Naya Illumina, 17, District Four Female
She is getting closer now. The inevitability of it is like a clock ticking down. Eventually, things will get dangerous in the Pack. Nasty, even. With Marquis's sunny smile and irresistible, bouncy energy gone, the reality of it sinks heavy onto her shoulders. Only one person, of the nine that remain, will make it out of this nightmarish Arena alive.
And that has to be Naya. She is growing surer of it by the minute. But with one of the people under her command gone, she understands that there will eventually be a splintering, a severing. And as much as she wants it to be peaceful and painless, she highly doubts it will play out that way.
It is a slow day, once again. Alessio is still recovering from his arm wound and needs rest, a fact which he would probably protest, had he not been unconscious. Instead, Blade insists that they take at least half the day to recover from their little skirmish yesterday. So Naya measures the hours and her breaths, very aware that the end is nearing.
So she observes. Eyes skating over her allies, she imagines how it might go down.
Something simmers between Blade and Tremor, something uneasy and electric and prone to explode at any moment. They repel each other, and sparks fly when their eyes meet or their wills contest, like swords clashing. There is a dangerous hatred brewing beneath Tremor's skin, a restlessness that Naya can just barely detect beneath his calm, disarming veneer. It... almost frightens her, to watch his easy countenance and calming smile flip as he kills a Tribute without a second glance. He is ruthless, a blade sharpened to lethal precision. And that blade might not be completely on her side, if their first interaction dictates anything.
Although... she supposes she can't judge Tremor too harshly, as she, too, has blood on her hands because of this Arena. But at least she is fighting for a good cause that could save the Earth itself. Tremor's motives are far from crystal-clear. She knows only that he fights for the Capitol. And that could be dangerous, as her support of the environment could be seen as rebellion when looked at beneath the right light.
It's not like she cares what these acquaintances think... but, well, she hoped she'd be seen as the benevolent leader of her close-knit crew, finding a friend in somebody. And she can't say that it doesn't hurt just a little, to be on the fringes, somewhat. She's not sure if it's the nature of her alliance, or if she has simply not impressed them enough. Perhaps if she was a better leader, they'd like her more. She carries regret around her shoulders like a heavy cloak, the fact that she'd done nothing to save Marquis yesterday. The others had been more involved, and she'd missed the four outlier Tributes as they streamed past, and then she had been so caught up in the battle.
But maybe if she hadn't been weak in those moments, Marquis would still be here. Because he could've been her friend, her confidant in this whole mess, her right hand. He was, by far, the most approachable of her allies.
But now he's gone. And his loss is unavoidable in this tiny space.
As for Alessio... she doesn't know what to think of him. He was obviously connected to Caldwell in some way, which makes her a little paranoid; and not only that, but he's still passed out under Blade and Tremor's careful watch. It seems they both feel a sense of protectiveness toward the boy, which Naya can't find in herself. It's not that she doesn't like him, but Naya is a girl who takes action, who works so hard to get what she wants. It's past noon, and the wound wasn't life-threatening. Surely he should be able to bounce back.
Immediately, she scolds herself for her apathy. Obviously, he's probably shaken by Marquis's death, just as Naya is. And as Naya stayed awake for half the night, she noticed that Alessio didn't truly fall asleep until early morning.
Naya sighs. Going in circles like this is not accomplishing anything. She needs to have a purpose, do some good in the world, feel as if she is moving and thinking and doing.
So she stands up and gestures out into the daylight. "I'm going to go and scout. I should be back by dusk."
Tremor and Blade both watch her warily, and she meets their gazes with confidence and calm. Yes, she misses Marquis. Yes, she feels useless and discouraged. But she needs to work with what she has, and try to gain the advantage and make the best of her situation.
So she sets out into the high-noon sun, intent on finding something to do.
