Survival Of The Fittest

Outside of the Temple, the sounds of a struggle rang out from within. The clang of metal on wood, and metal on metal emanated in between anguished, enraged cries and profanity. With reckless abandon, Tyrell was using his assigned weapon to take out his anger on the structure within.


His head felt like it was splitting open. Something felt tight on his neck. The first thing he saw was a painting of an angel. The memories came afterwards, and his rage came with them. The painting didn't survive his onslaught, and pieces of it now hung off of the crowbar. Winded, he sat down on an ancient-looking trunk, paint chips flaking off onto his clothes.

Of course. Of fucking course. It had to be something like this.

Everything up until this point had felt like a struggle to escape some dark pit. Every time it seemed like he saw a way out, something dragged him back down. Every hopeful moment was hiding some cynical reality. Every time he thought of keeping an open mind, of trying to see some good in the world, something took advantage of that opening to kick him back down again.

It had been naïve to think he'd ever escape.

There had to be something to bring him down. Something had to be there to remind Tyrell Lahti that his life was meant to be bleak, brutal, and short. There were supposed to be highs and lows in life, moments that made the suffering worth it. It was almost impossible to see that now. The lows were so extreme that any good he’d salvaged out of this seemed like a joke. A mediocre consolation prize for sticking it out for eighteen years.

Not even old enough to legally drink. Dying a kid. No chance to move on. To grow up. To be better than what I came from.

It wasn’t just him, though. No, they couldn’t have just stopped at killing the angry kid that only a single-digit number of people were going to miss.

"Jesus fucking Christ. Six times wasn't enough?"

Those monsters had kidnapped all of them. His classmates. Friends, enemies. People who he knew were going to hurt for this way more than he ever would, because so many had never really suffered like this before. Violence just hadn’t been part of their lives up until this point. For the longest time, he’d thought he could just cut those people out of his life and move on. That leaving home, he’d never look back. There were people he’d think he could just write off. If they died in a car accident or an overdose he’d read past the headline, or laugh.

Their faces. He could see them in his mind’s eye. Scared and alone. Wondering who was going to turn on them. Unable to block out what happened to their teachers, the adults who’d only wanted to keep them save and see them home. The sound of Ms. Garcia slumping to the floor, the wet thud – it wouldn’t go away.

"Do you hate them? Do they hate you?"

He thought he hated them all. Maybe he thought he had, when the stakes were only their little practice run of the real world.

What was going to happen to the people who couldn’t fight back? What were they supposed to do here? What was supposed to happen to people like Nathan or Alex? Forrest wasn’t going to be able to much fight back with a broken arm. Caroline was probably going to break down worse than anyone. It was hard to even picture how broken someone like Ivy was going to be when she woke up here. As much as he hated her he couldn’t condemn someone to this.

How could anyone deserve this? What purpose did this serve? What point was being made here? Ty thought of the people he’d run into at prom. He’d resented people like that for so long. For being able to just be happy, to not have to game every situation. They didn’t have to. They enjoyed life, and had reasons to.

It didn’t seem like too long ago I started to figure this out.

All of them, just kids who were excited for their future. People who should have been scared only of making tough life choices. Who hadn’t yet had the chance to really fuck up in the way that tows the line between a hard-won lesson and a breaking point. To learn the difference between fleeting teenage relationships and the ones that really last.

Fuck, she’s here too.

No part of him had ever doubted how much he cared about her. It didn’t take being thrust into this situation to realize it. There was never any reason to suspect her motives, or to assume she wasn’t just out to help people. It was so obvious.

And that kind of person ends up here because of some twisted agenda.

Erika was going to die here. They both would. No one deserved to meet their end in a place like this, but her least of all. She was only ever kind. He only wanted to know what kind of person she could be. They might’ve had a future together. The thought caused Ty to further sink to the ground, his head hanging low. Tears ran from his eyes, but he didn’t sob. Wasn't sure he had the energy to.

Who was he meant to be? So many people had seen the ugliest parts of him. Only one of them had really gotten to know the person he wanted to be. Only Erika wasn’t going to try and put him down the moment she saw him, because she was the only one who wouldn’t expect the worst.

Bret had taken Wyatt with him to fight Ty because of his reputation. Claude tried to look after him and all Ty did in return was try and tear down his beliefs. Ty had spent more time trying to hurt Lorenzo than he had trying to figure out a way to help Artem. That was what he’d really cared about, after all. It wasn’t compassion, it was an excuse to have someone to hate.

