FINAL CHAPTER :O
Also much shorter, seeing as it's more of a quick epilogue/intro to the sequel. And the next Games's theme :D
Oh, and I don't own the Hunger Games. Don't say that enough :) Nor do I own any of the fairytales mentioned in this chapter. Nor do I own the Iliad.
A victor is supposed to have a hobby. I heard it was originally a tradition started by the mentors themselves, who decided they needed to take up activities that would get their minds off the memories of guilt and fear. But of course, the Capitol found a way to make money off it – marketing books and how-to guides such as Whittling with Aaryn Burch, victor of the31st Games! or So you want to cook like a victor? And now it's mandatory for everyone to have a hobby.
When Caesar questioned my on the topic during my Victory Tour interview, I said I had two: creating miniature models and writing. Of course the Capitol didn't understand, and I hear tiny figurines are now all the rage over there, while I've been constantly bugged by their publishing companies who can't wait to get their hands on my "book".
They have no idea what I actually meant.
The lights slowly flicker to life in the library – a side effect of being a victor, in addition to the food parcels we receive each month, 8 has also been guaranteed more consistent electricity, for this year, at least. Still, the bulbs in this place are old, their rays barely stretching across the main part of the library and leaving many a dark corner untouched. I try to ignore those, though, try not to look at them – while my fear has lessened slightly over the months since the Games, there's always a chance I'll see her hiding in the shadows, waiting to strike. Visiting her home district only a month ago didn't help the process of forgetting much either.
Every time I step in here, I can't help but feel my heart sink at how disappointed my grandfather would have been if he'd seen the place in this condition. Shelves shoved unceremoniously out of the way, pages torn from books, markings drawn on the floor in paint – exactly the opposite of the library's old pristine condition. Often, I tell myself to stop what I'm doing, that I'm dishonoring my grandparents' memories by ruining their home; after all, I have a new house in Victor's Village that I could easily use instead. But that's not a home, not by a long shot – a dungeon, perhaps, a cage. Or a torture chamber. Especially after the newly added decoration I'd found in my bedroom the morning my Victory Tour was supposed to begin.
I was going to put this in my home, but I just don't have the room! Besides, I figured Panem's newest victor deserved a gift, especially since I haven't given you anything else. I'm dreadfully sorry for that, my dear boy, but I hope this makes up for it now! So congratulations again, Janaff!
- Varlios Strombin
The note was attached to a tapestry that had somehow been hung in my bedroom during the night without my noticing. That fact alone would have paralysed me with fear – after all, District 8 is supposed to be a safe place, where even the threats of the Capitol can't reach. But this, combined with the tapestry's picture, froze me in place until my prep team arrived to prepare me for the Tour.
And try as I might, I can't get it off the wall. Though I have a feel that even if I did, a new one would shortly replace it. So every night I'm watched by two pairs of dying eyes, the tapestry capturing in gruesome detail the image of my grandparents lying cold and forgotten in the town square.
The library, at least, doesn't have any of that. But it holds other memories, memories I simultaneously want to forget and can't seem to stop remembering. They've overwhelmed me, the fear completely taking control and forcing me to unleash it in some way. Hence the mess in the library.
Cautiously, I shuffle along the wall, back pressed against it so as not to disturb the multitude of leaves scattered across the floor, supposedly representing a forest. I told Caesar Flickerman I was into models – I didn't say I was any good. My tower is a group of books stacked together, the mountains are a series of hardcover novels set up precariously to form long, triangular tunnels, the trap merely a convenient hole in one of the floor's wooden boards. To anyone else, it might look like some sort of odd, random mess. But to me, it's so much more.
It's the arena.
I barely even remember deciding to begin building it. One day I just looked down and realised I'd spent two hours looking for one of my grandfather's special, golden-coloured pens – unconsciously, my mind had registered that this would be the best I could do for a "Cornucopia". And the arena just grew from there. It's become an obsession, one the logical part of my brain continuously tries to ignore and reject. It's not healthy. You should be moving past this. Stop, Janaff.
But since the Games, a different part of my mind has developed. One not ruled by reason and sense, but memories – and the overly powerful emotions of fear, guilt and rage. So my arena grew, stretching out until it practically covered the entire floor of the library. Needless to say, this place never opens for business anymore.
