blue. — parker v talon, day six.

"There must be a phrase for this. Something from the old tragedies." Everything she says sounds so much like a knife. The syllables cut cleanly, pointedly — like a languid housecat-disguised-panther gazing down at her toys toppling from the highest shelf. Unflinching. "When a hunter has to kill her own hound." There's a rifle in her hands, metaphorically, endlessly. It's an experience she lives out over and over again. The trauma is easier to process when it's gilded.

If her life is a film, then by God, she's giving them all a show.

That's the mirror shard.

That's the real weapon.

It's a simple realization. There's no tripwire between her sympathy and her ambition, no sense of remorse towards the girl who has been playing the part she asked so kindly of her all those midnights ago. Even now, against Parker's will and against her choice, Maryn Hale appears like a phantom on the battlefield — like she always has, and always will. That's half the fun of the whole thing.

As much as she wants to erase every last one of these tributes from their ill-fated narratives, there's a dark humor in her that makes her think having a survivor in her Games isn't the worst of all the unbendable rules in the handbook. She understands why mercy in rationed portions is a necessary evil. That's the way the system works.

Sure, it's not her style, but she's a businesswoman at the end of the day. She can adapt. When the prodigy decides to act out, trying so desperately to convince herself that taking out Roman Westbrook isn't the smartest decision despite a gamemaker so clearly advising otherwise, Maryn decides to oblige.

Instead, she leads her to this space standing across from no other than Talon Grey — diamond forming above the ground, as rough and precious as anything, a blood red stone. Nothing in this world is beautiful, and yet maybe there's a way of putting a pretty filter over all the despair. She's learned it. The trick. The spell. A woman is a witch is a devil.

"My, my. I'm happy to report that there seems to be no sense of loyalty restraining our District Four representatives." She talks logically, factually, the perfect tone to tell a person that all of the odds have entirely failed them, and the end is just around the corner. Some might consider it a gift. An easy out. She watches their machines tear into each other, metal piercing metal, friend killing foe killing stranger killing partner.

"Pay close attention."

A golden thread can become a noose. Scissors aren't needed in this situation.

This is only the beginning, and with a shimmer of pixels, she waves her hands and a crooning ballad starts to play over the chaos. Truthfully, she's trying to mask the little nothings they're whispering to each other, but even more than that, she's setting the scene. This is the moment she's been promising to herself, to the whole world. Entertainment. Beneath this, it means nothing else. She's wearing her best dress, cackling over the crunch of steel.

"Let this serve as a warning to place all of your bets now." The lock clicks as it's pulled away from the grenade trigger. "The curtain call is inevitable."

table: zoë