Chapter 2: Show of Brute Force
I can remember exactly the last time a child with golden hair, a Merchant, was Reaped for the Hunger Games: it was five years ago, for the Reaping of the 45th Games. Rod Young was the 18-year-old son of the tailor in Town. He and his Seam district partner - a pre-teen coal miner's daughter - were cut down by the District 2 Careers within minutes of the Cornucopia bloodbath beginning. The male from 2 went all the way to the end before being cut down by the eventual Victor - the monstrous boy from 11 who lost a hand in the process. Before Rod, it had been more than a decade since a tribute originated from the fairest of District 12; in other words, well before Kaydilyn and I were born.
For it to be a rarity that a Merchant child is Reaped is not surprising. The honest trades of our parents provide us with full bellies and warm blankets on our beds, so we never have to take our tesserae. That's the system that most Seam kids buy into for an extra portion of oil and grain monthly, to feed their families. In return, more slips with their names on them go into the Reaping Bowls. Where a 16-year-old Merchant girl like myself would have only five slips amidst thousands, Seam kids the same age might have closer to 50 slips with their name.
But a Seam girl with 50 names in the bowl has not been selected this year. I have. Just pure, blind, bad luck.
As I come out of whatever daze I've been in, I feel dampness coating the bodice of my dress. Hear wailing and sniffling; Belle Foley has gotten out of line to embrace me tightly, while sobbing inconsolably into my shoulder. My arms feel like lead as they encircle her to hug her back; over her blonde curls, I see two Peacekeepers approaching our row to forcibly extract me if they have to.
"Belle," I whisper. "Let go." My best friend whimpers and clings tighter to me, until I have to literally pry myself away. The Peacekeepers are just shuffling into my row when I meet them. They step back, almost stumble, into the center aisle to let me pass. Slowly, I walk with my head held high towards the stage, towards Dolly's creepy grin and beckoning talons.
I feel not quite unlike how I would if I was coming up for air after holding my breath underwater. My hearing, which has been returning infinitesimally since Dolly Evana spoke my name aloud, comes roaring back the rest of the way. My Merchant neighbors are yelling, shifting restlessly behind the roped off partitions. Many Seamers are cheering and jeering. Rare though it might be to see a Merchant trust-fund brat get shipped off to their death, this year is ten times worse because it is a Quarter Quell. Only Seam kids went into the last Quell twenty-five years ago because we Merchants made damn sure to vote that way. I've heard the stories of how everyone in Town coordinated to make sure we all voted for two names and two names only; it would have done no good to have our vote split among a multitude of different Seamers, and risk accidentally sending in one of our own who might have carried a mere plurality of the vote. Frankly, I know some folks in Town who believe that the Games - Quell or no - are, or at least should be, only meant for the Seam scum. I've never had any such delusions. If you live in the districts, the Capitol's shadow extends over all, regardless of class.
I've only reached the edge of the 16-year-olds now - the largest age group in the district by far. My eyes pick out Kaydilyn from the crowd, who appears to be positively shaking with rage. Her mouth is hanging open, as if she wants to say something, and I shake my head: Leave it. Whatever she wants to blurt out - to volunteer, or worse yet, go off on a seditious tirade against the Capitol - won't do either of us any favors. Least of all me, once I'm in the arena. Luckily, my sister clamps her jaw shut, behooved all the more so by Merle Undersee, right next to her in line, laying a hand on her shoulder.
The 15-year-olds down to the 12-year-old sections blur by as I quicken my pace a little, and then I'm at the steps. My heeled boots catch on the hem of my dress, and I nearly trip (once again wishing that Mother had taken it up another inch or so). Lifting my skirts, I mount the stage like the cultured Merchant lady I am, and cross to stand by Gilla. The little girl has to tilt her neck all the way back to look up at me, her bottom lip quivering, and when she burrows into my side, I don't hesitate to put an arm around her.
"Wonderful!" Dolly finally bubbles. "And now for the boys!" She crosses to the bowl at her right and removes the first slip her fingers come in contact with. Just like for Gilla. Just like for me.
"Beech Berryhill!"
