XLIV: The Capitol - West Carthage Conference Building.

Isperia Martorell, 16
Applicant #17

She's not prepared for what happens the second they step free from the building.

Before there was no one there lurking in the back alley the same way they were - there was only that gaggle of reporters and security and their cars all the way at the front of the building. All of which hadn't noticed at the time.

Those people have multiplied seemingly out of thin air. There are a few spinning in circles at each end of the alley, now. It's clear almost instantly what it is that they're doing, random to anyone else but very purposeful when she knows what just happened. They're looking for something obvious. They're looking for them, and someone alerts the whole crowd in a split second.

The few multiplies again, into dozens. Two people with cameras and microphones even come stumbling out of the building after them even though she has no recollection of them being followed in the first place.

They're descended on like the vultures have found their latest kill, still fresh and steaming.

Suddenly, just like that, dozens is way too many to deal with it.

It becomes a crush on all sides, a cacophony of yelling and shoving bodies and too much going on to really process at all. She's stumbling every which way, focusing on nothing but the ground beneath her in an attempt to keep her feet flat on the ground, but it's not really working. Every time she seems steady someone intervenes a second later, catching her in the side or in her legs, threatening to sweep them out from underneath her.

It would all be an accident, too. No one is trying to hurt them, she doesn't think, but the crowd is too thick to really tell. There's so many shutters going off in her face, cameras every which way and more and more people appearing by the second.

Oh, they've done it alright.

Someone grabs her tight around the arm and yanks her to the side, out of the worst of the crowd. Her heart jumps into her throat; someone else grabs her too, or at least nudges her further in the direction they're already traveling. It doesn't feel like anything bad is happening, not yet.

There's another horrific burst of shouting, words and unanswered questions and absolute nonsense. Even the ground becomes a blur, then - she looks up, and it's Soran of all people who's got her by the arm. A few weeks ago that would have been more than slightly terrifying. Now she dives forward and grabs him with her other hand, too, because like hell she's getting lost in this. It doesn't even feel like anyone else is here, at least not anyone that matters.

She's all but allowing herself to get dragged out of the alley, but she has to trust his instincts right about now. That, and he's a solid foot taller than her. He can probably see an easier way out than she ever will.

The nudge from behind returns again, a little bit stronger, and she nearly trips off the sidewalk and into the road. The road. She still can hardly see anything at all through the mass of bodies but she hears it clear as day despite everything else. All she does is trust that she can accurately pinpoint the sound before she ducks under Soran's arm and throws herself headfirst into the backseat of a car. It's definitely not the one they arrived here in.

She slides across the backseat and then promptly falls into the footwell behind the passenger seat. You know what, that's good enough. She doesn't want to come out.

Soran nearly does the same thing but he manages to stay upright, at least, though he nearly corks her in the head with one foot.

A door ahead opens, and she flinches, trying to use the seat to bring herself back up a few inches. Pandora falls into the front seat almost as gracelessly as she just did, but at least she has the wheel to grab a hold. It's the only thing that keeps her from falling over. Her door slams shut, almost from the force of the crowd outside. Soran repeatedly slams his open palm down on the locks until he's satisfied that it's worked.

"Where's everyone else?" she manages. She starts to pull herself back up, inch by ridiculous inch; Soran hooks an arm under hers and drags her the rest of the way. She still isn't really properly sitting.

"Evander's got them," Pandora says. "I think."

"You think?" Soran asks.

"I can't exactly ask him."

"Well, what do you—"

"Call him, then!" Pandora says wildly, before he can even begin to say anything else. Her phone comes bouncing into the backseat, the second thing that nearly hits Ria in the head in just a few short minutes. "Why are you bleeding?"

She reaches a hand up to her own face, stupidly, even though she knows it's not her. Soran reaches across her, fumbling around for the lost phone. There's not very much of it, but his nose is definitely bleeding. It's just enough to remind her of the fact that she hates blood; she thought that she had gotten over that, maybe. The reappearance of it makes her want to dive out of the car.

Not quite, though. She looks up and there are cameras an inch away from every bit of exposed window, and all of the shutters are still going off. The shouting has quieted, somewhat. Not enough to comfort her.

For a second she's almost tempted to slink back down into the footwell. It would be fitting for her to act like a snake right about now.

