everything ends.

everything ends and that's the saddest thing i'll ever hear.

backstory. statistics. musings. connections.

The overhead lights were too warm, causing Lavender to perspire under her meticulously put-together garment. Her designer insisted on something more eye-catching which was leaps and bounds from Lavender's usual attire consisting of all things "plain", as her designer would say. To make matters worse, the audience doesn't seem exactly captivated by her. Not in the right way, at least. Lavender was a quiet being. She's cold, dignified, and cautious, and perhaps that much was hard to hide while in front of a crowd of people who marvel at the idea of watching her inevitable demise.

"That's quite the follow-up question to the previous one about my outfit, Caesar." Lavender quips with a chuckle, causing a stir of laughter in the crowd. Annoyingly, the sound calms her nerves. She then sighs gently, her face falling a tad. Her expression turns more contemplative and the sigh seems to make for good television as she witnesses everyone lean a little closer, now eager for her true answer.

Annie Cresta made Lavender Park a curious person. Most saw Annie as this broken doll, the image of madness. And perhaps, in many ways, she was and always will be the poster child for what a mind's capacity could truly handle. But, to Lavender, she was something different. Something more. As a young girl, Lavender dreamt of being like Annie. Or at least being known by someone like her. Because of this, Lavender feels a specific set of emotions toward her. The emotions rested in the middle of a certain spectrum. The spectrum of protection and sadness. Perhaps this sadness stemmed from an empathetic version of what most would assume was just pity. But it wasn't, or at least Lavender tries not to turn it into pity.

After the deaths of former tributes were out on display for everyone to see, Lavender finds herself wondering how Annie might be doing. This wasn't easy on anyone, that much was certain. But she couldn't quite imagine being a victor in this scenario, watching the grizzly acts you once performed play out for everyone to see again. And this time it's not for selfish entertainment. It's used to make a point.

"Annie," Lavender greets gently, canting her head to the side as she approaches the younger woman. She takes a seat just beside her before continuing to speak, "Are you alright? That was, um, that was quite a scene."

The image of bloodshed replays in Lavender's head, all knives and unfortunate death. You'd think the scene that unfolded tonight would bring a sense of misplaced triumph, the rebellion pulling off something so direct even at an event like this. But Lavender feels as though all they're doing is pointing a metaphorical finger. As if that's ever gotten anyone anywhere. We're pointing out the obvious, she remembers saying to her fellow rebels, what more could this do? Perhaps the broadcast will still ruffle some feathers, maybe now that much was certain after it's been done, but the party persists. People still clink their glasses and make faces at one another as makeshift endearment. And Lavender still feels angry, the memory of Mira brought back to the forefront of her mind after their successful display of anti-compliance. And maybe, in hindsight, her subtle distaste for the plan was made semi-selfishly. She couldn't think of Mira anymore. Not now, anyway, and all this did was bring the thought of her back to Lavender in the worst way.

That leads her here, on the balcony that she thought would be empty. No, she would never escape the likes of Capitol folk. No matter what, all of them and their pristine feathers, comfortable compliance, and riches will remain. When she turns her gaze away from the sky and spots Hazelle, her bad mood doesn't flinch. In fact, it sours, a certain kind of bitterness rising to the surface.