II— AMELIORATION
Velyra Lacuna, 18. District Two.
The echo of her fists against the leather punching bag is almost therapeutic. The sound fills the empty gymnasium, disturbing the silence with its violent beat. Her knuckles burn where they've struck the bag, but it's the good kind of pain— progress— and they find it soothing.
Sweat collects on their forehead, but they make no move to wipe it away. Focusing on the bag, she strikes again. Once, quickly. Twice. The bag absorbs the impact of her punches, rattling on its chain. It swings back and forth in an erratic jerking motion until they brace a hand against it, telling it to stop. Then, it simply hangs, waiting for her next move.
Velyra's assault on the punching bag has been going on for the last twenty minutes. It's the last step in her workout regimen; a way to exhaust any pent-up frustration from the rest of the day. It's never been a process about anger, however— simply a motion meant to free their mind of thought and feeling. Besides, they enjoy knowing their form is good enough to win a fight. She's made sure of it. Sloppy technique has never gotten a person very far in life.
The feeling of keeping their body in peak physical shape creates a sense of mental clarity that's hard to find elsewhere. The idea of progress, especially when it comes to the self, is enough for them to push through the discomfort of exertion. There has been plenty of it since Velyra began training at the peacekeeper facility, but she never expected the program to be easy.
Part of her is grateful for the hardship. There is a certain pleasure in hard work. In achieving a semblance of perfection. Advancement at the cost of ambition is a natural transaction; Velyra is glad to see it pay off.
(At least she's fighting for something in life. It's better than being complacent.)
Returning to the assault, they fall into the same rhythm, dancing around the bag. Her strikes are methodical this time, less to expend her emotions and more to feel the burn in her shoulders and arms. Their triceps burn with exhaustion, but it isn't important. The bag is all that matters, not the facility, or her feelings— and certainly not her family.
Out of the silence, she hears an irritating voice. It cuts through their focus like a knife.
"You really should be capable of hitting the bag much harder."
"Quit bothering me," she replies, trying to ignore the feeling of a presence standing behind her. The wall has mirrors, but they avoid looking into any. They don't need a mirror to know who's messing with them. He always manages to annoy her at the worst possible times; perhaps it's a better part of their friendship, but today she only finds irritation with Odin.
"What's wrong with a little company? It's not every day you're graced with my presence," he grumbles, coming into the edge of her peripheral vision. He sits cross-legged on the gym floor, his sneakers squeaking against the lustrous wood lacquer.
Velyra rolls their eyes. "Careful. The bag might accidentally hit you in the face."
Odin laughs, the noise ringing loud across the vast empty space. "I'll take my chances. I only have to chance it for the next five minutes anyway," he adds. "Child's play, really."
She debates throwing the bag his way just to show him up, but decides against it. Her next two punches sound against the leather a lot harder though, against her own admission. "Keep giving me a hard time," Velyra grunts. "What doesn't kill you…"
"...makes you that much more insufferable," Odin comments. "Kidding, by the way. I will say, Dad wanted to make sure you know they're closing the barracks within the hour. Got to send all the cadets home in time for tomorrow. That includes you and me."
Her next strike misses the bag. It's not new information, but it breaks their focus once again. "I haven't talked to my parents in months," she comments, the words hard and flat.
"Nah. Have to do hard things if you're going to live a hard life," Odin says sagely, though they can see his shit-eating grin in the mirror. "I thought the program was supposed to beat the complaints out of you."
"It's not a complaint," Velyra mutters. His perspective on her comment doesn't really matter. On the subject, it's as irrelevant as the long strands of dark hair plastered over her eyes, come undone from their confinement. "It was a statement. You know what I meant. Not really looking forward to spending the night."
They've never been much of a complainer, anyhow. For Velyra, the refusal of accepting a life of abject misery isn't about the objective. It's about the process. About doing. Doing something, anything. Anything is better than sitting around like her parents do, working dead-end jobs at the quarry and seemingly waiting to die. There has to be something better than accepting suffering— they'd much rather deal with the pain of discipline than the pain of regretting an entire lifetime.
"Sure," he nods. "I'd offer up our guest room, but you know how Dad feels about your issues. Much rather you fix them. Sucks being on the front lines with no one home to write to."