At least that piece of shit is going to die.

Ty bit his lip, and slammed his hand against a nearby wall. The pain didn’t comfort him. Leaning against the wall, he slid to the floor sobbing.

“No. I can’t. I can’t do this anymore.”

There had been so many justifications. So many things he told himself that made him feel like when people feared him or reacted badly, that he was right somehow. What did that earn him? Now that this was a life or death situation? Everyone was going to figure he was the bad guy. No one looked at Tyrell and thought he wasn’t going to put up a fight. They expected it.

They want me to be a killer.

It was hard to imagine how it could have been different. Part of him thought it might’ve been if he hadn’t always had to fight for himself. If his father hadn’t been a monster. If his mother had protected them. If his sister had the courage to call the police, or if his brother had the courage to call for help.

If I hadn’t had to wait eighteen years to meet someone who could actually love me, maybe I would’ve realized I had a choice.

“If I could have just been anyone but me.”

It would’ve been nice to meet people years on and have them be surprised I didn’t burn out or end up in prison. It would’ve been nice to prove them wrong. There’s no time for that, now.

It wasn’t apparent to him that there was any point in continuing. Playing into this bloodbath would only vilify him to anyone left alive. Erika would never forgive him. Trying to fight was foolish; everyone who had half a brain would put him down as soon as possible. There was no choice to make here.
That’s not true. I have a choice to make.

The collar felt snug. Ty hated the feeling of it, the image it presented. It wasn’t enough to have explosives strapped to his body, but as a collar? The imagery of a caged animal, the appearance of submission – sickened him. That wasn’t for him. Playing into someone else’s twisted game, playing a victim. Long ago he’d sworn to never let it happen again. Not as Tyrell Marsden, and certainly not as “Boy Nine”

I will not let this happen. I’m not going to be the bastard everyone expects me to be.

Ty stood up, looking around the room. There was a length of rope lying next to the painting. It was caked in dirt and moss, and looked like it might've held up some of the silk tapestries at some point. Whatever it had been used for, he knew well enough what it meant to him and he walked over to it with purpose. He’d been tempted enough times before to know how to tie a noose, or at least a makeshift one. With a loop at one end, he made a simple knot at the other. There was a beam overhead, sticking out from the ceiling.

Should work.

Jumping up for a moment and grabbing onto the beam, it held his weight sure enough. There were a few concerning creaks and groans from the moldy wood, but it seemed sturdy. After a few tries, he managed to loop the rope around, and pulled it taut. He stepped onto the flaky crate, not taking his eyes off of the hanging rope.

Fuck. I didn’t think it’d be like this.

Slipping the noose over his neck, Tyrell managed to situate the rope just ahead of the collar. After a few moments, the feeling of the rope against his skin quickly made him forget about the cold, black metal. He made sure to pull it snugly against the sides of his neck. Asphyxiation was painful; if he managed to squeeze the arteries, he knew he would black out before he choked to death. The BJJ instructor he’d been taking lessons from explained as much to him when he caught Ty in a rear-naked choke. If it was anything like that, perhaps it wouldn’t be quite so bad.

Only as bad as dying.

For as long as he could remember, Tyrell Lahti found himself bound by a feeling that he was pushed into one choice or another, always having to rebel or act out in defiance because someone or something wanted him to live a way he had no intention of doing. Mostly, it was as a victim. So he was who he was, and ended up something of an outcast. To choose differently meant being weak. Not being himself. It was only months ago he’d realized that he wasn’t that person either. There was no reason he had to be someone who scared people. Who solved problems with violence and hate. Here he knew he was destined to be the kid who was going to buy into this game because he’d always been a heartless bastard at school, only if he didn’t step up and make a choice.

The only choice left. The only thing I can control.

The only thing he could stomach. The only act that wasn’t motivated by fear of this collar, of the psychopaths behind the cameras. Ty stared directly into the nearest camera, stifling his fear enough to shoot it one last look of hatred and defiance.

“I’ll die on my own terms, not yours. I’m done.”

Closing his eyes, Ty searched his mind. There had to be a moment. Something that might help him face it.

”You’re saying you were good at this?” Erika chided Ty, looking to the small television screen as her fighter raised his arm in victory over his.