Soran still hasn't answered Pandora's question, either. He's started with the phone, continuously fiddling with it and then bringing it up to his ear over and over again like he doesn't know what he's doing with it. He probably doesn't. Not even in Three did anyone have anything that fancy and upgraded, and they manufactured most of the damn things.

Pandora lays on the horn and she jumps a mile. A few people scatter but not nearly everyone. Getting out of here is going to be a different kind of hell than the one they just experienced. At least now no one's getting too close. No one can touch here in ear.

"Hey, hey, do you have them?" Soran starts. He's got the phone working - good for him. "No, this isn't Pandora, who the fuck do you think it is?"

The car begins a painful crawl. Even up until the last second people are refusing to move, bumping up against the hood and the side of the car regardless of whether it's really dangerous or not. She's not even so sure she likes cars anymore, not after everything. Cars, blood, the general state of everything else going on... what could possibly be next? The entire world?

Honestly, she's not putting it past herself to dislike that, anymore.

At this point all she can do is try to keep herself calm. She can't control what's going on outside, the camera and the reporters, what they just did. It's not as if she didn't want to come, she just knew it wasn't going to be her that did it. No, Tarquin saw to that pretty efficiently. It was commendable, really. He did it when nobody else could get through.

There's still so much noise; Soran talking on the phone, Pandora talking to no one at all, really, just muttering at every single person that gets a hair too close to getting run over. Everyone outside shouting, screaming, looking for answers and getting none in return.

And her, talking to herself, really. Repeating the little mantra over and over again in her head. Stay calm, just stay calm.

She closes her eyes for a moment, folds her hands over her ears. Most of the sound fades away into almost nothing. It just feels like white noise, now, the easy rumbling of the car underneath her the only thing she can feel. She can ignore the bodies hitting the car now, tucked away inside. She can pretend they're not there.

It doesn't feel like it should work. Soran gives her a look in the time that she cracks open one eye and then closes it again. Things don't work for him the way they work for her.

He can't try to ignore it the same way.

That's the good bit to all of this, though. She shut down in the heat of things but he was the one that pulled her out, and now when she can see the stress and the anger pulling down on him she can choose to remain calm.

It's all she has going for her.

She used to be terrible at it too, is the thing. She could never calm down from anything before.

But now, with all the worst of the horror behind her, this doesn't seem so bad in comparison.

Emmi Langlois, 17
Applicant #13

The Estate's gates are swarming with people.

All safely locked on the other side, thankfully, but as the hours go on the more convinced she gets that someone, a particularly ballsy one, will attempt climbing the stupid thing.

It's tall. Taller than fences have any right to be, really, but in this moment she's grateful for it's presence.

Getting back in and of itself had been a task, almost more difficult than any of the killing had ever been. She had wanted to kill someone, if she was being honest, any of the ones that kept getting in the way all the way back here, and even the guard at the front gate, who had looked at them with a tad more horror than he had before.

She's still not sure what Tarquin chose to announce about them on live television, and that's probably for the best. If he went off on a tangent about how many people they murdered that may not be the best thing that's ever happened to them.

It worked, though. No one's said it, but it worked. They beat the fucking President, for once.

So sue her, if you want, for being a smidgen satisfied. More than a smidgen, honestly, but she's not going to push her luck, or anyone's, anymore today.

She hasn't been able to tear herself very far away from one of the front windows. There's someone watching the grand front doors now; there never has been before. She's not sure if he's there to keep her from leaving, or to keep someone unlawful intruder from coming in. Probably both. One or both of Evander and Pandora comes by every so often. They're on the phone a lot, and she doesn't really want to know.

Crynn watches with her, sometimes. Sits, and then doesn't. He's gone now, though. Icarus is the only one currently sitting with her, but he's not so much staring out the window like she is that he's just observing the opposite wall with a very odd intensity.

Something happened, that's confirmed now. Whatever it was she doesn't know, but Soran disappeared the second they got back, bloody nose and jacket sleeve and all, and Icarus had stayed here. He had stared after him in a very obvious oh, woe is me sort of way but the battle to stay had finally won out. For how closely he's been following him around since they got here it's sort of jarring.

It's nice to have company, though, even if he's the shit version of it. Regardless of the lack of conversation the presence of someone else being so close is enough to keep her from delving too far into her own head.

"How long are you going to stare at the wall for?" she asks.

"Haven't decided yet."

"How long do you think you can hold off going to look for him?"

