#th:perl

[chip-foster]

my village, my child  //  self

“Among the dead are Livia Levine, a young Gamemaker from Three. She leaves behind a daughter, Olympia.”

His hair was matted with blood. 

Most of it was not his.

The scalpel was still in the pocket of the clothes he’d been handed back as he was wheeled out of the hospital. 

They told him to set frequent alarms to keep himself awake. He did not find it necessary. Every time he closed his eyes, Vidia’s lifeless wolf eyes stared back. 

Chip turned his good ear toward the television as the list of dead was read off again. It was not just the gauze wrapped over the left side of his head that was keeping noises muffled. The doctors said it was likely he might have permanent hearing loss. It’d been hard to focus on them, just as it was hard to focus on the television he technically wasn’t supposed to be watching with his concussion. Regardless, the message stuck. And it left him sick.

Everything left him sick. The concussion made every movement nauseating and painstaking. He hadn’t gotten off his couch since getting home. Not until he finally processed Livia’s name.

He remembered when she was hired, not long after him. District Three was the second most-represented district among the Gamemakers after the Capitol. She’d been pawned off on every former resident of District Three, including its least impressive victor. He remembered she was nice. And he remembered Evie leaning over the back of the sofa to look over his shoulder one day as he scrolled through social media. She’d made him stop so she could look at Livia’s post announcing her daughter’s birth. 

He’d thought little of it since. Until now. 

He pushed himself off the couch, still in little more than a hospital gown and boxers as he tried to find where he’d dropped his close. Flakes of dried blood were fall all over his floor and hands and arms as he tried to find the pocket of his pants. His hand touched the blade of the scalpel and he quickly pulled his hand back. He rocked to the side, hitting the floor hard as he curled up. He balled his hands into fists as he held them close, eyes shut as he forced himself to see the bright blue looking back at him. 

Had Vidia deserved to die?

Maybe not. But Chip knew she probably wasn’t getting out of that lab alive. And Chip deserved to kill her.

“Again, one of those dead just a young woman with a young child. What was her name daughter’s again?” “Olympia.” “Olympia. Just tragic now that Olympia has to grow up without her mother.”

It might’ve been minutes or it might’ve been hours before he pushed himself up off the floor. It was hard to distinguish. He forgot he’d even been looking for his phone. He had to grip the back of the couch to stay standing as he looked at the television. Pictures of all the Gamemakers who’d died were lit up on the screen. Fittingly, it reminded him of his own arena, watching the faces of dead tributes light up the sky.

A clump of matted hair fell in his eyes. He pushed it away, and it fell back as he tried to focus once again on the news.

“And Vidia Vickers, the absolute genius behind the Quarter Quell...”

He walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. He forgot to turn on the cold water tap, just stood there watching as the water poured down and began to steam. Steam filled the entire bathroom, and he did not move as he watched it. 

He went to a rarely used shelf in his bathroom cupboard. An electric razor he hadn’t used in a long time. Beads of sweat were starting to form on his skin as the steam sank deep into his pores. He shook off the hospital gown, but it did little to change things. He plugged in the razor, and he looked in the mirror.

The blood had been cleaned off his face at the hospital, but he could still see rings around where they hadn’t quite scrubbed it clean. Around his left ear they’d shaved off some of his hair, trying to get a closer look at the damage. The razor was humming and buzzing, waiting to be put to use. He placed it just above where the nurses had shaved, and began to drag it back. Long, tangled curls fell to the floor in a heap. 

He wished for someone else to be doing this. He wished it was Perl sitting him down at a chair because she couldn’t reach, telling him she might as well shave it all off because there was no way to cut and style all those snarls. He wished it was Olive saying she’d been waiting to do this for weeks as she told him what to order for dinner. He wished it was Paslee, who’d say nothing but offer a resounding “hmph” of triumph with each strand that hit the floor. He wished it was Belle or Electra or Clover, the faces he’d known since childhood who’d each given him a bandaid or a glass of water or some form of comfort over the course of his life. He wished it was his mother, who only moved gently and would’ve gotten distracted halfway through with an idea for a painting.

But there was no one. There was just him. 

When there was nothing but stubble, he finally clicked the razor off. He’d had to wipe down the mirror several times so he could still see. He splashed cold water on his face and over his head, and remembered to turn on the cold water tap in his shower. He set several reminders on his phone to keep him awake through the night, and a reminder to book a train ticket to Three. 