Also littered across the ground are pages, originally from novels now covered in my scrawled handwriting, barely legible. The Capitol believes I write my own stories, but I don't; I rewrite them. Specifically, fairytales. Because the originals were all wrong.
Take Alice in Wonderland, for instance. I was lucky enough to find two copies of that story in the library, and its pages are spread between the tower and the trap. The tale was illustrated as well, and some images have been cut and placed about my arena, like what I've done for all the fairytales. For this one, though, I have Alice and the Mad Hatter at the Cornucopia, while the Queen of Hearts is by the trap.
And of course, I've rewritten and rewritten the story, altering the false parts and making them true. Part of me – the logical part of me – knows this is stupid. They're fairytales, just fairytales, Janaff; they're not supposed to make any sense.
But they're not just fairytales. I've lived them, I've lived them all. And the books got them wrong.
Alice did meet a queen, an evil queen, but it wasn't the Queen of Hearts. No, no, this was the Queen of No Hearts, who challenged Alice to a game of croquet all the same. Except it was different. In the story, they used flamingos and hedgehogs, but in reality, the mallet is a sword and the ball is a heart. Usually, you hit a ball to get it rolling, moving, except when you play croquet with the Queen of No Hearts. Then you play to stop the ball. Hit it once and the thump-thump slows, hit it twice, you can barely hear it, hit it three times and the heart stops completely, declaring the Queen of No Hearts as the victor. No, winner. Not quite a victor.
The Mad Hatter, however, was taken care of by the real Queen of Hearts. No tea party that day – all the cups held was blood, blood pouring out of the kettle, blood running down the table, blood pooling around the dead boy's corpse. Of course, the Queen of Hearts later met the same fate, and what do you know, her white roses could be dyed red after all, just like the girl who had died red. There was certainly enough paint after that.
My fingers tremble as I pick up the pages, eyes skimming over lines I'd written previously. It's become almost a ritual for me to make it down here at least once a day to read the stories to myself. I don't know why I do it – the pain it causes is sharp and unrelenting. But someone needs to remember these people. Someone needs to know the truth about the fairytales.
I set one of the new Alice in Wonderland copies back on the tower, nearly upsetting another sheaf of paper balanced precariously on top. Ah, yes, I know that one well – Peter Pan, the boy who never wanted to grow up – another cut-out of a figure placed the Cornucopia. Yes, unfortunately for him, there's only one way to stop the aging process in the real world. In the story, his shadow was severed and sewed back on, but in reality, it was his soul separating from his body, all due to a needle much too big to block with a thimble.
Like some sort of heart-wrenching routine, I force myself to go through each story, relive each moment I either saw in real life or watched during the recaps. Aladdin, at the castle alongside Robin Hood, Hansel, Snow White, the evil queen and the boy from The Juniper Tree. A thief who was always one jump ahead. Until he took one jump too many, and then the only thing up was his time. Rapunzel, placed in the forest – a silly girl who left the safety of her tower, fell down and straight into the arrow of Little Red Riding Hood, who herself fought a monster much more ferocious than a wolf. Robin Hood, who stole from the rich and gave to the poor. Yet Robin was no robin, and had no wings to stop his deadly fall.
Snow White. Hansel and Gretel. Rumpelstiltskin. Many and more fairytales are spread throughout the room, all written by liars who wished to preserve the ignorance that comes with every "happily ever after". Real stories don't end like that. Real stories have villains and torture and monsters, all right, but they don't have fairy godmothers or friendly dragons or talking furniture to make things better. Cinderella, Mulan, Beauty and the Beast. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Only one story stays somewhat true to reality; at least, I'd like to think it does. The Juniper Tree. On my Victory Tour, I was forced to review the deaths of all twenty-three tributes (well, twenty-two. I couldn't manage to watch Meredith's and the events leading up to it). It's tradition for separate videos to be prepared showing montages of individual tributes, which are shown when the victor visits their district during the Tour. I guess it's to give the dead children a bit more recognition, since so many of them were ignored in the official recap just so the editors could have more screen time for me. I'd seen most of the deaths already, even seen some of them twice if I'd been present for it back in the arena. But I'd completely missed the last moments of both tributes from 6 – at that point during the official recap ceremony, I'd been too overwhelmed with panic at the thought of seeing Meredith again to focus on anything else. During the Victory Tour, however, I'd viewed them both – seen Gwen push Catherine over the edge of the tower in what I believe to have been an accident. And watched Taralo fall from the dragon, hitting the ground hard. And smiling. Not an insane smile like Meredith's, not a fake smile like the one I'm forced to wear whenever a camera's around; just a small, genuine smile. Like he was perfectly content. Like he was getting his happily ever after.