"I'm not going to look for him. He's bled worse than that."

"I was there," she reminds him. "You don't have to make me re-hash it."

It was so much worse, too. A little blow to the nose is nothing, but even then...

"Trouble in paradise?" she asks. "Or like, trouble in hell? You guys don't seem very paradise-y."

Icarus gives her a very flat, unimpressed look. Well, it's true. He can try and deny it all he likes, but he knows it too. Not one of them that was out there was meant for paradise, not her and Arwen and certainly not the two of them. If that was the case any sign of anything good and hopeful for the future would have survived. Sure, Soran and Icarus did, but that may not mean anything at all.

It definitely doesn't right now.

He's back to staring at the wall again, though she's not sure he ever really broke away from that for good. It doesn't appear that she's going to get anything else out for him. It's not like she's the pinnacle for relationship advice anyway, not with her track record. Lack thereof, really.

Especially when it's a relationship she still hasn't managed to wrap her head around.

No one understood her or Winnie, though. Maybe other people just aren't meant to.

Soran appears maybe twenty or so minutes later, face clean, new shirt on. It's not even bruised - lucky him.

"You're still here?" he asks, though he doesn't stop. It feels more like a drive-by than anything else, even if he isn't going at an impressive speed. Maybe the elbow to the face knocked him back down a few pegs.

"What else am I supposed to be doing?" she wonders. Icarus sighs and continues staring at the wall.

"Whatever you want, I guess. Nothing would be included in that too."

Well, he certainly sounds like he's about to go do something. What she has no idea. She can't even think up anything clever to say back by the time he's gone, around the next corner. He didn't even glance once out the window.

How all of this doesn't bother him is beyond her.

That's how she personally felt before all of this. Largely unbothered. Icarus looks the exact same as before - just upwardly ticked of halfway dead inside, wondering if the plunge to fully was worth it. It was sort of funny when his priorities were being annoying and nosy, but it's not anymore. Everything's shifted and suddenly nothing is funny. If she started laughing right now there's a strong possibility that she'd never stop and that the sheer hysteria of it all would just outright kill her. She's not sure if death via laughter is a real thing, but it doesn't sound like the worst way to go.

It sounds peachy as opposed to a tree branch through the abdomen, really.

She glances out the window again. Still with all of the crowding. "Do you know what he's going to do?"

"Yeah."

She raises an eyebrow. He must be able to see it even from this angle, because he drops his eyes and then his head into his hands, rubbing furiously at his temples. It doesn't look like it helps.

"He wants to figure out who did this. With Pandora, I assume. And Evander too, probably, and God knows Crynn will get involved. But don't worry, because neither of us got an invite to that."

"Okay?"

"What do you mean, okay?"

"Is that what all of this is about? You had one little fight and now you're pissed at each other?"

"He can't just decide shit for me. And you didn't hear what else he said."

"I'm pretty glad I didn't, honestly," she admits, and he doesn't even have a reaction to that. His head is still in his hands. It'll probably be that way for a long while unless she does something.

She doesn't know when it became her job to do something, but apparently no one cares to take her out of it. She just wanted to come back and take a nap, really. That's all she wanted to do. That's what she deserves.

Emmi stands up. "Alright, angsty, let's go."

"Pardon me?"

"You heard me. Let's go. So what he doesn't want help from any of us, that doesn't mean we can't start looking ourselves."

"We're not gonna have the help that he does."

"So what? We can still try. Or do you not want to admit the fact that digging scares you?"

He looks up at her, meeting her eyes for more than a few seconds this time. He looks like he needs a nap as much as she does. Maybe they should start with that, or maybe there's no time. Maybe they need every second awake as long as they can handle it.

"It's not the digging that scares me," he admits. "It's what we're going to find - it's what he's going to find."

"It may not be as bad as you're expecting."

"Or it could be worse."

True. He's got a point. He'd be slightly less annoying if he didn't have the tendency to always be annoyingly right about everything. And let's be real for a second here and say it probably is going to be worse, given their track record. Someone tried to kill them, and someone is likely still trying. Someone is taking collateral in the meantime like it's a fun hobby.

There's a difference now, between the before and now.

Now they can handle the worse.

Icarus sighs again and stands. "Fuck it. Let's go. Where are we going, exactly?"

"No idea."

"Awesome." He turns on his heel and begins to walk off, in the exact opposite direction that Soran went.