“My brother played it with me all the time. I only ever really fight the computer now. I guess I didn’t plan for you.” He smiled at her. It was strangely easy to lose to her and not get mad about it.

“Did you ever beat him?” She beamed, her hands gripping the controller tightly as the next round began.

“I… yeah, a few times. I think he used to let me win.” Rain didn’t fight back. Erika noticed, and hit the pause button. He didn’t realize it was going to affect him like this, showing her the games he played growing up. It had been a long time since he’d cried over Elliott. Never let anyone see him do it until now.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I didn’t know I’d do this.“

“Hey. It’s okay. I’m right here.” She smiled. It was so easy to lose his train of thought when she smiled like that.

Tyrell held onto that image as he stepped off the chair. It steeled his resolve to ignore the pain, to suppress the terror. It was the best he could to do try and die with a smile on his face. The noose snapped tightly around his neck, just as he’d intended. Before long, he fell into darkness.

If he’d be known for anything, it would be this. That felt like enough.

For a long moment, all he did was watch.

Tyrell Lahti hung from a beam, swaying, struggling. He even gurgled as his body instinctively gasped for air. Feet kicking for something, anything to hold on to; there was nothing to find.

Even more, he watched.

As he bore witness to this most shallow of ways out, something gnawed at the back of his mind. Tyrell was a miscreant. This was a man who would bring trouble or hatred upon all of them. The logical move here would be to let him die. An angry, motivated Tyrell could harm a lot of people, which was not the kind of thing he wanted on his conscience.

He watched the struggle. It felt like an hour; in truth it was more like seconds.

It was cowardly. Why throw everything away, when he could use his gifts to help those who might not be able to defend themselves. Tyrell thought of himself as a bad man, someone not worth saving. A lost cause, even.

Never once a coward, though. So while he knew that it was a bad idea, he stepped forward from the shadows, towards the writhing body of a coward. The chair had tipped over as Tyrell had stepped from it, and it lay, just out of the reach of his kicking feet. As he stepped forward, he knew that Tyrell's blue face could see him just fine. He was glad that the large man would know exactly why he wasn't going to die. Not here, not today.

It felt right. It felt just.

Steadying the chair, he brought himself up behind Tyrell and looked at the rotted beam the rope had been slung over. It wasn't a load-bearing beam, and the wood was barely able to hold Tyrell's weight. To put the weight of a second person on it would bring the whole thing crashing down.

So he took the top of the rope and took his own leap of faith. The beam collapsed as expected, sending the both of them down to the floor below. He managed to stay on top of the larger man, the beam coming down onto his back and causing him to cough audibly as it bounced down to the right, no longer the instrument of Tyrell's demise.

Winded, he found himself straddling Tyrell, and as the larger boy tried to catch his breath, he managed to find his first, and removed the noose from his neck. Dismissively, he tossed the rope to the side, and as he looked down at Tyrell, Claudeson Bademosi couldn't help but smile a smug little smile. Time would tell if he had truly done the world a service by saving this man, but for the first time in a while, he felt just.

He felt alive.

"You're welcome."

((CLAUDESON BADEMOSI V7 START))

Ty expected darkness. The grey tunnel that would slowly eclipse his vision before the lights went out forever. As he stepped off the crate, the noose didn't pull as tightly as he'd wanted it to. There was no tunnel, no graceful fade to black. Just pain, and instinct. No part of him wanted to live, but his legs kicked out anyways. He only wanted it to be tighter, but his hands clawed at the rope around his neck regardless.

When the world finally began to fade, the part of Tyrell that wanted to end fell silent. Terror flooded his mind. It instilled in him a feeling so painful it made the thought of a collar detonation seem like mercy.

A desire to live. He reached for the beam, but it was out of reach. A figure moved ahead of him. No doubt someone wanted to watch his demise. To make sure he was dead. Loot the crowbar, and his supplies. His suicide was a mercy, it was the only morally justifiable action, it was-

You're fucking kidding me.

What little of Ty's cogent thought remained had questioned whether or not he'd offended someone upstairs by defacing the angel. As he felt the rope slacken and the waterlogged wooden floor come up to meet him, he began to realize he might have been on to something. It was difficult to see, and pins and needles ran up and down his arms and legs. Curled up on the floor, he coughed and heaved, attempting to catch his breath but unable to find it. As motes of oxygen began to fill his lungs, he finally managed to get a look at the latest in a series of obstacles.