There is movement from the 17-year-old Seam boys' section, until a boy about as broad as my father emerges. Unlike my father, though, this boy isn't portly, though his chest muscles are quite pronounced. His face is soft. He has to be at least 6'5". The Peacekeepers flank him on either side every step of the way, fingers drifting near the triggers of their guns warily - tributes of physically stocky build are always treated with caution, in case they try to strike out at the guards before possibly making a run for it. But Beech mounts the stage without incident.
"One more tribute to go!" Dolly squeals.
This time, however, when she sticks her hand in the bowl, she sinks nearly all of her forearm into the mass of white slips, fingers weighing the bits of paper before letting most of them slip through like a sieve. Finally, she pinches one and whirls it out with a flourish.
"Haymitch Abernathy!"
My vision goes gray and spotty, and I feel myself swoon – it must be dangerously so, for I hear Gilla whimper in fear and nudge against my side to counteract my precarious balance, effectively restoring me to equilibrium.
It is my heart, however, that continues to seesaw in my chest as the incredibly handsome, eldest Abernathy boy joins us, his counterparts, on stage.
He doesn't fight back or scrimmage with the Peacekeepers like I imagined he might; I've heard the tales of Haymitch being an intimidating street brawler, picking fights, especially with the bigger kids. He is scowling, though, his thin lips scrunched up so tightly, it must be almost painful. When our eyes meet as he hits the first step, the frown creases further.
Upon arriving at the top of the stairs, Haymitch takes his place beside Beech stoically and silently, brooding; not once does my classmate acknowledge the other boy's presence. As for Gilla and me, we might as well be invisible.
"The tributes from District 12!" Dolly all but sings. She is met with only token applause. I feel something at the small of my back, manipulating me to face the boys. "Shake hands, you lot!"
Unlike a normal year, it takes some work and memory to ensure that everyone shakes hands with everyone else. My skill in math serves me well as I tabulate: without double counting, there are six handshakes in all. I feel a shock go up my skin when Haymitch and I clasp hands. His gesture is firm, and he squeezes my palm tight. I stare down at our enjoined fingers. He has such massive hands... unconsciously, I feel my cheeks burn.
Next thing I know, our misfit quartet is being taken into custody. I think I hear a keening sob before the double, oaken doors slam behind us.
Beech, Haymitch, Gilla and I are separated almost immediately. Dolly stays glued to my side as she personally escorts me up the flight of an ornate staircase to the second level of the Justice Building. Through the crunch of white-plated uniforms, I catch a glimpse of Haymitch finally being unruly as the Peacekeepers presume they can handle him like a stubborn dog straining too tightly on its leash. Before the curve of the staircase causes him to disappear from my view, I watch the officers shove him into a room just off the District Clerk's office. That's where many young couples go to marry, signing a nuptial license before being assigned a house.
"Come along, dear." I feel Dolly's talons dig into the small of my back, urging me forward, even as I continue to crane my neck over my shoulder. Gilla has followed us up to the second floor, where she is being ushered into a conference room further down the hall.
I am finally steered into an expansive room. Across from me is a spread of floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a panoramic view of the Town's rooftops. Far below, the crowd is still an undulating jumble of people, most of them leaving the Square, though some disappear under the sill as they presumably rush for the doors. To extend their goodbyes to the tributes. To my left is a fireplace cut from the finest marble in Two, a steady fire already roaring in the hearth even though it is the height of summer.
These must be the familial quarters of the mayoral residence. I have no idea why they would allow such a lowly tribute like myself into a space this immaculate, but perhaps with double the numbers, the Peacekeepers dwindled in options for where they could individually hold us.
A pronounced slam and the click of a lock make me turn my head from where I am standing over the loveseat; I am alone. Exhaling a shuddering breath, I fan out my skirts as I take a seat on the plush upholstery, gazing forlornly at the buildings that encompass what is my home... well, what was my home.
Where are my parents right now? No doubt they are hanging onto each other in tears over such misfortune and ruin being visited upon the family. Will they visit me? Are they clawing to get into the Justice Building even now? I dearly hope they would... but it might be too much for them to take. Mother's always had a weak heart; she might be unable to stand the strain.
There is a creak and then the jiggle of the lock, followed by the door opening. "You have fifteen minutes," the Peacekeeper on guard rumbles low before practically throwing a quartet of people inside. Belle Foley, Dannel Mellark, Merle Undersee and my sister all gape at me, each of their faces lingering in a daze.