She walks alone out onto the streets, wondering why this city seemed so deserted and lonely. This golden little metropolis seemed designed for multitudes, the market bustling with people and the church overflowing with townsfolk, and the stage... she imagines this stage was meant to put on the grandest plays, with the most glamorous costumes. The perfect place for the Capitol.
Naya just wants to get out. She wants to be back in Four, where there is only sea and sky and—ashamed as she is to think it—no Caldwell Kingsen, and where her sights are set on what's truly important: saving the environment. She is so close that she can almost imagine the President, listening intently to her appeal.
As she is strolling the streets, hoping her thoughts will clear and her guilt will lift, a parachute glides down and brushes past her arm. Attached to it is a pair of shiny binoculars, with her name on the tag.
Naya examines the binoculars. They must be Capitol-enhanced, top-notch. Perfect for spying.
Naya failed at stopping Marquis's death. But maybe she can make up for her attempt. Because these binoculars are perfect for spying.
She mounts the stage, which is cast in a forlorn light by the gauzy curtains and deserted space. She crosses to the elevated center and fastens the binoculars around her eyes, gazing out across the Arena.
Sure enough, she sees things clearer. The marketplace, nearly completely ransacked, its previously plentiful supplies now almost hollowed out. There are tiny huts, out beyond the perfectly structured town, which may or may not be occupied. The art gallery where Caldwell died is closed, all of its secrets sealed tight behind its walls.
And the church... it is hulking, grandiose, and almost entirely hidden from her view... except for the ornate window on the tower which looms at its highest point.
And in the window is a miniscule figure.
There is no way for Naya to tell if it is simply a statue, or a trick of the light, or something else entirely. The odds that a Tribute is gazing back at her from a vantage point she wasn't even aware of are slim.
And yet... Naya cannot shake her curiosity, the strange prickle at the back of her neck of watching and being watched.
She walks slowly, calmly, down the stage and back onto the cobblestones. If there really is another scout in this Arena... Naya isn't sure whether to feel affronted, or intimidated, or awed. Or maybe a mix of all three.
What is she doing? Standing here fussing like some indecisive fool will never bring her closer to her goal. If she doesn't act soon, her decision will likely be made for her.
It can't hurt to at least investigate, see who could be watching her from that high window. What Tribute would be brave—or foolish—enough to climb up there where they could be an easy target and spy on the rest of the Arena?
She begins walking. Confidently, unflinchingly. Naya is doing good. Or she will be, eventually, when she gets out of this place that twists her thoughts and makes her question. She fully intends to kill this other Tribute. Because killing them would mean that she'd get closer to winning, which would mean she'd be able to do good. Save the world, even.
If she stands back and returns to the suffocating tension of the Career base, she will need to face other things. Like her failure against Marquis. But out here, she is acting. Doing. Changing.
That's worth something, right?
Naya knows that she is going to do anything within her power to get what she wants, no matter how morally clouded that action might be. The ends can justify the means, as long as they are noble.
But then... is she contradicting herself? If she believes this, then how can she be angry at Tremor? At Caldwell? They both believe—believed—their deeds to be wonderful. Revolutionary. Good, certainly. What makes her different from them?
The terrible thought sends prickles all the way down her spine. She stops mid-stride, so close to the church and the mysterious Tribute.
No. The difference is that Tremor and Caldwell merely thought their actions to be good. But Naya... she is doing good. That's a fact.
Yet, killing someone is irrevocably wrong. So, to this nameless Tribute, she'd be seen as evil.
No... that's not right...
She shakes off her paralysis. What is she doing? What is she thinking? She is Naya Illumina. Powerful. Noble. She has risen beyond questions, beyond doubts, into a place where she can be heard. Where she can make changes.
And she is good. She has to be.
She spots the Tribute in the window. She can see the person a bit better now. Most definitely human, and small. Young. Perhaps younger than Naya.
The figure vanishes.
Probably trying to run.
Naya glances back. She should go. This is all foolish, and too complicated...