You son of a bitch.

Ty looked up at Claude, scarcely able to speak. "...why?"

As the winded Tyrell struggled to catch his breath, Claudeson pulled himself to his feet, brushing the dust from the old, musty temple off of his pants. The dust showed visibly on his pants, and his leap of faith off the chair to save Tyrell's life had cost him a modicum of cleanliness. Alas, it was a small price to pay. Feeling emboldened, he felt the unusual feeling as though he were in his element once more. He felt whole.

It was so wrong to feel so right, especially now, but Claudeson didn't mind.

"Why? Come on, Tyrell. You once told me that you would do what you had to in order to survive. I watched you pull a knife on two men who were looking to do you grievous bodily harm, in the name of self-preservation." Claudeson's tone was only a little condescending. He truly did expect more from Tyrell, particularly after the verbal sparring session they'd had that night.

He stood over the staggered boy.

"You insisted to me that you were only reacting to the circumstances, and then you dared to judge me for trying to stop you from making a terrible mistake that you'd regret for the rest of your life." He raised an eyebrow. This time the condescension was laying out in the open. "How many times do I have to stop you from making mistakes that will end your life?"

Shaking his head, Claudeson felt the irony that Tyrell had decided to end his life in a place of worship. The boy obviously had no serious leanings for any particular religion, to Claude, it made sense why he was here. It was the first place that he had gravitated towards. Perhaps there was a reason, after all.

Perhaps his faith had not left him.

"You're no coward, Tyrell. At least, I had not pegged you for one. There is the potential to do a lot of good within you. To help many people in this awful place. You have a type of strength within you that most do not."

He looked Tyrell square in the eye, emboldened.

"I will not always be around to come to your aid. Do not waste your gifts, Tyrell. This is a second chance."

Claudeson extended his hand to the fallen Tyrell.

It wasn't enough that he was still alive, or that every breath was accompanied by a cough. Of all of the people to wake up to on the island, it had to be this sanctimonious asshole. Ty curled over onto his side, his heavy breathing kicking up some of the dust on the floor. Fresh tears poured from his eyes, no longer just a side effect of nearly choking to death. The space on his neck where the rope had been began to burn, and the feeling made the collar feel tight.

I didn't make a mistake. You did.

What did he want? What did Claude think he was saving him for? He seemed to imply what he'd done was cowardly somehow. As if didn't take bravery to not take the easy option, to kill innocent people just to save himself. To die when you weren't completely confident and sure of what was on the other side, like Claude was. So confident he was right, that some loving God had a place waiting for him.

How could he be, after this happened?

Ty lay back, his eyes drifting to the ceiling. He blinked, the blur clearing in his vision. At the mention of a second chance, his sobs continued, their timbre gradually shifting to that of laughter. It wasn't like he found any of this funny. It was just hard to believe that someone could be this arrogant and heartless and think that he was somehow in the right. Ignoring Claude's outstretched hand he slowly rose to his feet, remaining doubled over as he continued to take deep breaths.

As the seconds went by, the electric feeling in his hands abated. Brushing his hands off the front of his pants, he stood and looked Claude in the eyes. Like with most people, Ty had to look down at him.

You don't have much going for you, for someone who likes to make life or death decisions for other people.

Though his voice was raspy, Ty found himself able to speak clearly.

"A second chance? Where do you think we are? How fucking dare you!"

Claude only seemed to be able to offer a blank glance back. No apology. No understanding. Just that smug, shit eating grin.

I'm done talking.

Without warning, Ty aimed a jab squarely below Claude's ribs. As the other boy doubled over, he followed up with a cross directly to Claude's face. The other boy collapsed to the ground, blood spewing from his nose and printed onto Ty's right knuckle. It felt good, but not good enough. Taking a step back, he delivered a sharp kick to Claude's ribs, hoping to prolong the breathless noises coming from the boy lying below him.

There. That's better.

Confident he wasn't getting up - at least not immediately - Ty crossed the room to his duffel bag. The crowbar lay nearby and he picked it up, shaking pieces of the angel painting off as he did so. It felt good in the hand, better than it had when he'd been using it to tear apart the inside of the temple.

The metal felt cold and unforgiving, which was just what he needed it to be.