He was not alone. The time had come for him to be depended on and not dependent.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

A week later he was cleared to travel, but with precautions. He got on the next train to Three, and there was no need to set alarms to make sure he did not doze off at an odd time. He couldn’t seem to find anything that would actually distract him or hold his attention. Eventually he stood, arms crossed, watching as Panem flew by as he got closer to his niece.

The Victor’s Village was quiet when he arrived early in the morning. The sun had just started to rise as he walked through the entrance. There was only a small ripple of activity from the corner of his eye, and he looked over to see the district’s oldest victor drinking out of a mug. She’d never been a kind woman, but once when he was ten she helped him make a rocket. She yelled him at him a year later when he set a rocket off that destroyed her vegetable garden. Her yard was possibly the only spot in the Village where he hadn’t thrown up or passed out.

She was the one who’d pulled him from the grass the morning of Perl’s funeral and shoved him into the shower with his clothes still on. He hadn’t seen her since that day.

“She normally starts with the chalk around seven,” she declared without prompting. 

Her voice was so unfamiliar Chip wasn’t sure if he even heard her correctly. “Uh...th-thanks.”

He kept his eyes on Belle’s house for some indication of movement behind the curtains, but there was none. When he entered his own home, he was struck with a sudden swirl of dust that made him sneeze. He found the remote to his television somewhere among the couch cushions and turned the television on.

“-Levine, she leaves behind-”

He shut the television off quickly and went to the kitchen. Everything was covered in dust. He didn’t even know where to find a rag to wipe it off, so he just batted at it the dust on the kettle with his hands and found some old tea in the cupboards. Before it was steeped, he heard movement outside. He didn’t even look through a window to see who it was, just headed to his front door that he’d left ajar despite the cold air seeping in.

First he saw Belle. Then he saw a familiar face in an upstairs window. His long legs carried him fast with each stride, but Evie was apparently going even faster as she came sprinting out the front door. He dropped to his knees in the grass and hugged her close. He wasn’t sure if it was him or her shaking more as they cried.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

“What’s a clone?”

Chip folded his hands together on the table, glancing out the window to see the nation streaming by as he considered the best way to answer his niece’s question. “Y-You know tr-tracing paper?” She nodded. “I-It’s like th-that. The same picture. J-Just made a differ-rent way. N-Not th-the r-real picture.”

“Why did they do that to Mommy?”

“Uh...sh-she was a good picture to copy.”

“Will they do it again?”

He scratched at cartilage on his left ear. He did not hear his own nail moving against his skin. He saw Vidia, and he blinked it away. “I-I don’t th-think so.”

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Snow was keeping most people home in the Capitol. After an afternoon of building snowmen and making snow angels and drinking hot chocolate, Evie was fast asleep. Paslee was in her space. It was just Chip left completely alone for the first time in two weeks, with only the television to keep him company. With so many people likely trapped at home, rehashing news of the Tower attack seemed the only way to pass time.

“And we know, Livia Levine left beyond a baby girl...”

Chip still didn’t know if the keycard he stole gave the rebels access. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever know. Maybe nothing he did or didn’t do had any impact on the outcome of that day. He knew the blood directly on his own hands, and he had no regret about it. It was the indirect blood, the possibility he’d been responsible for taking a parent away from someone, that felt like a constant, sharp pressure at the base of his skull.

“Thankfully, she’s been adopted by another Gamemaker so we know she will have a good life. And...”

This was new. This was entirely new. He didn’t know another Gamemaker had adopted Livia’s daughter. He pushed himself off the couch and took up a seat at the counter where his phone was charging. He sent out several texts to people he hadn’t contacted in weeks. It didn’t take long to get a response. Colette Neptune. She was taking care of Olympia. He could access and talk to the person now in charge of this child of Three. He could help. 

He’d had Colette’s phone number for some time now, though he’d never, ever had a reason to use it. Until now. 

It’s Chip. How’s Olympia?

[chip-foster]

killer instinct  //  self

Chip Foster 

(p. noun): 

1. Victor. 110

2. Killer of Freyja Slate

3. Patron saint of the hackers, slackers, stoners, loners, burnouts, and dropouts.

It is widely believed Chip Foster killed because he was hallucinating.

Actually, Chip Foster just killed the wrong person because he was hallucinating.