"Don't call them issues," she says, punching the bag one last time. Intentionally, it swings in Odin's direction, but he simply leans out of the way. It doesn't bother her, really. The only person they'll ever let antagonize them is him. She knows that he cares about her, even if in his own abstract way. He always has. "I still try to visit them once a month."
Odin shrugs, standing up to lean against the mirror. He doesn't bother to hand them their water bottle, even though it's right next to his feet. His arrogance should bother her more, yet Velyra simply chooses to accept it. Growing up in the Capitol certainly made him conceited and selfish, but she knows Odin and his father are good people. At the end of the day, they know Odin would probably take a bullet for them… providing it hits him in a non-lethal appendage.
"Excited about your assignment?" he ventures, breaking the silence as Velyra hydrates herself.
"Yeah," she says, wiping the water from her mouth with the hem of her shirt. The air in the gymnasium starts to feel a little cooler again now that they're not exerting themselves, and they notice how the words seem to reverberate throughout the air. When it's typically full of other cadets, the echo isn't as noticeable. "I can't wait, actually. I'll feel like all of this was worth it."
"As long as it's not Eleven or Twelve, you should have some fun with it," Odin agrees, offhandedly adding: "And it's always been worth it. But you knew that."
"Yeah. Anywhere is better than here. I'm looking forward to the change of pace. Protecting the peace, everything like that. You know."
Glory, an afterthought. Their path in life may be a strange one, but the opportunity to earn the kind of recognition Two was never going to give them is too great. The differentiation gives her enough satisfaction to know it was the correct choice. It always has been, in the end.
"Fair," Odin nods. "Want me to help you clear out?"
"Sure," Velyra nods. She wouldn't mind the company. She has a peculiar relationship with Odin, but it's always been a good one, after all. No one understands them as well as he does; neither does anyone annoy them quite as much. "We'll be in and out of here in thirty minutes, tops."
The sky is overcast when they return home.
For the past hour and a half, Velyra's stared at the same gray ridgeline, trudging along worn dirt paths toward the sector her parents live. The only deviation in the slopes of the mountain range are where they saddle in the middle, often a place she'd watch the sunrise when she was little.
Over time, the periwinkle-blue sky grayed. The closer they got to home, the worse the weather seemed to get, a storm front creeping in across the sky like a sickness. By the time they've set their bags on the doorstep, the clouds have begun to cry, a torrential downpour falling from the miserable sea of gray above them.
Quietly, Velyra leans against the side of the house. It's built out of the same stone surrounding the landscape, as are each of the neighboring workers' cottages. The doorstep was once made of beautiful white-painted wood, which has since been stripped and weathered through time. Home is nothing, compared to the sleek facility in which they now stay. There's something to be said about the humility of it all, but she's long since grown tired of tethering herself to these stones.
Inside, she can hear the low tones of conversation. Outside, the rain threatens to drown it all out.
Caught at a crossroads, in a sense. Velyra knows they will always welcome them back with open arms, even if they'll never be held quite as close as they were before they left. Since enrolling, her relationship with her parents has become even more turbulent. Their brothers are the same— none of them respect the choices that they've made in this life.
(Yet, none of them will stop her. For all their anger in her servitude of the Capitol, they've never bothered to grow enough of a spine.)
They return their eyes to the bleakness outside of the home. Unfocused, it becomes a gray haze. The same as the rest of Two— the peacekeeping assignment surely cannot come quickly enough. Any change of pace from this will be a welcome one.
Velyra could stand on the doorstep for hours, simply watching the rain. The chill in the air doesn't bother them. Neither does boredom. That, they've learnt to overcome. Her thoughts are interesting enough to keep her occupied, anyway. Guilt doesn't win them out, either— simply a desire to move on, to rip off the bandage and get the night over with. It's their last Reaping. The last time that visiting is mandatory. Perhaps, the last time they'll see their family.
(It's neither a good thought, nor a bad one. Put simply, they no longer cross her mind.)
She raps against the door with her knuckles. Twice, to alert them to her presence, and then she eases open the door, hauling her bag onto her shoulder. Their whole family is gathered in the kitchen. Their mother is at the sink, peeling vegetables to the pattering of rain against the kitchen window. Her brothers are sitting at the dining table, throwing cards.
"Hey," they say, the word empty and flat.
"Hey," her brothers reply in unison, a chorus of disinterest. Their mother stops what she's doing, dries her hands on the kitchen towel and sweeps Velyra up into her arms. The hug is tense, but they're aware of its warmth. No matter how much they disagree, they're still family.