The silence is finally broken by a wail as Belle pelts across the carpet and throws her arms around me. Kaydilyn is right on her heels, muscling in to wrap her limbs about my shoulders. I awkwardly rub Belle's back as she sags against me, turning my chin to rest it on my shorter sister's trembling curls.
"Belle..." I soothe. "Belle, don't..."
"It's not fair... It's not fair!" the apothecary's daughter blubbers.
"No, Belley, it's not fair." At my side, Kaydilyn's voice is dark and bitter. I lean back and affix her with another sharp look: Save it. Even now, I know cameras are watching. My sister obeys, though it seems to be more of a struggle than it was back in the Square.
Behind us, the boys step forward, heads bowed, their feet carrying them forward in that awkward shuffle only seen at funerals. If either of them had hats, they would be in their hands. When he finally raises his eyes to mine, Danny appears anguished. Wracked with guilt. Turning her head, Belle finally squirms out of my arms and flies into his, her weeping becoming louder.
"This is all my fault..." Danny mumbles, his voice barely able to carry over Belle's keening as he glances down at her. "If I..."
I smile at him tenderly, trying to be brave as I shake my head. "Danny..." I coo. "You have nothing to apologize for. I really couldn't have asked for a nicer first kiss."
His eyes snap back up to mine, his face slack in shock, and I can't help but laugh. "Besides... the Reaping Kiss is supposed to bring you good luck, not bad."
"No, the Reaping Kiss was supposed to keep you from being picked!" Kaydilyn fumes, flailing out her foot and kicking over a mahogany chair that must be centuries, if not millennia, old. "Those damn..."
"Kaydie..." Merle whimpers. "Please." I shoot him a grateful look. "You know, maybe Maysie is on to something. If she got a Reaping Kiss, good luck might be on her side yet! Maybe you could win! We certainly got handed a good crop!"
My twin greets this with a scoff. "She could. But so could that Beech. So could the Abernathy boy!"
In a strange way, Merle is right. The Reaping did produce an unusually good crop this year. And with double the numbers, District 12 has more chances to win: Beech and his muscle. Haymitch's gall and true grit. And my... I'm not sure what my loved ones are seeing in me, but whatever it is, it must be something. No one brings up that poor little Gilla is practically as good as dead: no tribute under the age of 15 has ever won the Games.
I glance at the clock; my precious minutes with my friends are ticking steadily away. I clasp Kaydilyn's hand in mine. "Take care of Mama and Papa. Mind the store. And be sure to take care of my canary!"
Tears well up in her eyes, but she vigorously nods. I mumble out an "OK," before wrapping her in a hug. When she extracts herself, Merle quickly takes her place. Drawing back, I tenderly cup his cheek. "You're going to be an amazing Mayor one day," I whisper.
Merle nods tightly, squeezing my hand. "Take care of yourself."
Turning to Belle and Danny, I beckon my best girlfriend forward, and she drifts over to me. Clasping her hands in mine, lifting them between us, I beam.
"You and Danny are going to have the most incredible Toasting... and you, my dear, are going to look fabulous!"
Belle tamps down another sob. "You were supposed to be my Maid of Honor..."
I smile as cheerily as I can. "Well, maybe I still will be. But... if I can't... you and that handsome man back there have lots of beautiful babies!" I chuckle at Belle's potent blush and give her a wink, before warmly pecking her cheek. "Sisters?"
"Sisters," Belle grins weakly back. "Forever."
Danny is last of all. I hug him tightly. "Take care of her," I murmur.
"I will," he rumbles, stepping back. "You do your best, all right?"
He leans in to peck my cheek. Smirking, I grip his chin in my palm and press my lips firmly against his. Danny's face seems to freeze against mine, and I giggle against his soft mouth, savoring the taste for a moment before we break apart. I don't glance to see how Belle might have taken that, though I have a feeling she won't hold it against me.
I burst out laughing all the heartier at Danny's absolutely stunned expression. "I never did kiss you back this morning," I beam at him softly. "Now we're even." I playfully shove my hands against his chest. "Get going, you dope! I know you're already spoken for."
Danny finally smirks at me before turning away. The doors bang open and the Peacekeepers surround my friends, hustling them away.
"I love you, sissy!" is the last thing I hear, from Kaydie, before the doors slam shut again.