Chip Foster had every intention to kill. 

It is a survival instinct. 

The Fosters were great friends to their son, but they were not great parents. It was Perl who kept him fed, who kept track of his birthdays, who first saw how he flew through school assignments. She kept track of his inhalers, his grades, his sleep schedule, his everything. Edison was an excellent experimenter who included his son on all sorts of fun “let’s try this” activities; and Dayta had her son sit for several hours at a time for various portraits. But it was Perl who raised him, long before his parents were killed. 

It was Perl’s survival instinct that got them all there. In a comfortable house and not a trailer. With full bellies and not the same cheap meals for every breakfast, lunch, and dinner. 

Perl won. And Edison and Dayta had another child. They’d been through the Games with their child as a tribute before. They did not want to get through it again, and they were brilliant and creative enough that their minds could only be a benefit to the rebellion. They did what they thought was necessary to keep their son out of the Games.

Little did they know...

Edison and Dayta Foster may have been bad parents, but that bred an individual spirit in their children that could survive almost anything. 

Almost.

Two Games is too much for most people. Three is far too much. Not just on the body, but on the psyche, too. 

Chip could try all he wanted not to be selfish, but he still saw himself before he saw anything else in the woods. He saw a boy who had yet to die for the first time. He saw Sera again, with blood spilling out of her neck. He saw it all, as heads turned in the Cave, the tech hub, to stare at him. He was standing almost instantly, eyes locked on the screen as he watched the scene play out.

And then Perl was there, on another screen. There were dozens of screens on the wall to monitor several parts of the arena at once. But there was one large screen at the center that only his supervisor controlled. 

“Put it up.”

“Gamemaker Foster-” He wished he could’ve laughed. They only used such formal titles in the Cave when shit was going wrong.

“Victor Foster.”

He’d pulled the title exactly twice in his life. The only other time was for Evie.

It took only a few taps before Perl was on screen. For several minutes, she roamed through the dark of the woods. It didn’t matter what anyone else in that room wanted. Chip was calling the shots.

Then it happened too quick for him to even anticipate. 

A ghost. 

An attempt to run. 

A mutt.

He remembered watching her drown the first time. He remembered banging on other doors on Three’s floor and calling sponsor phone number after sponsor phone number to try to get her a snorkel, scuba gear, anything. She was dead before he stopped. The cannon had sounded before he gave up. He was high before he reckoned with her death.

Chip Foster had been here before, for all intents and purposes. Technically, Chip Foster, of the year 120, had watched his sister die before. But he had not. Surviving means adapting, changing. He’d survived. He’d survived his parents’ death, Sera’s death, Freyja’s death, Perl’s death. 

Chip Foster made his living on mourning. 

And still. And still it hit him. But it did not hit him the same way it would’ve in 120. When he left the Cave with steady breath, at a steady pace, he was not heading to a bar. He had access that he never had before. He had no idea who caused the flood that killed his sister. But he knew who had control of the mutts. And when he scanned his ID card at the entrance to their section of the headquarters, he was allowed in. They probably thought he was no threat.

It’d taken all his self-control to keep breathing, to keep moving. He let the control go. He saw Perl vividly - dying by a mutt, drowning in the 120th, at the hospital after Evie was born, helping him blow out the candles on his birthday candle when he was too nervous to do it in front of the whole of District Three’s Victors’ Village.

It took a village to raise a child. The child never wanted to be part of the village.

There was an empty hallway full of colors Chip didn’t care to recognize. Then a Gamemaker turned the corner in a crisp white button-up with an ID card clipped to his ironed shirt pocket. 

Poor fool. 

Didn’t he know what happened when you got stuck in a tunnel with Chip Foster?

Chip lunged forward. He swung first, knuckles colliding with a slack jaw so hard it echoed in the hallways. Another swing, another, and another. Then he wrapped his bony fingers around the Gamemaker’s neck and pressed hard. He wanted to feel something break. He wanted to feel something collapse. He wanted to cut through the skin with his nails and watch blood flow. He wanted to kill this man he’d deemed responsible for his sister’s death. It didn’t matter who held the real responsibility.

Survival did not come with 100% accuracy.

A robotic hand grabbed his shoulder. He knew he’d only break his own bones if he tried to fight against it. His knuckles were raw and bloody from the attack, and his body was so fucking tired. The other Gamemaker was already unconscious. In the struggle, his pristine ID card had slipped off. 