The snub of assistance notwithstanding, Claudeson was surprised at Tyrell's reticence to admit that he was thankful for saving him. Of course he knew where they were. That was obvious. He'd seen the briefing, he'd witnessed the horror of poor Ms. Garc-

He had been opening his mouth to retort back when he'd realized too late that something was coming directly at his ribs. With no time to react, he gasped in pain as the wind flooded out of his lungs, leaving him gasping for air. Trying to refill his now-empty breath, he didn't even see the second punch coming; rather he felt it. The world exploded into stars as he felt his nose quickly fill up with blood. Coughing, he stumbled over his own feet, unable to control his limbs without air to help power him. Rolling onto his side, Claudeson took a moment and tried to push himself up to his feet, only to be met with another sharp impact to his side. The air that he'd managed to suck back in went flooding out just as quickly.

As his face slammed down against the floor, he felt blood start to leak out of his nose. Coughing again, this time no further attacks came and he was actually able to catch a breath. Greedily gasping for air, he wheezed as he felt the dust of the floorboards tickle the inside of his bloody nostrils. Some of his dreadlocks had fallen around his face, and the good feelings that he'd been able to enjoy for barely twenty minutes decided that they'd had enough and flew home.

He could hear the footsteps around the room as Tyrell walked around it. He had lashed out, sure. That was a fear response, undoubtedly. Claudeson knew that Tyrell was probably ashamed at his choice of suicide and rather than thanking him, he'd lashed out. What a poor, damaged soul.

"Y-you are in my debt," was all that he could choke out, his voice raspy from the lack of oxygen and somewhat nasally from the blood that was collecting in his nostrils.

Looking up, he saw Tyrell with a crowbar in hand. Ah. So perhaps he had erred, after all. The next few moments would explain to him exactly the kind of man Tyrell was.

He was sure that he was not wrong. Tyrell would not kill.

Claudeson smiled up at him, the blood from his nose spilling down into his mouth, showing a twisted visage to the large boy who held all of the cards.

Ty walked over to Claude, idly swinging the crowbar by his side. He thought it was a shame that they didn't issue him a gun. Pulling a trigger would've been much simpler. Maybe there was somewhere reasonably high he could cast himself off of. That might work. He pictured the fall. It would be peaceful, wouldn't it? Not like what he'd imagined for Claude. Cold steel breaking every bone it made contact with. Breaking in that smug grin. Caving in the eyes that looked down on everyone else. On him.

You'll die screaming.

A sudden rush of anxiety seemed to pull at his chest. The mental image of his own skull cracking apart made him wince. The same kind of panic he'd felt at the end of a rope. The same feeling that had caused him to draw a knife. It had overwhelmed the memory he'd held in his mind. It would have been the last thing he'd ever have experienced.

I promised myself I'd never find myself in that place again. I don't want that to be the last thing I think of.

So this was what it was going to be, Ty thought to himself. Claude was responsible for his continued existence, his presence on this island. He was also responsible for keeping Ty out of that place. Everything that happened after this point was on him, more than anyone else. Every iota of suffering, every moment he had to spend clawing his way out of despair - it was all on Claude.

He supposed he should've been thankful. Maybe even forgiving. Should being the operative word. All he had for this boy was hate. Tyrell wondered if Claude would be able to live with forcing him to find a worse way out of this world.

Like the rest of us, he's not going to live very long. I can actually see this motherfucker putting someone down to save himself. Someone beneath him.

Hovering over Claude, he cocked his head to the side as the boy shot him a bloody smile.

He'd seen the way he'd been looking at people throughout the trip. The way he'd run from him when Ty had called him on the act. When he fully understood where they were, what the collar around his neck meant - that would be more painful than anything he could do with the crowbar. He answered Claude by pointing the sharp end of the crowbar at his face, his voice still hoarse.

"I really want to bury this in your skull. That was the first thing that came to mind. That'd be a ticket out of here, right? Of course, everybody thinks they know who I am; that would just confirm it. Paint a target on my back. It'd be an easy way out for you, too. You'd get to go to your God, if you still believe he's out there after all of this. Kind of a reach at this point, if you ask me. So yeah, you're right. I owe you. You get to own everything that happens after this point - and you owe me, for not doing the first thing that came to mind."