I wait in solitude for a moment or two, hoping that perhaps Mother and Papa might be ushered in next. I'd be surprised and deeply touched if any more visitors brave the doors for me beyond that - only a small helping of people ever come to say goodbye to the tributes, and usually not outside close friends and family. Most everyone correctly believes that our tributes are always good as dead; not even the looming presence of Lucy Gray Baird can dissuade them of that notion.
But my friends seem to think that District 12 might finally have a winner this year. With the exception of Gilla, it could be anyone's Games - including mine - between the other three of us.
After another minute, the Peacekeepers return, though unaccompanied. I try not to let my face fall in too much disappointment. Daddy probably had enough of a time trying to help Mother to bed. The squad of officers escort me back downstairs, where Dolly and the other three tributes are waiting for us. My eyes seem to always find Haymitch first, and I give him my friendliest smile. He doesn't smile back, appraising me up and down like I'm a creature of the Capitol before turning away in barely-concealed disgust.
Dolly happily leads the way out a side door of the Justice Building, where the five of us are all muscled into an armored car. Unfortunately, no one seemed to plan and provide us a vehicle with an extra backseat; being the smallest and the skinniest, Gilla and Haymitch have no choice but to squat up in a space against the back windshield. Beech and I take positions on either side of Dolly in the middle seat.
It's only a short ride to the district train station, and we all file out to paparazzi flashing their cameras and the cheers of a crowd. The people must be Capitol plants; the folks of the district wouldn't willingly participate in such a farcical display. Not when they know that all four of us are probably coming home in boxes.
We step off the platform and cross over into the sleek, silver locomotive. As soon as our quintet is aboard, the hydraulic doors hiss closed behind us, and the speed at which the train bullets off momentarily disorients us.
I don't even get a final peek of District 12 before it is gone, likely forever.
Dolly leads the way into the dining car, bouncing on the balls of her heeled feet and clapping her hands in an almost royal way.
"And here is our evening meal, brought fresh from the Capitol!"
My sister and I have never wanted for anything, have eaten heartily every day of our lives, and even my jaw drops.
An entire feast is spread out before us: lemon soup and lamb chops and raspberry pudding. There's even a chocolate fountain. Chancing a glance at my three Seam companions, their expressions make it clear that they seem to have been transported to another world.
"That turkey wing's mine!" Beech moves first, lunging nearly halfway across the table for the handsome bird displayed near the center.
Haymitch is right behind him, tackling the other boy in a flying leap. "Oh, no you don't!" he actually laughs - a rich sound, baritone, though not too deep.
Dolly takes in the scene of the two scrappy Seam teenagers wrestling on the meal with a look of abject horror. "No, no, no!" she shrieks, rushing forward to at least wave them off the tablecloth and into chairs. Biting my lip to hide a smile, I glance down at our littlest friend.
"Gilla?"
Closely observing the boys' roughhousing, her eyes dance as she smirks. "I call the fruit," before racing for a ripe plum at the top of the fruit bowl.
As we finally begin the dinner in a semi-organized fashion, Haymitch, Beech and Gilla continue to gobble and gulp whatever they can get their hands on. Dolly looks thoroughly unimpressed, but when she opens her mouth to clearly voice her disapproval, I quiet her with a look.
"Forget it," I say. "They've never eaten as well as this."
She manages to appear shocked by this, as if she hasn't been our escort for the past 15+ years, but then notices how I am at least eating with utensils and graces me with an almost grateful nod of appreciation. At least somebody has manners, she clearly is thinking.
When the other three have slowed enough in their gorging, our escort dabs her napkin along her pursed lips. "Well, now that we have plenty in our bellies, I'd say it's high time to go over your Tribute Rights."
Haymitch stills long enough in slurping from his bowl of lemon soup to flash Dolly something between a smirk and a sneer. "Tributes have rights?"
Gilla snorts into her hands, and even I have to suppress a giggle. I don't entirely succeed, for Haymitch's head whips to me and after a moment of scrutiny grants me a subtle smile of what must be approval. I feel my heart patter in my ribcage.
Dolly frowns at Haymitch's flip response that could border on seditious, or at least cynical, depending on how you interpret it. Squirming a little in her seat, she begins to rotely recite:
"You have the right to remain silent: anything you say could and likely will be used against you in an arena of glory. You have the right to a mentor: if your district cannot produce a mentor, one will be provided for you."