In the very least, she's grateful for that small amount of predictability, as she hurries after him.

Soran Faerber, 19
Applicant #8

Offices are not usually the size of an entire house.

Not that he has any definitive proof of that. He's never owned a house with an office. Never owned a house period. There was one in the Academy, but he never stepped foot in it. Too young, maybe. It was also one of the first areas to go up in flames when Caius Muric decided to burn it the fuck down, so it doesn't matter much.

He finds Pandora's office entirely by accident, opening every door he finds in his quest to get somewhere remotely useful. He has no idea where she is, or he'd ask her. He's done enough walking for today, and on top of everything now his face hurts as well, although it's a very dull pain in comparison to the kind he's gotten used to in the past few weeks.

It's not an office, no, it's an entire fucking library. She said the word, he heard it loud as day, but he didn't think she was serious. There are shelves stretching out in every direction nearly to the ceiling, creating new paths and alcoves everywhere he looks. The shelves are packed, too. Some are so full they look as if they're about to burst, the spines refusing to properly align along the fringes.

Books are a good start. There's a whole wealth of information to be found in them, he knows, but it doesn't help that he's certain he's never gotten through a book in his entire life. His reading comprehension is a firm 'iffy' on the relative scale - he'll blame it on that.

So maybe books aren't as good as he thinks. And it's not like there's a damn librarian around to point him in the right direction.

He picks one at random, finally, ambling off to the left and then up one of the new paths through the shelves. On and on they continue, occasionally producing a stray couch or pair of chairs tucked away into one of the corners, some of them well-worn. Despite how overwhelming it is he can see why people would spend time in here. The lights are warm and the windows sweep over the back garden, the rugs that line every little path probably the most expensive thing he's ever stepped on in his entire life.

It doesn't take him very long to find what he's looking for, a separate area half-partitioned off by a wall and a massive archway. There's a fireplace along the far wall, unlit. He's seen a few desks so far, smaller things. None like the one he can see now, dark and tall and overall just as stupidly big as everything else in here.

There's three monitors on the thing too, for fuck's sake. Who needs three monitors?

He takes a seat behind the desk and nearly sinks all the way through the thing, he's convinced. It's ridiculous.

He fiddles with everything for an unnecessarily long amount of time and in it only manages to succeed in turning on the main monitor - the other two stay dark, and even the one in front of him now is showing him just how locked out he is.

Right, Pandora probably didn't get around to getting him access to this, or she did and it got shoved to the side in favor of what happened today.

In reality, he's got nothing else to do. Nowhere to go, no other purpose.

There a few drawers nudging up against his legs. He really doesn't have anything better to do.

The first few he peeks through are embarrassingly empty. Even the desk itself is mostly barren. There's a holder for a few pens, a clipboard filled with blank papers, and, now that he takes a long look, a very respectable framed family photo that he very casually reaches up for and then puts face-down on the desk. Nothing to be seen here, folks.

He's rifling through what must be the sixth drawer so far when he hears the voice approaching, and there's certainly no door behind him. It's someone coming through the library, a voice he's come to associate with Pandora even after only a few days. At least she doesn't have the frantic edge to her voice that she did before.

He doesn't look up from his current drawer when he senses her stop in the archway. He can feel her eyes on him.

"Totally not snooping through your drawers," he says.

"Totally doesn't look like it."

He slams the drawer shut. More useless bullshit. She crosses over to him, gives him a look, and then rights the picture frame. He nearly reaches over to knock it down again, but it sort of feels like he's already been caught with his hand in the cookie jar anyway. He's probably tested his luck enough for today.

"Someone said they saw you come in here, I'm just gonna get you through the log-in security. I'll have someone get on giving the information to you, I've just been—"

"Distracted?"

"That's certainly a word for it. And I have this for you, too."

"What?" he asks. She skirts around him but still knocks into the chair regardless, pushing him a few inches away. She hands him the folder he hadn't even noticed tucked under her arm. It doesn't even feel like anything's in it. He can't really see what she's doing with the monitors and the keys, but it looks like it's going somewhere in the very least.

"The list you wanted," she says. "Alright, here you go. The navigation's not the easiest, but if you need help I can get someone to help you figure it out. I really need to go to damage control."

"Is that what we're calling it?"

"Unless you have a better term, yes."

He doesn't. He never does. He opens the folder - there's only two sheets of paper inside, stapled together. No matter how many times he flips them back and forth it doesn't look any less daunting.

