THROWN OUT.

Blue Sharks (Prionace glauca), family Carcharhinidae, North Atlantic Ocean

Here it is, the moment she’s been waiting for. The moment they’ve both been waiting for, in a way - the glorious finale, the finishing note, the answer to the cat-and-mouse question. It almost doesn’t feel real, even as the warmth of his blood starts to drip across her hand. It’s still holding the hilt of the knife. Pressed against his chest. Oh, if she could, she would make this moment stretch out, enjoy this perfect instant. Looking into his eyes, it’s like some wall has shattered. No more pretty polished picture. This is raw panic. She’s never seen something so real in his expression. 

And then he’s grasping, frenzied, frantic, one hand grabbing her arm, trying to anchor himself here before it’s too late. It’s a pathetic end for him. The capitol’s perfect performer, their shimmering magic man, alone in a cold grey room with no audience but his killer, trying hopelessly to cling to life as it slips through his fingers like sand. Curtain call is here, Asturias. Take your final bow.

Finally releasing her hold on the knife embedded between his ribs - his own knife, no less - she gives him a single shove. In this state, it’s enough to send him down. His back hits the concrete. It’s an ugly sound; the wheezing, sputtering noise of death washing over him, weighing down his voice. No more pretty silver words. Good. There will be no charming his way out, no viewers or commentator. No conjuring sympathy. No distraction. Stay here in the quiet with your sins. While his gasps punctuate the silence, she kneels down, taking one last look. If you take the knife out, the person actually bleeds out faster. She takes the knife out. 

His hand catches her wrist one last time as she does. Green eyes are filled with more desperation than she’s ever seen. Brown eyes look back with nothing but cold rage and self-satisfaction. 

With an awful, slick sound, the knife comes free, and a new wave of drowning sounds begins. She stands. Tosses his knife to the floor beside him. Brushes a few strands of hair out of her face. His blood is on her face now. It’s on her hands. A red tide, spilling out onto the ground.

It’s done.

It’s like seeing a fucking ghost. Literally. 

She’s trying hard not to show it, not to give him even a hint of the satisfaction, but it’s hard not to react when the man you had just recently killed walks through the door. What the fuck is he doing here? So, Snow’s forces had gotten him out, patched him up, that makes sense - it couldn’t have been easy, after the stabbing she gave him, but it makes sense. He’s alive. Fuck, she should have stayed there a moment longer to make sure, dug the knife in harder, maybe just stabbed him again right through the heart or slit his throat to make sure he stayed down, the piece of shit-

Externally, the extent of her reaction is a razor-sharp glare and a slightly-clenched jaw.  

“In your fucking dreams.”  Katrina had been told this was supposed to be a meeting, a word that brings to mind civility and professionalism. Unluckily for discussion-moderator Coin, she’s no professional, and she’s always been told civility is something she could improve upon. And inviting him of all fucking people here? What were they expecting her to do? But she can keep a rein on it. Mostly. As long as he doesn’t try any shit. 

i see you in them every night, kitty kat. he's not sure if he said that out loud, but it's a thought only meant for her, anyway.

JETT ASTURIAS' FINAL VANISHING ACT