But she can't back out now. This somehow feels like something she needs to do now. Confront this Tribute, whoever they are. Perform some kind of action. Prove to herself that she is good.
How could she ever question her goodness? It's... it's just a fact...
The large door creaks open. Naya steps back, forcing herself not to gasp, or scramble like some kind of child. She is sophisticated.
Out steps a young girl, undeniably beautiful but looking bedraggled and abandoned. Naya immediately labels her as pretty but ultimately defenseless, with her long black hair and wide, long-lashed blue eyes. Her bride's dress is torn, and her mask wilts over her face. She's tiny, almost a foot shorter than Naya, yet there's something in the way she holds herself that belies her frail build. She crosses her arms.
"What are you doing?" Her voice is high and musical, and it hardly shakes. She looks strangely calm.
Naya touches her bow. The girl is too close for that.
Her beauty, her lovely dress and her mannerisms almost reminds Naya of Columbia. The resemblance makes her shiver. Of course she regrets killing the girl... yet it had to be done.
Just like she has to do this. It's almost a mercy.
Where Columbia was cunning and coy, this girl looks practically harmless, naive. That makes it more difficult to dislike her, in a way. After all, she did climb that tower, and she was doing something productive.
Naya glances down, meeting the girl's eyes. "The better question is, what were you doing all alone up there in that tower?" Suddenly, a stark recollection surfaces in Naya's mind. "What happened to your boyfriend? Ten?"
The girl's face is solemn. She takes a deep breath. "He wasn't my boyfriend. And he's dead. I killed him."
Naya's mouth falls open. She can't help but be surprised. "Why?"
"He was trying to kill me." Her voice is flat and detached, yet Naya catches the undercurrent of anguish. "What do you want with me?"
Naya steps back, uncertain. "You make a good spy."
"Thank you." The girl looks uneasy. She is shifting from one foot to the other. Perhaps not as helpless as Naya once thought. And not stupid, either.
What should she do? Why is she even here?
Naya watches the girl's hand drift to the folds of her dress, where something gleams. A weapon.
She draws it, a knife, her hand shaking. "You're a Career. You're going to kill me."
Naya stares up at the sky, torn. "Maybe."
The girl examines the knife, then spreads her arms in a kind of surrender. "I don't want to die. Not yet."
Naya touches her own knife, tucked against her hip. Just in case. "But do you want to live?"
It all comes down to this. Who is worth getting out of here more? Naya, the girl who will save the environment from its certain doom, whose world might perish without her? Or this girl? Brave, yes. Clever. Innocent.
But not as worthy as Naya is.
The girl watches her, really seeming to consider her question. "I'm not sure. I have nothing to go back to. But I have to keep living. I'm not giving up."
Determination sets her jaw. Naya feels a ghost of the feeling as she draws the knife. "What's your name?"
"Felicia Rae Simmons." She says this with dignity, pride. Her name holds a kind of gravity.
"I'm so sorry, Felicia."
They move at the same time. Naya throws her knife at Felicia, only a few paces away. And Felicia moves to run.
The knife finds its mark, hitting Felicia's chest, and she collapses to her knees.
Naya blinks away tears, but they still stream down her cheeks. She kneels beside the girl she just killed. Almost reaches to comfort her. But what kind of comfort could she provide? She's a murderer.
Felicia struggles up to kneeling, throws her head back, and tears her mask off. "I am Felicia Rae Simmons!" she cries, almost triumphant. Unwilling to die quietly. "And I am unforgettable! I am a star! I don't care what anyone else says or thinks. I know who I am."
This said, her body collapses back onto the stones and she is silent and still. Her cannon echoes through the city.
Naya is numb. Disgusted with herself. What provoked this? Did she end a life for no reason at all?
How can anyone say she is noble now?
Yet... she is now one step closer to winning. Pain and grief are sharp in her chest, shattered glass that stabs at her softened heart. Eventually, she will make up for this. All of this. Felicia and her misfortune, other kids who never got a voice.