"What, is this seriously fifty names? Sixty?"

"Just shy of seventy, actually," she says quietly. "It was more than I thought, but I was thorough. I didn't miss anyone."

"Fuck," he says, with more feeling than he's managed in the past few days. She nods almost solemnly, in agreement. "Your brother and Crynn aren't on here? Seriously?"

She stares at the top of his head with a worrying intensity for a long moment. He's surprised there isn't a hole in his head for her efforts. Yeah, he said what he said. He's not changing what he's calling it anytime soon.

"They knew vague details. Not the exact location, and neither of them had access to the type of knowledge that would have pointed the Sentinels to where you guys were," she explains. "Swear."

He believes her, even though he may not want to. She's already proven that she's not the lying type, and she is on the list after all. He's mildly surprised to see it, but it's the first one there, clear as day. He only recognizes a handful of the names littered out beneath hers - the President, his wife, a handful of the Federation. He's not even sure who's who in regards to that.

"Alright, you go do your damage control," he insists. "I guess I'll... get started on this. Fuck."

He doesn't even know how to work her computers. It looks like someone from Three made the most complicated thing in the universe, combined it with the second most complicated, and then threw it at him.

"We can start tomorrow morning, the two of us. Are you going to get anyone to help you in the meantime?"

"Hard no."

She leans back against the desk for a moment, blocking his view of the main monitor. "Were you guys fighting this morning, when I walked up? You both looked upset."

"Does it matter?"

"I don't know," she says slowly. "Does it?"

He gives her a flat look. "Can you not like, reverse psychology me? Or talk to me about feelings, ever?"

"Funny, I'm pretty sure Evander's said the same thing to me before."

"Oh, great, I'm really glad it's a reoccurring thing. Seriously, go, or whatever. I can handle it."

She doesn't look the least bit convinced by that, and definitely nowhere close to impressed, but she makes way for the exit.

"Try and get some sleep tonight."

"No promises," he calls after her. Once again she doesn't look the least bit impressed by that, but at least this time she leaves without putting up a fight. God knows one day it's going to come to a head and she'll probably smother him to get him to sleep. That would be one day to do it, and probably the only one right about now. He's accepted the fact that he's probably not sleeping tonight, and if he does it's going to be on whatever couch in the library looks the most comfortable.

Right now though, he needs to chip away at this stupid list. This stupid fucking list and only one thing on it has caused all this in the first place.

With a sigh he takes one of the pens from it's holder and uncaps it, putting a line through Pandora's name and back again.

He has to start somewhere, after all.

It feels like the only remotely safe place to do so, even if he's unwilling to admit it aloud.

Tate Archeron, 35
President of Panem; formerly of District Seven

He doesn't think Gavin would be very proud of him now.

Gavin was never fully in his right mind, though. Gavin has also been dead for twenty years, now, so it probably doesn't matter.

Twenty fucking years, and he can still see his brother dying clear as day. The Two's got him, Cicely and Cicero - the twins, everyone called them, except Cicero got credited for the kill and Cicely wasn't too happy about that, turns out. It didn't matter to Tate who it came from - he got skewered either way. There was a lot of blood. More than he had ever seen in his fifteen years, and it just happened to be his brother's. It was fucking everywhere. Cicely walked out of the Games with some of it smeared on her pants. She probably didn't care as much as he did.

Scratch that, she definitely didn't.

Gavin was good, fundamentally, at least to him. Not so much to everyone else. If he himself was good he would have volunteered and saved his brother's life, but he didn't. It didn't even cross his mind at the time.

If things had been different, he could be twenty years dead. Maybe Gavin could be President instead.

Probably not. Gavin wasn't exactly the Presidential type.

But then again, neither is he, these days.

Everyone still calls him one, is the thing. They parade him around and celebrate him and throw parties and galas in his name several times a week. Even at the worst of times he still felt like one.

Right now he's not so sure.

Behind him Sariah coughs two times over, and although the sound is muffled he nearly jumps. She hasn't made a single sound in the past half hour beyond the noise of her fingertips on her tablet. Looking at emails and news reports. Leighton went home nearly an hour ago, but it's not like they were talking to him anyway. They rarely did - that's why they were Cris' assistant and not his.

He should probably get on top of this; their desk is empty, after all. He wouldn't even have to go off to his own.