A quick calculation was necessary.

Chip slammed his hands on the ground as he was dragged back, his palm falling on the other Gamemaker’s ID card. He flicked his middle finger and sent the laminated card up his sleeve. Sleight of hand. It came with being a fucking delinquent. 

The robotic Peacekeepers forced him to stand, then marched him down the hall. When he was shoved into a spare office in the Gamemakers’ HQ, he pretended to shake out his shoulders and shimmied the card higher up his sleeve. He was met soon by the head of security for the Tower, who greeted him first with an off-the-record word of sympathy. Then the recording device turned on.

“State your name for the record.”

“Chip Foster.” 

Chip Foster, the rebel. 

[chip-foster]

deserving  //  self

Chip went back to his room to grab his cigarettes and, when he realized his head was bare, another hat. Before the elevator even reached the garden he was smoking, and a small cloud preceded him as he stepped out. This high up at this hour, it was a little chilly, but he still felt flushed enough to not bother even wishing for a sweatshirt. 

It was a relief to find the space empty as far as he could see. Everyone was probably tuned into the Games as they went into the tenth day. The last twenty-four hours felt like they’d been longer than the rest of the Games, though. 

Chip bent forward to lean his forearms on the railing, flicking some of the ash into the forcefield and watching the little specks get zapped. He wondered if Ravenite would even let Evie come to the Tower, so Chip could try to at least see her during the Games. He wouldn’t put it past Ravenite to be so cruel; and he also wouldn’t put it past the man to parade his daughter with a victor around like she was a doll.

The cigarette went flying into the forcefield and Chip lit another one as he watched the remnants get zapped and fall away. He started to pace. Kai had custody of two kids, right? Chip knew his own history was likely filled with more extreme mistakes, but that didn’t mean Kai was an angel. He was a married man, after all.

Fuck, he was a married man.

Would it be the first time Chip aided and abetted (or abedded?) in infidelity? Hardly. But there was a difference between fucking someone who was married and you saw them once a year at a party, and having sex with a married friend. Still...He tilted his head to the side as he considered what could be his regrets and concluded he had none. Zephyr wasn’t there. People didn’t just fuck around on their spouses for no reason. And selfishly, Chip was relieved to have slept with someone other than Shava without needing drugs or alcohol in his system for the first time in a long time.

Then a concern struck him - would this kind of gossip be held against him in a custody battle? Ravenite was a sponsor, and one who was in favor with Battenberg, at that. Chip was the kid who didn’t deserve to win the 110th. 

The cigarette quickly burned up and ash fell off the edge as Chip sucked in until he thought he might never breathe again. The smoke escaped his mouth with a harsh sigh. 

What did it mean to be undeserving?

Ravenite was definitely deserving of the punch that broke his nose.

Evie was undeserving of being deprived of a relationship with her uncle.

Chip felt he was karmically deserving of the lost contact.

Electra was deserving of her release from the Games.

Nova was undeserving of what happened to her in the Arena. 

Belle was deserving of a life with her family in Three.

Olive was undeserving of the coward she’d found in Chip when the Peacekeepers closed in on her. She wasn’t deserving of his anger, either, even if it bubbled up again at the memory of what happened the night before. But how could she know what it meant to lose family and still be the catalyst for him to lose the only family he had left?

Perl was undeserving of her death. Perl was undeserving of all the hell he’d put her through. Perhaps the only reason he’d gotten out alive was because she deserved it. 

And his parents...his parents were undeserving of their execution.

Chip walked back to the railing, taking deep breaths between long pulls on the cigarette. He needed a third before long. 

Edison and Dayta...what would they think of their son now? Would the two rebels be ashamed their son was too scared to join a rebellion? Had he ever done anything that could make anyone in his family proud? Was the time to start really when they were all dead?

All dead. And here he was, the least deserving of them all to be alive. The one who stayed alive through overdoses, car crashes, and a whole fucking arena. 

Here he was. The victor of the Foster family.

Chip rubbed a hand over the top of his hat. He had no regrets for what he’d done that night, but that was nothing compared to the stack of regrets from his life that grew higher everyday. Evie couldn’t be added to them. Not after everything he’d put Perl through; not after everything Ravenite and Panem put her through. Perl had to step up to raise him, now it was his turn to step up. It wouldn’t be easy and it wouldn’t be comfortable. But he had a card he could pull that Ravenite never could. 