"Provided?" Beech perks up at this. "By who? The Capitol?"
The four of us look at each other. Beech is certainly right about that. District 12 has only ever had one Victor who could possibly mentor... and unfortunately for us, she's been missing in action and presumed dead for four decades. Not for the first time, but never more fervently than now, I dearly wish that Lucy Gray Baird was still around - even if the Capitol does provide a district who has no mentor with one, I have to imagine that that Victor could not possibly care about those tributes as much as one of our own might.
Dolly nods enthusiastically. "Oh, yes, Beech! The Capitol has graciously assigned one of the Victors from District 2 to be your mentor this year!"
The four of us share yet another glance around the table. Well, at least our mentor is a former Career. District 2 has more Victors than anyone else - eleven so far. One more win, and they'll be the first district to fill up every single house in its Victors' Village, according to what I've heard on mandatory programming from time to time.
Just then, the door to the dining car hisses open and Dolly's eyes take on a positively star-struck look. "Why, here he is now!"
I shift around in my seat, and upon sight of him, my face turns pale: our mentor is none other than Brutus Barsetti, the positively massive boy who won two years ago by butchering his way through almost two-thirds of the field single-handed. Apparently, he ended up tying the record for most kills by a single tribute.
Brutus's dark eyes make a quick sweep of what he's been left to work with, lingering on me for a moment in an almost leering way. I gulp, but try not to give away any vulnerability. Being a relatively new Victor, Brutus must have been placed in this thankless job to break him in. Help him learn the trade of mentoring.
It's hard to see anything other than his rippling pectorals, straining beneath a simple undershirt, but I nevertheless keep my eyes trained on his face. He has a shaved head, revealing a skull as thick as the rest of him. The image is a little jarring - no young man should be scarcely twenty and bald. Of course, then I remember watching the finale of his Games, and how Brutus had all his hair singed off by a blaze of fire. He battled his way through a volcanic arena, climbing up a steep slope of molten rock to duel his final opponent. The poor boy from District 5 was cast over Brutus's head and flung into the fiery pit of the active volcano, in order for the beloved Career tribute to become Victor.
After a long moment, Brutus's put-upon expression uplifts into a rueful smile. "Congratulations."
His clearly sarcastic remark is delivered in a rumbling bass that carries all the dulcet tones of a foghorn. Trapping me in his stare, Brutus makes right for me, reaching out a paw of a hand to caress my face. "And what's your name, my pretty?"
"Leave her alone." The almost growl actually comes from Haymitch even before I've twisted away, and my eyes dart over to his, surprised but nevertheless pleased that he would defend my honor.
Brutus's own orbs narrow into slits, his knuckles cracking as he balls them into fists. A muscle in his neck – as thick as a tree trunk - bulges, ticks. "You don't ever tell me what to do, tribute."
Haymitch just insolently smirks. "Listen, buddy, I hate to break it to you, but you ain't Pack Leader in the arena anymore."
The overhead lighting makes Brutus shimmer as his body vibrates with rage. "No, but you listen, smart-ass - I'm the mentor, and I give the orders. No one else!"
Haymitch is sporting a truly feral sneer. "Oh, yeah?"
And with that bravado that I know has gotten him into plenty of trouble and street free-for-alls before, the volatile Seam boy bullrushes a Hunger Games Victor at least twice his size, if not more. My fellow tribute's fists come out swinging, the ferocity of his attack actually driving Brutus back. Someone's leg bumps that of my chair, and I spring out of it just before it overturns with a crash.
There is a tinkling of glass as something shatters, and Dolly lets out a shriek of fear.
Brutus is now throwing out fists as large as salamis, one of which connects with Haymitch's right arm. The boy howls in pain, gritting his teeth before another press from Brutus sends him rolling away. Thankfully, Haymitch appears to lead with his left and he is soon back on the offensive.
Catching his eye from across the room, Beech sends me an almost imperceptible nod. With no prior discussion, we circle the pair of punching boys, trying our best to outflank Brutus. Once I'm close enough, I get a running start and take a flying leap for Brutus's back. Our mentor must anticipate me, for he side-steps so that I sail through empty air, landing hard on my stomach.
I feel a rush of air current above me, as Beech makes his move about half a second after I do. This time, he gets across Brutus's back, wraps an arm around his neck and holds fast like a monkey.