"How have you been?" her mother asks, tucking a stray hair behind Velyra's ear.
"I've been fine," they answer. The tension in the air feels palpable when Troy raises his eyes to meet hers, a steely look in his gaze. "Training has been going well. In a week they're going to give me my first assignment."
"Oh," her mother says. "That's… wonderful. We'll make sure to see you off."
Part of Velyra wants to wave her off; to let her know that it's unnecessary. Another part of them finds it pointless. Whether or not their family sees them off is irrelevant. They'll pray for her safe return, but they don't care about the work. They'd rather Velyra do something less unbecoming.
"Where's Dad?" they ask instead, cutting through the cramped living room to drop off their bags in their room. They pause at their door, waiting for a response.
"Working the late shift today," her mother says. "He should be home before dinner is ready. I've been getting off earlier than him as of late, as do the boys." One of her brothers grunts in acknowledgement of the statement. All remain focused on the cards.
"Thanks," Velyra nods, pushing open her door.
Inside, the bedroom looks the same as when they left it just two-and-a-half short years ago. Nothing about it ever changes, not how cramped it is— just one bed, framed with a window, a desk and a small wardrobe— nor how starkly depressing it feels. The walls are the same stone as the outside of the house, just slathered with a rock sealant that makes them look a mess. The furniture is aging, the sheets lifeless. Even the view from her childhood window feels lacking, somehow. There is nothing beyond the pane, save the visible edge of a neighbor's dwelling.
Sighing, they drop their duffel on the bed. Part of her wants to leap atop the bed and pound at the pillows, strangling their already abused forms. The rest of them disagrees with the rage. It no longer suits them; at least, not in the same capacity. It has never been missed.
(Velyra prefers to fuel themselves with ambition, rather than emotion. If progress is the only thing capable of lifting them from this life, they will choose it every time.)
Returning from the bedroom, they cross through the living room once again to hang their coat on the rack against the back of the door. She swears she catches her youngest brother, Nike, scowling at its facility crest, but she can't be bothered to care.
"Anything I can help you with?" they ask their mother. Something to do with her hands would be nice— diligence always helped them dispel the lingering resistant feeling permeating the house.
"Sure," her mother replies. "I'm almost done peeling the potatoes. There's a head of leeks in the icebox, if you wouldn't mind chopping them?"
Velyra nods. She finds the cutting-board with ease, its thick wooden surface marred from years of knifework. The knives are all in the same block, sitting in the corner of the counter. Things have always remained the same here, no matter how foreign years of distance have made them.
"How has Odin been?" their mother asks, back turned from them as she rinses potato scraps in the sink. They'll be composted, in the pitiful herb garden she keeps on the master bedroom windowsill, just past the back door.
"He's doing well, too," Velyra responds absently. The knife feels familiar in her fingers. The leeks are firm, and the blade cuts through them crisply. "We're both doing well in our classes, academic and otherwise. Going to graduate with full marks. Making sure to enjoy the city as much as we can, too."
Under the rule of their knife, the leeks never stood a chance. Velyra makes quick work of them, their knife cuts angular and precise, and wordlessly begins chopping carrots in the same way. Their mother's potato soup has always been a staple of the household. It's a good enough way to start using produce that's going bad.
Everything within the walls of the Lacuna residence works like clockwork, just as it always has. Just as it always will, perhaps. The five of them will always move on without her, and she will move on without them. It doesn't matter that Velyra's the only cog in the machine that's broken.
(They've been doing this since they were fifteen. It's nothing new.)
(Then why does it leave behind such an empty ache?)
Kyden Winters, 18. District One.
When he's in the kitchen, nothing else really seems to matter. He often loses himself in the hum. The steady droning of the customers talking out front, the clamor of pots and pans, the cacophony of chopping and searing and sizzling… all of it is so aesthetically exquisite for his creative palate.
The knife is simply an extension of his hand, the motion practiced millions of times. His mind is a reservoir of knowledge, of skills constantly improved. Kyden has spent countless hours chasing perfection; achieving the highest possible level of his craft. Here, he is very much in his element.