He just doesn't want to. He doesn't even know where the fuck to begin.

And what is he upset at, really? How badly this blew up, or how many people it seemed there were determined to do it? Someone told everyone at Rose Point, someone called in the Mervaine's. For a private event all of the information leaked at an usually high pace.

Nothing's trustworthy anymore.

"Sariah."

"Yes?"

"Is there anything I need to do?" he asks.

"Tomorrow, yes, but I think everything's quieting down for the night. As quiet as it can get with all of this going on. But it would be best to take a few interviews tomorrow, or make a public statement. I can write one up if you'd like."

"Can you?"

"Of course."

She's a good writer, that one. Leagues better than he is. She always makes him sound very poetic, which is odd for someone who doesn't even really understand poetry in the first place. She goes back to her tablet, and he goes back to staring at the few inches of floor between his feet. It's quite the ugly color if he's being honest. This whole mansion is ugly; he wouldn't live here if he didn't have to.

Ideally, he'd be back in Seven, but he doesn't feel safe there either. He hasn't since Gavin died.

There's nowhere he feels safe anymore.

"Can I ask you something?" Sariah questions.

"Go for it."

"I know you're planning on doing... something, with those kids. It's not my business. But can I ask why?"

"Why what?"

"I guess it's sort of hard to think of in terms of victors," she muses. "You know, having one per year. But the 160th, with the nine of them escaping, isn't it just like that? Just four less?"

"You could say that."

"So... why are you planning on doing something with them, then? The nine are living free. No one ever went after them or punished them for it. I know that was quite thoroughly planned, but—"

"But that's the difference," he interrupts. "It was planned. This was instead someone's sick manipulation that no one could have saw coming except the person who executed it. And after today I've got nineteen families who have begun the quick realization that their kids didn't die in a hovercraft accident. They were murdered. Brutally, I may add, butchered like cattle if the pictures and reports are to be believed."

Those pictures are something he's never going to unsee, nineteen corpses. Some are hardly recognizable. And he's supposed to return those very corpses to their respective families and do what? Nothing? It doesn't help that they're still missing one, that the two they found were so deep in the mountains he's surprised the search teams even found them. And there's another lie, too, another thing he's hidden. He didn't believe Fallout Three's existence when he took the Presidency, so how is he supposed to explain it to the public when it inevitably gets out?

Because it will get out. Everything is getting out.

Sariah looks troubled, but she's kept her mouth shut. Leighton wouldn't be, and that's why they're employed under his wife and not him.

"Is it," she starts, slowly. "Is it because they're from the Capitol? Is that it?"

"I don't have hatred towards anyone just because they're from here."

"I know that," she insists. "I know that because you're married to one. It just seems suspect now of all times. We spent a hundred and sixty years subjected to the Capitol's whims and tortures and now that the position is reversed it feels an awful lot like vengeance. Unwarranted vengeance."

"Punishing murderers isn't unwarranted."

"If your brother had come out of the arena and the family of that girl he killed came after him, would you say that was unwarranted?"

"That's different."

"It's not," she insists. "It's murder all the same, and I've known you too long to believe that you really think that. I'll say it, okay - it's a shitshow out there. But how do you know this is going to help?"

"How do you know it won't?" he asks. Sariah's right in the respect that they've known each other too long, two suffering kids out of Seven and Nine doing God knows what in the Capitol, with jobs too big for their shoulders. But he wanted it, didn't he? He wanted it more than anything.

She still hasn't responded when he glances over his shoulder at her yet again. She's a thinker, she is, but it looks like she's run out of ideas this time. Usually it's him first.

He takes a deep breath. "I'd appreciate that statement by the morning, if you could. I'm going to bed."

Sariah doesn't move out of the way, so he has to skirt around her to head for the door. He feels like a ten year old that's been scolded by his mother and he's six years older than her, for crying out loud. How it's working that way is beyond him, but maybe it's because his own mother hasn't talked to him in years. After his father passed it was like she was willing herself to be prematurely buried between the two of them, out in Wolf Creek's cemetery. She had done that, and he had gone here.

It's beginning to feel more and more like he was the one that had made the mistake.

Only took me like two hours to realize that it was Saturday and I needed to update but hey, whatever.

Next Saturday's update will probably be at least slightly wonky upload time wise because I'm going to be Suffering, but never fear. We'll get there eventually.

Until next time.