Brutus growls and thrashes, trying to dislodge Beech from across his shoulders, and Haymitch presses the advantage. He manages to drive the ex-Career back into the far wall of the train car, where Brutus takes the opportunity to ram Beech back into the wood - once, then again. Scrambling to my feet, I watch Beech take the hit and groan, but he admirably hangs on.
Glancing about wildly, I spy a cylindrical staff stuffed with jellybeans leaning against the chocolate fountain. Seizing it, I wait for an opening, and once it comes and Brutus is turned away...
I swing. Spying me bearing down out of the corner of his eye, Beech has just enough warning to duck. Our mentor isn't so lucky; the staff of jellybeans clocks Brutus right in the back of the head, and he actually moans, sinking to his knees. Beech tightens his hold; Brutus's face is quickly turning blue and Haymitch closes in, landing a punch on the side of Brutus's head.
"All right... ALL RIGHT! ENOUGH!" Brutus seizes just enough air around Beech's rippling forearm to bellow the command, and somehow also manages to regain his footing, eyes wild with rage. But his rush at Haymitch is halted when he nearly runs into the butter knife now pointed directly over his heart.
Even with our mentor still half-hunched over, Gilla has to reach to point the blade's tip directly over the critical organ. Though her weapon arm wobbles, her feet are firmly planted, and to her credit, she shows no fear.
We all freeze in a truly bizarre tableau, I with my jellybean staff still hefted over me. Behind us, we note Dolly dithering, terrified, in a corner.
Brutus's jaw sets, his teeth gnashing before he finally gets out tightly, "Time out." It is the closest equivalent to what I've heard Careers in the arena actually say: Yield.
Still, we do. Beech releases Brutus and clambers off him, allowing him to get air. Haymitch lowers his fists and I let my staff hang limply from my side. Gilla is the only one who doesn't move, but Brutus brushes her blade aside as though it is a twig.
"All of you, in front of me. Form a line."
We obey, Brutus going up and down the formation, inspecting his troops. He pauses in front of me, taking my chin in his hands, and for one mad moment, I think he is going to kiss me. If he does, he's no Dannel Mellark - though Danny took me by surprise, it was innocent enough and his heart was in the right place. Despite the flustered threat I leveled at my dear friend, I wouldn't have any qualms about slapping Brutus right across the face; I don't care how big he is.
But Brutus merely tilts my head this way and that, as though he is examining a piece of chattel before letting me go. His gaze roves over my body, and he grins, pleased. "I'll be able to get a lot of sponsors for a pretty little thing like you." My gut roils in revulsion. Our mentor patrols back down the line one more time, halting before Haymitch and leaning right into the boy's personal space in a clear attempt to intimidate. I have to admire my classmate: Haymitch stares him down right back.
Holding the detenté for a moment, Brutus finally steps back. "How interesting," he muses. "I get deployed to cannon fodder duty, and instead, I actually get three decent fighters."
Gilla's lip trembles, intelligent enough to guess who's the odd man out. I frown hard - Gilla was the one who actually had Brutus dead to rights, but the Victor of the 48th Hunger Games doesn't even spare his littlest pupil a second glance.
"OK. Here's the skinny: if you guys fight double as well as that in training, I might be persuaded to actually nudge sponsors in your direction. In return:" and his black orbs lock onto Haymitch, "none of you ever question my authority again. Deal?"
Gilla nods so fast, she looks like a bobblehead toy; the courage she displayed mere moments ago has clearly abandoned her. Beech shifts from foot to foot, but also bows his head in assent. When Brutus's gaze swivels to me, dipping down to take a peek at my cleavage, I merely nod, jaw hard.
Brutus returns his stare to Haymitch, who appears positively murderous. His one iris slides over to glance at me. 'Haymitch... come on,' I mouth to him.
The Abernathy boy finally shrugs flippantly. "Yeah, whatever."
Brutus takes it. "Excellent."
A/N: With only two exceptions, most of the names of Maysilee's generation were lifted from the young Haymitch Abernathy prequels written by FernWithy, a partial inspiration for this work. It took me a bit to decide on a young Brutus as the mentor, but once I did, writing him has been so much fun! Imagine a young John Kreese from Karate Kid with his character. Thanks for the favorites and follows, and pistonsfan75 - thanks for first review. Keep 'em coming!