Naya will be their voice. She will make everything right. She will save the Earth.
But she can't bring herself to feel as joyful or vindicated, because she just ended a life to reach that goal. If she leaves this place, will she be rendered too corrupt and impure to see clearly which deeds are good and which are bad?
Can anything ever make up for an action she herself performed, with the illusion that she was doing it for a good cause?
Naya wanders back toward the printing press, struggling to scrape together some kind of explanation for what she just did, that it was justified.
But she can't even convince herself.
...
Jacqueline "Jack" Baylor, 17, District Ten Female
She does not understand why this happens to her. Why everyone she loves gets hurt. Why does tragedy trail in her wake, flocking after her like so many mournful crows? Has she done something wrong? Could she have prevented any of this, if she'd only had the foresight?
First, she had to leave Two, her home. And then... well, her father hurt her and her siblings, splintered them apart. And then she was Reaped into a game she knew nothing about, and somehow managed to make friends, only to lose them. Britta and Darla... both dead, and Jack feels as if it is her fault they are gone. And then... she opened up her heart again, let kindness pour in through the cracks, and accepted the friendship of Wren and Cady, only to find the Tribute she'd saved back at the Bloodbath and then... to lose them in the next second. Cady and Dria. Just gone.
Now Wren is a husk. She is shattered with grief, and her grief is loud and messy and unstoppable, a raging tide of tears. Jack does what she can.
It is very little.
Why can she never do more? Can she not prevent the world from crumbling around her, simply stop anyone she gets attached from being torn away from her?
It is a cruel world. No matter how much Jack tries to deny it, the truth follows her everywhere. She can do nothing to quell the misery that surrounds her.
And it makes her angry. Angry at the Capitol, angry with herself. She wants to do something; she wants all of this to change.
A fleeting thought comes to her. If only this were a dream, or some kind of act... just a performance on this vast stage. And at the end of the show, the lights will go up and the audience will applaud and the curtains will part to reveal everyone, unharmed. Safe. If this were merely fiction, or some kind of fabrication... Jack can almost hold on to that hope.
But hope is a slippery, elusive thing. It winks at the edges of Jack's vision before vanishing entirely.
Wren stands, restless, hollowed out from the grief that ravaged through her. Her despair, when it ran its course, took something out of her. And Jack doesn't know if it will come back.
"We should hold a funeral, like we said." Wren's voice is high and tremulous. Jack wants to reach out and hug her. "I can't stay in here anymore."
Jack nods. Stands. She is having trouble calling any words into shape. Her mind is scrambled, a tangled ribbon that she can't find an end or beginning to.
She wonders if the strain has finally broken her. If she will forever be scattered, a shambles of frayed nerves. She longs for any kind of simplicity.
And yet, her life was never simple or easy, was it? These Games are many things, but they are not new to her. The sorrow, the helplessness... now, it is merely more intense. More focused.
To emerge from this place... she couldn't. It would be selfish. She would be some kind of half-formed, transfigured thing... a different Jack. Nobody would know her.
Wren hooks her elbow around Jack's. "Come on." Her voice scrapes, saltwater-rough, from her throat.
Jack follows, wordless. They walk slowly, leaning on the other for support, out into the blinding sunlight. As they round the corner toward where Cady and Dria's bodies might still be, Jack swears she can glimpse a black-haired beauty darting out from a hiding spot and walking toward the church. She blinks, not having enough energy to register the movement. Probably just a trick of the light.
"I don't want to see their bodies," Wren says softly, weakly. She has been reduced to a wisp of a girl. It makes Jack's heart hurt.
"I'm sure the Capitol takes them away. Why leave them here in the Arena? They have to bring something back to the families." Jack tries to summon venom to her voice, but finds she can't bring herself to care about the Capitol. The only thing she cares about are her dead friends.
She hadn't even known them that long...
