Her eyes flick up and down my frame, assessing. “No armor. No guards. No weapons. Hell, no eyeliner. What is this?”
I don’t blink.
“You made this.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Come again?”
“This show. This crowd. This war. You made all of it.”
She laughs, loud and throaty. “Sweetheart, I didn’t make shit. The Butcher did.”
“No,” I say, quieter now, but firmer. “You made him.”
Something shifts.
Small. Barely perceptible.
A wrinkle around her eyes. A twitch at the corner of her mouth.
“The Butcher,” I continue, “wasn’t born. He was built. Out of fear. Out of fire. Out of stories that made you sleep better at night, knowing the monster had a name.”
She takes a step closer. “You got a hell of a nerve walking in here and lecturing me.”
“I’m not here to lecture.”
“Then whyareyou here? You think this is some kinda peace talk? You wanna trade yourself for him? That it?”
“No,” I say. “I’m not here to fight. And I’m not here to beg.”
Another whisper moves through the gathered crowd.
Marj hears it too. She flinches.
I take a step closer.
“You want the Butcher,” I say. “You want him chained, bleeding, stripped of mystery so you can prove you’re bigger than your own myth.”
“Damn right I do.”
“But the myth isn’t his,” I say. “It’s yours. You built him up so high you forgot he was a man. You made the monster. Now you don’t know what to do when he won’t perform.”
She stiffens. Just barely. But it’s there.
“You want blood,” I say. “I get it. You want a finale. You want to stand over his body and say, ‘I ended it.’ But here I am. No bombs. No traps. No snipers in the hills.”
She doesn’t speak.
“I came to tell you the truth,” I say.
I raise my voice now, projecting to the edge of the compound.
“I’m not a warrior.”
The crowd shifts again.
“I’m not the Butcher. I never was. I’m just a woman who survived. Who got lucky. Who learned how to fire a rifle because no one else would.”
Marj's jaw tightens.