So perhaps The Juniper Tree tells it true, the way it says the boy is reborn in the flames and reunites with his family. Perhaps sometimes, death is truly the better option. I won't deny I've thought about it, especially after the tapestry came, reminding me of the fact that I have no one left alive who loves me. Yet I've never pursued the idea any further. None of the other victors seem to have either, seeing as they're all still alive today. I guess, after going through the arena and suffering through so much to win the Games, you develop a sort of survival instinct that's mighty hard to quench. Sure, some of them must have more painful ways of dealing with their memories, their guilt and their fear. But no one can find it in themselves to throw away the life they worked so desperately hard to keep.
Still, The Juniper Tree has held its position as one of three unmarked fairytales. It's the only one I haven't changed because it may hold grains of truth. The second is hers, though it's more a collection of stories than just one. Every tale has an evil queen, and every one of them end with her defeated and dying. I just haven't had the heart to change it – why not try and pretend, at least to some degree, that villains can be vanquished? Reading over some of those unchanged stories, I can almost, almost manage to delude myself into thinking such. It does nothing to stop my nightmares, but at least it's nice to pretend.
The third story I haven't touched, haven't even opened. It was the only one my grandfather hadn't had in his library, most likely due to its uniqueness. It's not actually a fairytale, not really – more like a myth. Older than all the others, one I thought would be impossible to find. Until the Victory Tour.
Almost there. I'm almost there. With my victory speech in District 1 done, all I need to do is get through tonight's dinner, and then it's off to the Capitol. Then my home district, and then I'm done. It feels so close now – mind you, I've felt like I could get through anything since we got District 4 out of the way.
I take a deep breath and proceed down the steps, hoping I've given Isaac enough time to walk fifteen steps – O'Cleon made it very clear that an exact amount of time must pass between when each of us enter. It's odd, sometimes I think I understand him so well – just another shallow, fashion-obsessed Capitloite – and then he turns around and does something completely unexpected. Like how he comforted me, back when my grandparents were murdered. Honestly, I've just given up on trying to figure him out.
I walk down the steps and into the Justice Building's lavish dining hall; District 1 really goes all out for Hunger Games celebrations, even if their tributes weren't the ones to win. Unfortunately, before I can get to the table and sit safely beside Isaac and O'Cleon, I'm forced to meet each of the District 1 mentors and shake their hands as they welcome me into the life of a victor. Unfortunately, Isaac wasn't the most social of people during his first year of mentoring, and he couldn't give me many tips on the Hunger Games winners I'd meet in each district. Still, most of the time, even what little he could tell me was reassuring. "I don't know much about Jean Ome, but the other two Five mentors are these crazy drunks, don't worry about them." "The District Four guys seem nice enough, but they like to gossip so don't tell them anything personal." "I know Two seems like the worst of the Career districts, but trust me, their mentors are absolutely fine. Just wait 'til you meet Lura."
This time, however, I've heard differently. "Watch out for Splendor Gold," Isaac told me this morning, gaze completely serious as our train pulls into District 1. "She's pretty bad. Oh, and I heard Zeus Dynamos set his kid up to be reaped so he'd go into the Games. Probably want to avoid him too."
However, now, I can't avoid any of them as I'm forced to walk down the line or mentors, reluctantly smiling at each one as numerous cameras focus on our interactions. The first two are fine, at least: Argent Ore takes my hand and offers sincere congratulations while Julius Felfet claps me on the back and tells me I'll make a fine victor. Spinel August, however, is eerily silent as he shakes my hand, his light grey eyes boring into me and I get the strangest feeling that he can stare straight into my soul. Michael Schylla is also quiet, but I expected this – after all, his daughter had to die so I could live, a fact he can't possibly be happy about. Then I get to Splendor, who, instead of taking my hand, merely curls her lip in a sneer and mutters, "Five dollars says this one goes insane before the next Games." Not exactly the most reassuring comment, and I quickly move away from her, positioning myself right in front of District 1's last victor: Zeus Dynamos.