"Let's just stand here." Wren stops abruptly, a vague defiance to her movements as she spreads her feet wide and puts a hand on her hip. Her gaze turns distant.
"Cady..." she begins. A tribute to a Tribute. Jack pushes away the desperate thought from her tired mind. "You were wonderful. You calmed me down, you made my ideas less stupid—which isn't to say my ideas are stupid! I'm a genius, thank you very much. But you were... a little bit more genius. I hope there are games where you are." She pauses, furiously brushes tears from her cheeks. "And Dria... you were a great hardened street thief." She laughs, faintly. "The dream team isn't complete without you two."
She turns away, stomping her foot against the cobblestones as she angrily swipes tears from her cheeks. Jack pauses. What could she possibly say that would make up for this? How could words ever chronicle the beautiful lives of these two souls, and how terribly they were ended?
She gazes at a distant, unseen point and decides to keep it simple, blunt. "I hope you find rest. And peace. I hope you are far beyond this awful place. You both deserve it."
And she turns away too, feeling the sun beat down upon her back. She is suddenly very jealous, that it can burn so brightly. That it still rises, every day, no matter what. Stubborn sun.
Wren is sniffling vigorously, trying her hardest to keep a brave face. Jack puts a hand on her shoulder. For a moment, she lets the grief settle in the air. But then, she moves on, somehow hoping that a distraction could do Wren some good.
"What do we do now?" She pauses, trying to soften her next words. "I don't think that taking on the Careers again would be a good idea. We were outnumbered before, but now... it would be impossible."
Besides, Jack is so, so tired of death.
Wren nods emphatically. "No more killing. No more fighting. I'm just going to focus on self-defense, staying alive, and if you don't like that, you can leave—" She raises her fists, but there are still tears streaming down her cheeks.
Jack gently puts a hand on Wren's face, brushing away a few tears. If there is one thing she will never be able to stop doing, it's being kind. Even if she sometimes believes it does more damage than it's worth... to herself and others. But she can be there for Wren now.
"Hey. It's okay," she says softly. "I completely agree with you. Let's just stick together and try to get through this."
A lump rises in Jacks throat, and she glances down, not wanting Wren to see her tears.
Wren pauses, and then she seems to soften. She throws her arms around Jack, which is startling at first... but then Jack puts an arm around her, too.
"Thank you," Wren whispers. "You're all I have left."
"I know."
Everything inside Jack is too big to contain. She thinks she may burst. She is glad that she has Wren, but is afraid to lose her friend, and filled with dread at the inevitable ending of this game. Yet she holds on to Wren for a moment more, and together they walk back to the church, away from the sun's unrelenting light.
...
Tremor Atilius, 18, District Two Male
He paces the confinement of the printing building, maintaining a soldier's stance, feeling the tension inside him build. Soon, he will boil over.
Naya is gone. She waltzed out into the city without so much as a backward glance or a question regarding whether any of them would want to come with. How high-and-mighty she believes herself to be. She'll see. They all will.
Alessio is sleeping. Blade is watching him as though he might be in danger at any moment, when really it's just an arm wound, hardly fatal... Although, Tremor won't lie to say that he's glanced over a couple times to make sure he's alright. He can't explain why.
And Marquis? He is gone.
Gone. Because of those wretched little rebels from the outer Districts.
The rebels... the same rebels that killed his parents without mercy, left him orphaned, left him living with his grandfather who was only a husk of what he once was. Tremor's childhood, in his memory, is tinged with the stories his Grandfather Saladin had told him. And from an early age, Tremor knew it was his solemn responsibility and duty to avenge his parents and every other Capitolite who had died at the hands of the rebels.
And who could fault him for it? Who could ever find it in their mind to doubt Tremor's goodness?
He feels as if he is going insane, pacing and picking at the skin of his cuticles and growing more agitated by the moment. What is it about this Arena that seems to drive him to pacing frantic circles? What is it about the place that cracks his calm outer shell?