Taking out his phone, Chip scrolled through his contacts until he found the number for the Games liaison in Battenberg’s office. He was surprised to hear someone pick up at that hour, but they were probably getting calls from Sponsors and victors all throughout the Games.

“Hello, Mr. Foster, how can we help you this evening?” 

“I-I need to talk to Batt-ttenberg or someone in her off-ffice,” Chip explained. “A pers-sonal m-matt-tter I need some h-help with.”

“Well, Mr. Foster, as you can imagine, the president and her entire office is very busy with the Games. We can try to schedule something in September, maybe, when-”

He paused, taking a drag on the cigarette as he considered his options. The best option seemed clear. 

“I-I’m a fucking victor. Someone can m-make the time.”

[chip-foster]

task 010. blast from the past

Months went by without a word. After the last of the mourners found their way out the door, the house went quiet. Perl spoke, of course, but one kind voice wasn’t enough to fill the entire house. Never one to give up, she taught her younger brother, now in her care, how to sign. Even that, he used rarely.

At nine, the Games were already a familiar part of his life. When the weather got hot, they all gathered in the square, they wished the tributes well, and they hoped for a victor. Perl was always on stage. At two years old he’d tried to run up on the stage with her. At three he’d attempted to volunteer, still naive and unaware of what the Games really were. Little did he know...

The 101st was causing a stir in Three. They were only two years out from Clover’s victory, and had two victors in a decade. Three was getting antsy, hopeful maybe they could see more of their children come back alive. His parents died in the hopes there’d be no question about every child in Three living past their teenage years. At nine, though, he hadn’t quite put it together, hadn’t quite understood when Perl tried to explain it. He was happy to not be lied to, like when some people at the funeral told him it’d get better. At nine he knew this shit never got better.

It was the first year he stood completely alone during the Reaping. He could feel Perl trying to keep an eye on him in the crowd, but it was impossible to stand still. He dodged and ran around among the families grouped together to watch, barely ever taking his eyes off his portable video game device. He didn’t hear the names called, didn’t realize it was a set of siblings until Perl told him as she managed to find him in the sea of people.

She’d been granted a reprieve from the Tower that year, but considering the circumstances, it was difficult for those still in the Victor’s Village not to try to keep up with what was happening in the Tower. A pair of siblings, a twelve-year-old among them. Tragic, that was word being thrown around. The same word people said at the funeral. All Chip knew was that it meant someone was already dead or they were going to die.

When the Games began, Perl tried to keep it out of Chip’s sightline, but he already had too much technology in his own room and figured out a way to get the channel on his little gaming device. His sister figured it out eventually and let him watch. The girl was only a few years older than him. He hadn’t yet confronted the fact he was going to be eligible to go into these terrifying Games in just a few years. The odds were low, but a single slip of paper with his name in that Reaping Bowl was one too many. 

Three’s tributes died. It didn’t really matter when or how. The district was reminded of how much easier it was to get two coffins on the train home instead of a victor. Did this mean Clover was coming home? He hoped so, she was nice.

Even with Three out, he still found himself now invested in a Games that was scarier than any video game or movie he’d seen before. Perl tried to limit the time he watched, tried to get him to do something else instead, but he found himself too attached to look away. He’d become invested because of Three, but now he wanted to see it through completely.

Unsurprisingly, or so he was told, the girl from One won. Career district, that’s what he was told; no matter the circumstances, they could find a way to win. They had winning streaks unlike any of the other districts. Perl told him they had Academies, where people trained to become winners. He signed the word “unfair” and got no response back. 

He watched as the new victor was retrieved from the arena. He signed to ask Perl where the girl, Emilia, was going next. Perl told him the first stop was always medical. He’d never asked his sister much about her arena, even in general terms. It wasn’t a topic of discussion in his house. But watching this new victor get pulled from the arena, he wondered what his sister might’ve looked like at the end of hers.

“Y-you w-on th-th-this?”

Months without speaking had weakened his voice, but in such a quiet house, it sounded like a thunderclap.