"I hope you're happy with yourself," he says, also refusing to take my hand as I stare up at him. The anger in his tone makes me flinch away. "There were much better people than you in those Games – much better tributes who should have won. And you killed their chances – you killed them. And don't you," he adds, shoving something roughly into my hands, "ever forget it."
"Hey, back off." Of course, while I'm rendered scared and speechless when faced with a furious individual, Isaac leaps on the opportunity to show his own hostility, stepping forward and placing himself directly between me and Zeus. If looks could kill, both victors would be dead, the glares they send each other's way are so powerful.
"Look, let's just go sit," I say, placing a hand on Isaac's shoulder. I appreciate his interference, I really do, but I'm not keen to have a repeat of his beating at the hands of 8's Head Peacekeeper. The boy is tough, I'll admit that without a doubt. But he's also to proud and too stubborn to know not to pick fights with those who can and will beat him. In more ways than one.
It was only after I'd gotten to the table that I'd taken a look at what Zeus had forced into my hands. A book, with elaborate, golden script scrawled across the front. The Iliad. I'd never heard of it, but I could put two and two together. How Zeus had gotten a hold of the fairytale his godson represented was beyond me, yet now it was mine, an everlasting reminder of the heroic, self-sacrificing tribute with two children who had died so I could live. Zeus had been right – I had essentially murdered all twenty-three of those tributes.
I've finished reciting all the altered fairytales to myself, yet this time, it doesn't feel like I'm finished. Not with my gaze continually wandering towards the mountains of my arena, where sits one of the only pristine books left in the library. It's right next to the torn pages of The Little Mermaid, which I've altered to show how Prince Eric sacrificed himself for Ariel and died while she watched, helpless. But I know that story. I don't know Achilles's.
Unconsciously, my fingers stretch out towards the unopened book. So far, I've been worried reading this tale might spark more feelings of guilt within me, feelings I really don't need if I'm going to remain sane. That's already a tough enough job – look at me, standing amidst a model of my arena, telling myself fairytale authors are liars and that only I know the truth. As much as I like to think I'm fine, some part of me just can't let go of the arena. And that part of me wants to know the whole story. Every last tale, every last lie they tell. Who knows – maybe this Iliad is one of the rare truthful ones.
I pick it up cautiously, careful not to disturb my mountains and send them tumbling to the ground like a series of dominoes. Then, I proceed towards the only part of the library I've left mostly untouched: my grandfather's desk. But I quickly think better of sitting in his chair – it hurts too much, to remember days where he'd sit here, occasionally helping customers find books but mostly just talking to me, reciting tales of his life before the Dark Days, before the Hunger Games. I've tried to get over their deaths, to push them from my mind but I just . . . I just miss them so much.
So maybe a nice book will distract you. I slide a finger up the bridge of my nose, an unconscious gesture I still do, even though my glasses are no longer present to slip down my face. Just lose yourself in the fairytale – accept the lie of happily ever after, just once. Try to enjoy-
But something throws me off, before I even begin to read the words on the page.
Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans. Many a brave soul did it send hurrying down to Hades, and many a hero did it yield a prey to dogs and vultures, for so were the counsels of Jove fulfilled from the day on which the son of Atreus, king of men, and great Achilles, first fell out with one another.
The "J" in "Jove" is underlined. It's faint, barely noticeable unless you're observant and taking the time to read the book. But there's definitely a mark under the "J". And the "a" in "day", the "n" in "on", another "A" in "Atreus", and two "f"s in "of" and "first". But it doesn't stop there though, not by a long shot; hundreds of letters have been underlined, all by the same faint pencil. While I may not have touched this book, someone else clearly has. And really, there's only one person it could have been.
I highly doubt a man like Zeus Dynamos would choose to randomly underline letters in books for fun. So, for the first time in a while, my logical mind trumps the emotional side, whirring with excitement as it kicks into action once more. Because I'd recognise something like this instantly. It's a code – a cipher. A puzzle. Something the old Janaff used to be good at. Something I can do now in the hopes of slowly bringing myself back to normal.
It takes a while copying all the letters out onto a spare sheet of paper with the Cornucopia pen. Even after that, I have to sort the mess into actual words, figure out where the spaces should go. But after a few mistakes, I'm rewarded with a legible message, one that stuns both my logic and emotions into silence.