Blade is watching him with those solemn light brown eyes. Judgment seems to wick off him like smoke from a candle as he follows the path of Tremor's pacing. Why does he watch him so? What flaw could he possibly find in Tremor?
He knows he should not care. And yet... the general dislike of every member of this pack towards him is aggravating him beyond reason.
Blade thinks Tremor is a monster. Tremor knows this, deep in his soul, as he always knows things about other people. Blade thinks him to be evil, unjust.
And why would he? What would cause his disdain?
Surely, it's Blade who is the problem. It does not take a genius to know that Blade has blood on his own hands. They've all done their fair share of bad things in their life, but Tremor knows he is in the right here, because his actions are for a good cause. For the Capitol, and the service that he is duty-bound to give them.
But... the Capitol sent him here, did they not?
He is so tired of going in circles. He needs to talk to someone, to be reassured that what he is doing is right. Because surely he is good. How could he live with himself if all the wrongs he's done are not justified?
He is practically alone. And really, he always has been. The only person he has allowed to grow close to him is Saladin back home, his guardian. He has never had the need to indulge in friends, in temporary connections. But he thinks he might get lost in his own mind and never find his way back again if he stays this way any longer.
He cannot talk to Blade, even if he wanted to. Their interpreter is still unconscious—sleeping? He isn't sure. Obviously, Alessio was shaken by the events of yesterday. And, admittedly, so is Tremor.
Marquis was not supposed to be anything more than a pawn to be manipulated. But... he was the only person in the Career pack whom Tremor did not hate. Which is not to say that he hates Alessio, not really, but neither does he like him, as he found himself liking Marquis. He was not supposed to die as he did, killed by a child with misplaced motives.
If there was ever a good soul in this world—other than Tremor, of course—it was Marquis. As far as Tremor knew, the boy never had anything against the Capitol, and he'd deserved to go back to One, where he was safe.
But no. Instead he'd been killed by that little girl. And Tremor had no choice but to retaliate.
This he knows firsthand: the best way to hurt someone is to kill the one they love. Tremor hadn't been positive that the Seven girl and her ally from Six were friends, but it was his best guess. And besides, the kid was Blade's District partner, and they were working alongside the rebel. Surely he'd had no other option but to kill the child.
Anyone would have done the same... anyone worth anything, that is.
Still, Tremor cannot lift his grief, at losing Marquis and his anger at Seven and his almost-loneliness, from his conscience. All he wants is to make Seven pay. Kill everyone close to her. It is the only thing he can think to do.
Alessio gasps awake. He is momentarily why, before his gaze settles on Blade beside him, and the bandage on his arm, and finally glossing over Tremor across the room, who has finally stopped his pacing.
Alessio and Blade have obviously forged some kind of bond over the past few days. Something to do with a clandestine conversation through sign language, and then the bandaging of Alessio's arm-wound. It seems unfair to Tremor, that Alessio should decide his alliance so quickly, for it is obvious that Blade and Tremor are rivals.
So it is. If that's what they chose, Tremor will not be jealous. He will not care that he is on the outside, purposeless and drifting and friendless...
What is he thinking? Since when has he ever needed company?
(Probably since he's began to question everything.)
If he can just win over Alessio, just have someone on his side... Naya is out of the question, Blade unthinkable. But Alessio is almost vulnerable. Not as impressionable as Marquis, but much stronger. Much less likely to die.
He watches Blade and Alessio sign, not once glancing Tremor's way. He needs an ally, someone on his side. The only option is Alessio.
Surely it can't be that difficult, to make a friend. Tremor has never partaken in the practice, but has always had people opening up to him without asking, telling secrets and fawning over him.
Again, he wonders why he cares. Why it bothers him so much. And the only answer that he can find is that he wants to be liked. Needs approval. Something, anything. And perhaps if he can find some way to prove himself—to the Capitol, to Naya and Blade and yes, Alessio—he will finally be settled. He will finally understand. And somewhere along the way, he can avenge Marquis, and his parents, and every name that lingers and emburdens him.