[chip-foster]

The Foster Family

Edison Foster - deceased at 38 (executed for inciting a rebellion)

Dayta Foster - deceased at 38 (executed for inciting a rebellion)

Perl Foster - deceased at 40 (tribute in the 120th Hunger Games)

Chip Foster - 26

Evelyn “Evie” Foster - 6

[chip-foster]

⚰️ (Perl)

At least the rest of Three already knew what he was like at funerals at this point. Some dumbass asked if he wanted to give a eulogy, and he’d walked out of the room without a response. He didn’t want to sleep in the house he’d gotten with his own victory, and he couldn’t stand the idea of sleeping in the house that was no longer Perl’s. So he’d slept most nights since the Games ended in the strip of grass that separated the two homes. Belle never once asked him if he was fucked up, and for that, he was more grateful than he could ever put into words

He dreamed of Perl the night before her funeral. It was disjointed and strange, but it was definitely Perl he was talking to. Nothing of the conversation could be remembered the next morning, but he lied in the dewy grass, shivering for some time. At some point someone gripped the sleeves of his shirt and forced him up, dragged him by the arm into his house. Still fully clothed, they’d thrown him into a steaming hot shower. It wasn’t Belle or Electra or Clover, it was a face he’d barely seen recently. One of the older victors from Three, long ago readily displaced by the younger mentors who came along.

She’d once helped him make a rocket when he was ten, and he couldn’t remember talking to her since. How misplaced he was in this Village of strong women.

His hair was still wet when he got to Perl’s funeral ceremony, but he was there, staring at the closed casket the entire time. A couple people spoke, but he had no idea what they said. Dozens spoke directly to him, and he could barely manage a nod. Was it the sleeping on the ground or the grief that caused him to feel so stiff? 

At some point, someone took his elbow and brought him to a car. He sat down and remained motionless again until they were at the burial site. Edison, Dayta, and now Perl Foster, all in a row. The first thought that made him crack the slightest smile all day was the thought he should reserve a seat for himself now. It was coming soon, anyway. He wasn’t going to sleep that night without a fucking drink first, and once he went down that road, he had no fucking intention of coming back.

The only hope he had, as he looked around the cemetery, was that Ravenite might show some mercy, some semblance of kindness, and bring Evie there. But there was no flashy Capitol car to signify his presence, no presence of the one face Chip could look at that day and feel some warmth in his heart. He thought he’d been still the whole day, but now he wasn’t sure if he’d ever stopped shaking since the morning. 

And then everyone was gone. He’d been staring at the gravestones the whole time - the whole service, the whole time the casket was lower, the whole time the dirt was piled on top and patted down into a smooth mound. The sun was setting and the only way back to his house was on foot, but that seemed so far away. And it wasn’t his home. The three people who’d raised him, who’d given him a home, were buried six feet beneath him. There was no home to go back to. So he knelt down perpendicular to the graves, then sat down, then lied down and stared at the sky.

“Th-third time’s th-the ch-charm,” he said. He was hoarse. He’d been crying a lot. It probably contributed to the dehydration headache pounding on his skull. “T-two Foster victors, th-th-then th-the th-third time...” What bullshit. It was all bullshit. None of it fucking mattered, and it wasn’t like Perl could actually hear him. It wasn’t like his parents could hear him. But fuck it, so what? People talked to their pets who couldn’t talk back all the time. “Hi M-Mom. I-I-I m-miss you. Hi Dad. I st-still beat you at ch-chess th-that one time. Hi Perl. I-I...” What could he say to her? What was appropriate? Nothing would suffice, nothing would be accurate, but he owed her something. There was something he owed her that was long overdue. “I-I’m s-sorry-rry.”

He could’ve gone on, but he soon fell asleep in the grass. It didn’t matter they weren’t there to hear him; all that mattered was that they were there.

[chip-foster]

Is there anything you wish you could say to someone that you can't? Who in your life do you miss the most? If you could do it all again, what would you do differently?

Is there anything you wish you could say to someone that you can't?

“N-nah.” Everything to everyone?

Who in your life do you miss the most?

“Perl.”

If you could do it all again, what would you do differently?

“H-hide bett-tter on R-reaping Day.”

[surya-mirga]

💩 😜 👿

💩 …someone my muse dislikes, but admires.

“Distr-rict One victors.”

😜 …someone who makes my muse laugh.

“Perl. She can be funn-nny. Sera. My oth-ther fr-riends. Marl-ley and Gabe.”

👿 …someone my muse used to like, but doesn’t anymore.

“Jackson.”