I suppose I should apologise for the rude reception I know I'll have to give you during the Victory Tour. Capitol is always watching. Which is why I had to give you the book like this. President has a strange sense of humour and while I doubt he'd appreciate me giving you a letter, handing you a book that would make you forever remember killing my son would please him enough not to make him suspicious. Just in case he did get one of his men to flip through it though, I used a code – figured you'd be good at that sort of thing. Granted, it's not much of a code – Spinel insisted I do something more complex, but seeing as I was the one having to write it, I decided to ignore his advice because frankly, I don't have the time or brains to come up with something better.
So hopefully you're the one reading this, otherwise the Peacekeepers will be knocking on both our doors soon to put a bullet in my head for me next words.
How would you like to instigate a rebellion?
Spinel and I have been planning one for thirty-six years, getting more and more members in on it. I won't list their names here, not going to risk condemning more people, but for this to work, we need someone in almost every district working with us. Spinel didn't think that Isaac kid was the right one – too stubborn, lets his anger rule his decisions. But apparently he thinks you're different. So we're taking a big risk, bringing you in like this. At least it'll become easier to communicate with you soon. According to the victor tabloids, you turn eighteen next month, which will make meeting you in the Capitol a lot easier, as awful as the rest of your visit might be. But you don't need to hear about that right now.
What you do need to know is that every victor in with us has been quietly spreading thoughts of rebellion throughout the districts and while some are harder to win over, thoughts of dissent are beginning to rule. Six sounds about ready to blow, while Ten has already had some small revolts. Eight is a small district, a tough one because we need almost everyone to be on board in order for you to make a difference. We have faith in you though – after all, it can't be harder than converting One.
So get out there and start leaving whispers of rebellion around the district. Just make sure you're subtle about it – we don't want to get caught before we even have a chance to set this thing in motion. As for when that will happen, I'm not entirely sure. But it will happen soon, trust me. We're not going to allow the Hunger Games to continue much longer. Or the Capitol.
There's one more fairytale I haven't touched, mainly because it has no place in my arena. After all, the Pied Piper is still here. Yet I've seen a copy lying on one of the now almost empty shelves that used to hold children's books. I just haven't touched it, haven't corrected it. Because I'm trying to make it come true.
The people of Hamelin had a rat problem, so the story goes, and they hired the Pied Piper to rid them of the rats. He did so, killed them all, and all he asked in return was the payment he was due. But the people laughed in his face and sent him on his way with not a coin in his pocket.
So the Piper took his revenge. He took all of Hamelin's children away, the price for all their misdeeds and mistreatment of others. And Hamelin learned never to cheat others again.
I murdered the rats, just like the Capitol wanted. Twenty-three dead rats, that's what they wanted, and while I didn't kill them all myself, I might as well as they died so that I could live. And in return, I was promised fame, fortune and, most of all, a life of happiness and security. Yet since I've won, I've done nothing but suffer. The president has manipulated me, made me relive my worst fears with his whispers and, just to make sure I remained completely complacent, he had my grandparents murdered. But that's where he made his fatal mistake. Because I have no other family, and no friends he can hurt. He took away the last thing he could use against me, and now I'm free to do as I choose. The only person who will get hurt is me.
The Capitol needs to learn what monsters they are, how they cannot continue to take the districts' children, murder them in cold blood and expect to get away with it. No, something needs to be done. The Pied Piper needs to take his revenge.
So watch out, Varlios. Because one of these days, I'm going to come along and pipe away everything your Capitol holds dear.
"Coming home in ten minutes, are you?"
"Ah!" Kelwin jumped in surprise, nearly tipping over in his seat as the new arrival slinked through the doorway. Verena – w-why was she at his office?
"That's what you told me over the phone," she continued, slowly moving closer to his desk. "Half an hour ago. So I came to check up on you. Because I really don't think you know what you're missing."
Only then had he noticed the enormous, fluffy fur coat she was wearing, and a second after he registered its presence, his wife shrugged out of the jacket and let it drop unceremoniously to the floor, leaving him gaping at what was left. Underneath, Verena was wearing nothing more than the skimpiest, most see-through dress in existence. It looked more like a shirt. Made of plastic wrap.
"Verena . . . what . . .?" He could feel himself turning red, his throat going dry as his eyes continued to take in his wife, who had an eyebrow raised and a smile on her lips. "What are you . . .?"