Here, he is in control. Without him, the kitchen is akin to a machine without oil. The ebb and flow of its livelihood is determined by him; the chaos is simply a second nature. In truth, it is his world. His own, crafted from the depths of his passion. Without The Elegy, Kyden is nothing. Perhaps that is why it's so easy to fall into the same rhythm. The rhythm is like breathing, only simpler. Kyden never has to think about it, he only has to direct and create— the conductor of his own culinary orchestra.
"What's being fired right now?" Kyden barks, his voice authoritative. The kitchen is in disarray; at least, his version of it. Most would be grateful for the level of order, but he isn't satisfied. The newer chefs look up. One wipes sweat from his brow. "You!" Kyden half-shouts, giving him a pointed stare.
"A porterhouse. Lamb chops. An arctic char. Err… risotto, broccolini, the sauces. A red-wine demi-glace, I think," the chef says, using tongs to flip the lamb chops currently searing in his skillet. Behind him, the saucier nods. Kyden ignores him, as he has the past year. The man keeps his head down, obeys orders. Doesn't cause problems. His sauces are usually fine to serve, and Kyden's content enough to rescue the mediocre ones.
(Mediocrity isn't what he strives for— anything less than perfection is blasphemous. The man's lucky that he knows how to shut up. The fact that he's eye candy helps his case, too.)
"Fantastic," Kyden grins. "Let me take over the lamb. Thank fuck you just started. I can't have you messing it up. Big customer. Mariangel, I want you on the porterhouse. You," he addresses the grill chef, "stick to the char. Let's keep it moving."
Confusion flashes across the chef's face, quickly subsiding into anger. He opens his mouth as if to speak, indignance written plainly across his features. Then Mariangel silences him.
"Just shut up and do what you're told," his sous chef retorts. "You're a grill chef, not a hero."
The help retreats back to his corner of the kitchen. Kyden strides over to the skillet, clicking his tongue. "Weak," he mutters. There isn't nearly enough butter in the pan—without it, the lamb is sure to burn. He doesn't serve subpar food at The Elegy. Only One's finest, as he always has. As he always will, if he has anything to say about it.
While Mariangel handles the porterhouse, he sears the lamb until a nice crust has formed on both sides. Then he skillfully takes them out of the pan, reduces the heat, and begins to work on the sauce while the lamb chops rest. With a practiced hand, he makes short work of some shallots, his knife work impeccable. They're closely followed by chopped garlic, and a sprig of thyme for flavor. As the shallots brown, he makes sure to catch the grill chef's eye.
The two of them will have a very fun conversation once the lunch service is finished.
(Kyden doesn't tolerate disruptions in the harmony of the kitchen. Neither does he tolerate disobedience from his staff— in this domain, his word is law. He sets the tone, controls the process, and ensures the success. His genius is not to be questioned.)
As he finishes the sauce and begins to plate the lamb, the kitchen works in tandem with him to finish the service. There is something chaotically elegant about the end of a service. It's the dance Kyden lives for, the art he has perfected. He is the perfect paradigm of the culinary world; The Elegy is his stage, and he is Panem's top-nominated performer. Nothing holds a candle to the satisfaction of controlling his domain— of excelling in it.
His parents began his culinary training at nine; it's all he has ever known since. All he has ever wanted. To be a prodigy— to be envied, in such a way, has been a transcendence from his status at birth. In a world where names and reputations are everything, his talent means something.
He landed the job at fifteen, got a promotion at sixteen. The youngest chef in the district, perhaps the youngest in the nation, to make such an impact. The cost of enmity was worth the price of his fame. He has surpassed his parents, now. To work for the Mayor as his private chef is nothing compared to the space Kyden's talent has allowed him to carve out for himself.
(At The Elegy, he is a god.)
He catches Mariangel's deep brown gaze with his own smoldering green one, a brief unspoken acknowledgement of accomplishment. The daughter of the owners, she was promoted to serve underneath him when no one else seemed to understand how to work with him. In exchange for her respect, he's shown her all of the things he knows. At least, enough to keep her productive. Satisfied. Never enough to make her competitive, lest he jeopardize his position.
Despite the argumentative nature of their early relations, the two have since warmed up to each other. It may have taken longer than Kyden liked, but there is no one he would rather have running the kitchen by his side.
They slide the last of the plates into the service window, and a waiter arrives, promptly whisking their creations away. It is thankless, to create only for the appetite of destruction. Such is the nature of godhood, he figures.
"Good service, everyone," he announces, clapping his hands together. "I want this place spick-and-span, and then we're on break until the dinner service. Understood?"