Ty stared at Claude for a moment, before pushing the crowbar towards Claude's nose, gently tapping him with it. "Boop! Have fun with that."

He walked from the temple, duffel bag slung over his shoulder and crowbar in hand, ignoring the laughter he heard from behind him. On his way out, he eyed Claude's daypack.

A cross-bow. Fitting.

After Elliott's suicide, Ty wondered what could have possibly driven someone to that point. Now that he'd been there, he knew it wasn't within his power to do it again. It would have to be someone else. Below, he could see the faint outline of a few large buildings. It seemed like as good a place as any to head to. He had no intention of leaving the island, so it seemed like the right step to try and get to know it better.

((Tyrell Lahti continued in Unnatural Selection))

Claudeson had straightened up as Tyrell had come towards him. The reckoning was at hand - for Tyrell Lahti and for Claudeson himself. The crowbar swinging by his side made a strangely soothing sound as he watched the tall boy approach, ready to act as his final judge. In this world, at least. He would soon receive the answers to all of his questions.

Then, Tyrell had stopped. Taken a moment, and looked down at him. Claudeson had only smiled wider at him, the blood dripping from his lips and onto the floor. He was sure that he wouldn't win any beauty contests, and his white t-shirt was undoubtedly starting to collect telltale droplets.

He waited for the swing, but it never came. Instead, Tyrell pointed the sharp end at his face, and delivered a sermon of his own. It was funny, Claudeson thought to himself as the blow he expected never came. Tyrell had proven himself to be the kind of person that Claudeson believed him to be. He wasn't such an evil man, he wasn't the sort of man who took the easy way out. Tyrell would have been absolutely correct in his assessment - killing him right here would have put a massive target on his back going forward. People would see Tyrell Lahti, killer, and they would know that everything they had always thought was correct. He was a waste of space, a blight upon their school. People would not give him a second thought.

Yet now, here he was, lecturing Claudeson on his own perceived debts to Tyrell. This made him smile even deeper, and after Tyrell reached out and poked him on the nose with the crowbar, the only sound that came from Claudeson's now-full lungs was laughter. He wasn't a killer. Claudeson could see that. Deep within that man's character was someone who truly wanted to do good. He would see, closer to the end of his journey, that Claudeson had saved him from doing something truly cowardly; truly reprehensible.

The laughter felt like nothing he had ever felt before. It had a warm giddiness to it; deep, enriched laughter.

He stayed there, on his knees, for more than a few minutes after Tyrell had left. His ribs were sore, and his nose ached furiously after the punch. It was very likely broken, and he still felt the blood pour out of it, though at a slower pace than it had. But he felt alive again. Alive like he had not been for a long while. Somehow, this horrible circumstance had given him his purpose back. Freeing Tyrell Lahti from the bounds of his own cowardice had been but a worthy first step.

He now understood his purpose. He was here, in this moment, on this island to do good. To help free the burdens of his classmates, no matter the cost to his own personal freedom. God had not turned his back upon him. God had been preparing him for the journey at hand. It would be a costly one, and Claudeson had to know true pain before he experienced real suffering. It gave him solace to finally understand.

Gingerly walking over to where he had dropped his pack, he picked up the small duffel with his personal effects, his issued bag with B005 upon it, and the wicked-looking crossbow that obviously had its own story to tell. Claudeson took the time to open his bag and read the manual, to investigate his weapon, to understand it. The weapon would serve as his protector, his insurance around spreading his message. Evidently it had belonged to Min-jae Parker, the last poor soul to survive this awful contest.

Claudeson decided that he would honour his protector with the name of its former owner. With Min-jae and the Lord by his side, he knew that he could not fail. This would be a difficult number of days, and he would undoubtedly see horrors that he could not even comprehend. But not since he had lost the vice-presidential student council election did Claudeson Bademosi feel as energized as he did in this very moment.

As he pushed the heavy doors of the temple open and headed out into the sun, Claudeson couldn't help but wonder if perhaps he did owe Tyrell a debt of gratitude. Stopping outside of the doors, he looked down at Min-jae and wiped the blood from his chin.

"Thank you, Tyrell," he said to no one in particular.

Feeling the good fortune of his day, Claudeson readied himself, held his head high, and headed out toward the beginning of the rest of his life.

((Claudeson Bademosi continued in I'm a Princess, Cut From Marble, Smoother Than a Storm))