"Doing?" Her smirk widened as she came to stand next to him, leaning against the edge of his desk and only serving to make him more flustered. "Making sure you come home tonight. I'm not going to allow you to spend another five months wasting away inside your little office. Even if said office is new and bigger."
"But . . . I'm Head Gamemaker and . . . and we don't have a theme for the Games yet and I have . . ." he petered off, and despite the fact that he knew he had an incredible amount of work, he couldn't mask the obvious desire in his eyes, or the reluctance as he said his next words. "So much to do."
"Well then, I'll wait." And hopping right up onto his desk, Verena pulled a book out of her purse and began to read, making sure not to cross her legs and hold the book anywhere that might hide a part of her beautiful body.
Kelwin swallowed, knowing full well he was never going to get any work done like this. "I think maybe . . . maybe you should wait at home. I promise, I'll only be a few more minutes and-"
"Nope. I'm staying here."
"But the kids-"
"Off on sleepovers, both of them." She leaned closer to Kelwin, frowning. "Are you trying to get rid of me?"
"No, of course not dear, but-"
"Good." Verena sat back on the desk, the grin now present on her lips telling Kelwin that she was very much enjoying distracting him. And as much as he didn't want to admit it, because he had so, so much work to do, a small part of him was revelling in this as well. Especially as his eyes travelled from her face to his paper, moving all the way down her very visible body. No, he was definitely not getting any more work done.
He tried, though, furiously keeping his eyes on the files even though all he could hear was the turning of pages as Verena continued to wait. It was a constant reminder that his wife was sitting right on the desk where he worked, and try as he might to forget, he couldn't help it as his gaze frequently travelled back to her. She looked so beautiful, not to mention how nice it was that she had actually come all the way to his office just to try and convince him to leave. Plus, if the kids really weren't home . . .
"All right, I'm done!" The words were said perhaps a bit too excitedly as he slammed a file closed, glancing up at Verena to see her smile over the edge of her book.
"That was fast."
"Well, you know, whether we get a theme idea today or tomorrow doesn't really matter . . ."
"Good." She tossed her story onto the desk and hopped off, grabbing his hand and pulling him up from his chair, the two of them so close their noses almost touched. "See you in the car," she whispered before stepping away.
He grinned before a new thought occurred to him. "Wait – did you drive here too?"
"Of course not. I took the subway."
"That's why I brought the coat," Verena said, laughing slightly at his previously horrified expression. "Now come on!"
"All right, all right." His hands practically flew over his desk, gathering all the files into a pile before hoisting them up and under his arm. Wait . . . one thing still remained. "Hey, you forgot your . . ."
He'd been about to say book, but as his free hand reached for it, he realised it wasn't one. At least, not in the usual sense. It was taller, and much thinner, the cover a myriad of bright colours, depicting a tall, strong man in a blue suit, a red cape flowing behind him while an "S" or the same colour was sewn to his chest. Superman, the title proclaimed.
"Verena, what's this?" Kelwin frowned down at the thing as his wife came over.
"Oh, just a comic book. They're all the rage now – more action and pictures than those old fairytales, so of course, once these were discovered, they became the latest fad." She took the comic and shoved it in her purse, looking back up at him with a playful smile. However, it quickly disappeared as she realised the expression on his face hadn't changed.
"Honey, what are you . . . oh, no. No. No, no, no." She took his hand and started dragging him out of his office, shaking her head with every "no". "We are going home, and I don't even want you to think about the Games, all right? It's time to relax, to forget work. Kelwin, I know that look on your face, just forget the comic book."
"Sorry," he said hurriedly as they made their way down to the building's lobby – Verena had, thank goodness, but her coat back on beforehand.
But as much as he wanted to please his wife, he couldn't get that, that comic book out of his head. More action than those old fairytales. The latest fad.
Perhaps he'd found a theme for the Games after all.
So weird: this story is actually, finally done. SO weird. But I hate long goodbyes and I said a lot of my thank yous in the last chapter, so I'll just say I had a great year and a half with this story, and thank you to everyone who submitted, reviewed, followed, favourited and just made this story possible! I could not have done it without any of you.
And now, look forward to the sequel, the intro to which should be up tonight! To Marvel at Death - yes, I am having more bad wordplay in this title. Hurray! :D