He has to hope for this. He dares to believe it could be true.
How could anyone hate him? He is almost certain that he's good. He can almost banish the nagging in the back of his mind. Once, he was self-confident and unwavering. He needs to be that again. For his own sake. And, he hopes, for the sake of many others.
...
9th Place: Felicia Simmons, killed by Naya Illumina. Felicia... what can I even say? You were such a legend. At first, I didn't know what to think of Felicia. I saw her form and immediately assumed that she was surface-level, a pretty girl with very sexist beliefs. I was unsure of what I wanted to do with her. But then I looked closer, and wow, was I wrong. This girl has hidden depth. Not only is Felicia beautiful and somewhat ridiculous at times, but she is also a genius; she has so much hidden beneath her surface, that her surroundings have forced her to suppress. She long believed that she should take her worth from her looks and whether boys liked her... but then she blossomed into who she truly was. And I hate, HATE, to kill Felicia right as she's having her moment. I wish I could continue to journey with her, and see her shaking off the stereotypes that she was forced to adopt, becoming more than what she'd told herself she could be. But I'm proud of her for what she accomplished. Her journey, unfortunately, has to end here. Thank you so much, KatDog42, for sending in Felicia; I hope I have jone her justice. As she says in this chapter, she is truly unforgettable. Here's to Felicia, our powerful princess; I hope she continues to find love and acceptance of her true self.
Hi! Hello! It is that time again, Monday, and I am very sorry that I didn't update last week. But I do have a chapter for you today, and I also actually have things to say, so here we go! First of all, happy Halloween! I hope you have a spooky day and that you experience something scarier than this chapter because... it was not a very Halloween-y chapter. It was pretty chill, considering the things that happened last chapter—which I'm still recovering from, by the way. But, we have reached a sort-of milestone! We are officially at the top eight. Congratulations to the eight remaining Tributes and their submitters, why, Paradigm, Wiki, Jay, Paperthorn, R-B, Sakura and QueenOfMorning. I'm so proud of your kids; and to the other half of the cast, I miss all of them dearly. But um... we are officially at top eight, which brings it into the home-stretch-ish, or the last chunch of the fic! Next chapter, we will return to the Capitol for a quick interlude, to see how they are doing.
Which brings me to an announcement. I'm sorry that I haven't let everyone know about this earlier, but I wasn't exactly sure of the details. I'm really building this up when it's not that big of an announcement, but I am going to be taking a month's hiatus for November, and will be back in December to continue the story. November is National Novel Writing Month, and so I wanted to work on an original project during the month, as I've had the idea for a while and wanted to explore it, since it's a little tradition I have to do NaNo every year. I'm sorry to take this time off, but I just don't think I can balance my novel with this fic during November. But don't worry; I will be back with the next chapter on Monday, December 5th. I was hoping I could stockpile and continue to post during the month, but unfortunately, school got in the way. I hope you can all bear with me as I take this little break to focus on another project; I will miss IIDY, but I think that it will be good for me and I'll come back renewed and ready to write. Thank you all so much for your patience with me; I appreciate all your support, as always. If you have any questions, feel free to PM me, I will try to update on Discord or my profile on my progress if needed. Again, thank you all for your patience. You're the best readers a writer could ask for!
Sorry, really long author's note, but it will be the last time I talk to you for a little while. I hope you all have a wonderful Halloween and a fabulous November. If you are participating in NaNoWriMo, good luck to you! I'll see you in December!
Much Spookiness,
Miri
P.S. I really need to get better about telling you all where we are in the timeline. This is Day 6, Part 2, and I am actually going to have three parts to this day because there's more we need to cover. I believe I'm allowed to do that, lol. So Felicia's poem was not in this chapter but it will be in the chapter after the interlude. Thanks!