His staff murmurs their agreement. The chef who violated his harmony stares at the black rubber mat he's standing on, refusing to meet his eye. Everyone knows his terms: agreement, above all. In his domain, Kyden knows what's best. He makes the executive decisions for a reason— because he's right, and he ensures The Elegy remains a top dining destination.
"You," Mariangel addresses the grill chef, a sternness in her voice reserved for tension like this. "Outside with Chef Winters."
Kyden unknots his apron and deftly folds it against the nearest stainless-steel workstation. The grill chef follows suit. Wordlessly, Kyden demands he follow him out back, past the dishwashing area and the walk-in refrigerator. Only once the door closes, and they're standing in the frigid alley behind the restaurant, does Kyden let him have it.
"What the hell were you thinking?"
The chef cringes. "I-I'm sorry?"
"In this kitchen, you don't question. You don't make mistakes, and you certainly don't make excuses. I don't know where you were trained for this, but you aren't up for it, I invite you to leave. We don't make rookie mistakes here at The Elegy."
The chef simply nods, utterly at a loss for words.
"There isn't room for failure. Do you understand that?" Kyden asks, voice acrid with disdain. The chef nods again. "Good. You're easily replaced. Don't forget that. Get in there and finish out the day. You prove to me you have the passion for this, you stay. Good talk."
Without another sound, the chef scurries out of sight, the door nearly slamming shut behind him. Kyden releases a breath he didn't know he had been holding. It's a conversation he's had more times than he can count on both hands— simply put, others in the industry don't understand his creative vision. Today, it's as simple as lamb chops. Tomorrow, another bad review takes down the integrity of the restaurant, and his life alongside it.
(In One, words are like wildfire. Erratic, fast, uncompromising. A reputation is fragile; it can be built and broken in mere hours. To wrangle one's perception is no easy feat, especially when the deck has been stacked against them.)
He's always been a man of action. Of integrity. Slander has never quite sat right with him. His success is self-determined— no one is going to tell Kyden that he is lesser than. He gazes across the alley to the same place that he once proved that notion. Even in the shadow cast by the building, he can still make out the bloodstains against the brick. Since faded, they remain a permanent reminder of his righteous capability, forever cemented with violence.
Kyden Winters does everything with passion. It is his entire life, after all.
The rest of the shift had been quiet. It was only logical for his night to be lively.
After service, he headed over to his boyfriend's apartment. It's better than going home— his parents are often away, but they're much too boring to suit his reckless, impassioned lifestyle. A quick shower, a change of clothes, and he feels reinvigorated.
They're sitting on Graham's couch, a luxurious piece of furniture with fine velvet upholstery. At first, he found the couch distasteful, but long nights have since made Kyden partial to it. His leg is thrown over Graham's, the warmth from the other boy's body forming a blush on his cheeks.
Yet, staring at a blank television screen doesn't do much for him. The only programming One gets is when the Hunger Games is live, anyhow— it's simply the norm to have one opposite your couch. Like a status symbol, in the form of obsoletion.
(Perhaps Graham will watch him this year— when the screen turns on. Ever since the exposé, the restaurant has begun to see less and less business. Despite his brilliance, the scathing words of the journalist have seemed to stick. The man wrote nothing about his pride and joy. Every word, no matter how true, had been about the abrasive way that the kitchen was run. Who would want to eat at a restaurant with such a low retention rate?)
(Kyden's beginning to see the trajectory of where this will go. He's got great interpersonal skills, he works out consistently, and he hasn't been a stranger to violence in the past. He already knows how to manage a reputation— the cash prize that the Hunger Games would give him could turn everything around. It would also put the journalist in his rightful place: beneath him.)
(If the man were to ever step foot in The Elegy again, Kyden would kill him.)
In the inky blackness of the screen, his silhouette is distorted. He finds it interesting— if vain, to pick apart the reflections. At six-foot-three, he has an inch on his boyfriend. It's hard to tell when they're simply sitting next to each other, but the height disparity will forever be a cause of his mirth. The standing lamp in the corner of Graham's living space catches the red hues of Kyden's neat brown hair, but fails to capture his own long blonde locks. They simply sit, shapeless around his head like a melted crown. On the screen, he is flawless. There are no bruises, nicks, or burns. There are no hickies, though he never did mind the look of those.
