shadows, half illuminated by the lights at the bar, but she knows, and she sees. The Head Peacekeeper stares dead ahead at herself. A spitting image of her, an exact lookalike.
A...
"Replica…" Lydia gets out, and her mind breaks into every code red she can think of.
Cain hands the gun over to the lookalike, a doppelganger that has not yet once even blinked. Or breathed. Are they even alive? "Lydia," he says, looking at the live woman writhing in agony on the carpeted floor, "Meet Lydia!" the vice president exclaims.
How… how is this even possible?
"I- I don't understand!" Lydia cries out.
"I needed to test your loyalty," Cain says, stepping closer to her, his eyes warm, as he presses a freezing cold hand against her face. "There are plans I wish to push into motion, and I needed to know if I could count on you the way I used to, before you let my son die and the nation fall into chaos…" Lydia tries to unleash a scream, but the headache has grown too unbearable to withstand, and the vice president's face is a pale puddle in a blurring world… she can make out his eyes, navy searchlights in a misty fog, haunting, hunting. "And it is a shame I cannot bring you to the end…" he pets her hair, Lydia trying to bite at him, snarling, but it is a pitiful mewl that spills from her throat, her heart so loud she can hardly hear the man speak. "Your replicant will be a much better soldier. She won't talk back to me, she won't lie to me, or hold secrets behind my back…"
"Burn in hell!" she shouts at him.
"I won't, but you will," Cain tells her, kissing her atop the forehead. "You fought well for your country, Lydia. But you dug too deep, and like all good attack dogs…" he steps away from her, back over to the replicant, the silent enemy, the foe Lydia Wickervein used to wish she could always be… "You must be put down."
He bids her goodbye with a wave of his hand, and Lydia is screaming, tears streaming down her face, for the world needs to know… they need to know this is all a lie… everyone's been hoodwinked! Cain Passionia will burn Panem down to reign over the ashes… she never gets the chance to.
He will not win!
Her doppelganger shoots Lydia Wickervein directly between the eyes, and the woman's world falls dark, words dissipating like phantoms on her lips.
Next Entry in Libertyverse
Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Death SYOT Sequel - Declaration of Death: A Hunger Games SYOT of the 2nd Hunger Games
So as I take five hundred deep breathes and grab every tissue off of my nightstand, I think I need a moment to collect my thoughts. Through the puddle of tears and joy, I must, first, say thank you. Well, ladies and gentlemen, this is it, reached the end of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Death, the first of two SYOTs in the Libertyverse... where all of this is building to the final third of Slaughterverse... a hundred years in the future, with Declaration of Death. With this SYOT taking a little longer than my usual eleven month spree, in around eighteen months or so, I have this behemoth in my care.
For those that are not aware, and it is something that fills me with the upmost of pride... this story, for now, is the longest SYOT in the Hunger Games fandom, it's word count eclipsing 500k and now breaking three new records for me; this is my love letter to you all, for I love what I do, and it wouldn't be possible without you guys. I swore I wouldn't cry, but uh, here we are!
500k later, forty-one chapters later... twenty-four tributes, and a small Capitol cast, I cannot believe it. Emrick received a threat, Poem proved that she's still at the top of her game, and Lydia met her own end... where I have broken and destroyed canon with the Dark Days and the rebellion. I always do this with stories of this magnitude, if you've made it to this point, I hope you read further! I like to ask questions and garner their responses, and the feedback is extremely useful!
1) Favorite and least favorite moments in the story concerning the tributes and their time in the arena?
2) Your top three favorite and your bottom three least favorite tributes? (I am supremely curious on what responses will be given!)
3) Favorite and least favorite Capitol OC in the Capitol storyline?
4) Favorite chapter title, should you have one.
5) Anything else you wish to say if you can think of it.
Now, as I continue on crying, for those who know me, especially on the SYOT Verses server on Discord... the end of 2020 and at least three months into 2021 were... they were rough. I was having multiple panic attacks and anxiety attacks daily, my depression took a huge rise, and I was not in a very good place. It was that community especially who pushed me to get better, to keep writing and keep fighting. To these readers and friends and reviewers: Linds, Shiro, Jim, Reign, Dawn, Plat, AJ, and Haiden... your support and reviews and love and commentary and everything you helped me with is something I cannot repay. I love you all so much. And to my best friend on this site and in life, Thorne, I cannot thank you enough for all you do for me. You are my rock, my biggest cheerleader, my biggest fan, and sometimes you are the reason I even turn my computer on to write another chapter. Just... thank you so much. To everyone else who has read this piece, and reviewed, and all of that, I thank you too, your support is so meaningful.
Declaration of Death is getting its next prologue update, and submissions are open until Halloween, and I really hope you show up and submit; I'd love to have you for the ride! Thank you all so much for sticking around, and I'll see you around. Your support means the world to me. Have a great day! Love you all! Bye!
~ Paradigm