He simply exists. The same intensity, a different font.
"You're quiet," Graham observes. "I know we're just chilling, but I know that look when I see it." He pauses. The reflection distorts his face when it's animated. "You're thinking about that review guy again, aren't you?"
"I don't really want to think about the restaurant," Kyden says dismissively.
"You're always thinking about it," Graham teases. "Let assholes be assholes. You know, I'm more than happy to take your mind off of it… I heard about this party they're throwing a block from Victor's Village, on Ivory Street. Supposed to be an absolute rager. You in?"
They met at a party. In fact, Kyden's prestige attracts plenty of party invitations and offerings to match his fame: drugs, drinks, flesh. It's all the same in the end. Since Graham, it's been different. He's fallen hard; invited someone else to enjoy himself, in such an intimate way.
"What, no quiet night in with me?" he whines, playfully punching Graham in the shoulder. In truth, he's glad for the change of subject. "Here I was, ready for my cozy night in. Fuck you."
His intensity demands attention; it has always been the natural order of things. Graham mirrors it well; perhaps the best of anyone he has ever met.
Graham grins, tracing the outline of Kyden's tattoo with a finger callused from years of playing the violin. Kyden got it done shortly after his promotion to head chef; it's a scarlet dragon, whose tail encircles his left wrist. The tail travels up his arm, and curves downward, where its body breathes with the same ribcage as his. Down at his hip, it breathes bombastic yellow fire down his inner thigh. It's a place Graham frequents often— clearly, he's toying with Kyden.
Kyden frowns. "Don't make me push you off the couch."
"Never," Graham murmurs. "The fall might actually kill me."
He laughs; Graham joins in. He creates the atmosphere. It's always infectious, because he's always right. "Ivory Street it is, then," Kyden decides. "I'm in the mood for a little mindless fun, anyway. I don't have to come in until noon tomorrow… Mariangel's handling the prep work."
"Shame," Graham groans. "She's a riot, and then some."
"Don't be sarcastic," Kyden tells him. "Just because she's no-nonsense at work doesn't mean she can't get down and have fun."
"You've partied with her?"
"Of course," he verifies. "You're really sitting there asking me if I never found the opportunity? Went on a bender with her once. Up and down the Glamour. Blackout drunk, three days in a row. To be honest, I don't remember half of it, but I know we had a good time. She can hang."
"Heard, chef," Graham snarks. "I'll have to meet her sometime, then."
"I'll introduce you," Kyden nods. "The Elegy is set to close for a week, start of next month— the Cessna's want to go on vacation out on the coast somewhere. I know they'd trust me to run it without them, but I guess they want us to enjoy part of the summer. It's Mariangel's last as a teenager, or something like that."
"She's lucky she's already nineteen," his boyfriend comments. "We make it through July, we're set. She doesn't have to worry anymore."
"And neither should we," Kyden laughs, ignoring the statement entirely. It's a half-baked idea anyhow, but he's used to doing things on a whim. Call it artistic expression, if you will. Graham doesn't need to know yet… not until he's fully decided. And Kyden would rather spend his night thinking about anything else. "I say we head out now. Don't wanna miss it."
Graham nods in agreement, and gently disentangles himself from Kyden. He offers him a hand, and pulls him off the couch. An inch from Graham's face, Kyden bursts out laughing. "You almost looked like you wanted to kiss me again," he jokes offhandedly.
"So what if I did? It's not a crime. I'll save it for the party… I know you like making out with me in public."
"As if," Kyden grins. His problems are going to have to wait. One bad review isn't going to matter when he's chasing a pill with a vodka-cran. An impulsive idea isn't going to matter when the music is vibrating through his bones, nor when he's laughed hard enough to exhaust his breath. He doesn't half-ass life. His feelings can be a second thought to the experience of it all.
A smile and an electrifyingly intense kiss from his boyfriend later, and he's on top of the world once again. Right where he belongs.
Huge thank you to ladyqueerfoot for Velyra and Paradigm of Writing for Kyden! I had an absolute blast writing these two; please let me know if I've given them justice. As for the future, I'm not following any specific order with introductions, but I will get to all these tributes in due time. I'm looking to keep updates fairly consistent, as well, but to do that I do need more submissions! For those interested, please refer to the form on my profile. Reviews are also greatly appreciated.
Hope everyone has a great day/night wherever they're at! Thanks! :)