"Just be yourself. There's no one you can perfect more than yourself," Gryffon started, blinking back at Annabelle who remained quiet as he lectured the tributes. She refused to let him leave if he didn't at least try to say something useful, and only when she dismissed him would he even be permitted to stand up. When she nodded for him to go on, Gryffon sighed and looked back toward his two tributes. "Just don't insult the Capitolites." He pointedly looked toward Chrys as he said that, then leaned back into his seat.

"There really isn't much else to the interview. Be yourself, answer honestly, don't hate on anyone, and you should be fine." Gryffon cocked his head to the side and raised a brow. "Questions?"

"If he asks about our skills, what do we say?" Oliver asked immediately, sitting up straighter in her place. "We just say we don't want to share, right?"

The Victor shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. "That's up to you. You can share some, act like you don't have any. Go with the first thing that comes to mind. But remember, you two are working with a three and a five as scores. Answer accordingly, let the other tributes be surprised." Oliver's gaze fell at the mention of the numbers and nodded.

"Okay." She glanced up at Chrys and raised a brow. "You going to be this statue of a boy, too?"

He scoffed and this, then rolled his eyes. "I'm not the least bit interested in my score or in an 'act'. Here, go, be Caesar." Chrys turned his body toward Oliver and nodded at her.

Hesitantly, she glanced at the Victors and shrugged. "S-so, Mister Heath, any allies?" Oliver raised a brow and leaned in toward him. "Perhaps that pretty district partner of yours?"

"Oliver? Oh, she wishes," Chrys scoffed with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. Gryffon shook his head at their teasing, his general mistrust toward Chrys not helping his biased preference of Oliver. Annabelle nudged his leg with her own and motioned with a little twitch of her hand that he could go. Thank God.

He pushed his chair back from the table and slipped away without excusing himself and left the floor. Gryffon flicked the basement's button once he entered the elevator and pursed his lips when they reopened, revealing the empty expanse of the room.

The boy stepped out and on his way to the actual Centre, Gryffon kicked his shoes off and left them by the entrance. Restless. He had been just so restless, so aching. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply before letting it out slowly. Since his chat with Kella and Trace, Gryffon had been itching to get down there and work out the pent up energy he had been holding in. Find something to occupy his mind.

He opened his eyes and walked toward the hand-to-hand station. Gryffon glanced toward where the trainers usually sat in wait. "Any of you want to get up off your ass?" he called out to them, his tone hesitantly harsh. He had to harden. Had to find one front and keep with it. Snow demanded he stay in one place with his demeanor, so that's what he would do. Albeit, it would be going in the wrong direction.

But as the trainer stood up and started toward Gryffon, he felt himself smirk and realized for the millionth time: he didn't care. He was going to do as he pleased and he was going to enjoy it.

"Finally," he breathed, stretching his hands forward to where his fingers popped and cracked. The trainer stood there for a moment, waiting, watching, whereas Gryffon sputtered out another impatient sigh. He pushed himself forward, his foot stopping him from crashing into the man. The Capitolite pushed a fist toward Gryffon's face which his arm blocked, and tried to jab at his stomach. The Victor grabbed the man's fist and twisted his wrist; at the same time, Gryffon reached for the man's raised forearm and with both hands pulled the trainer forward, kicking a knee toward his stomach.

Gryffon shoved the man back from him and took a step in the opposite direction. The trainer recovered quickly and pivoted toward the Victor. Gryffon ducked out of reach from the man then pushed his foot back, hooked it around the man's ankle, then pulled him closer, locking his arm around the trainer's. Before the younger boy could react, the trainer twisted himself around and forced himself to fall onto his side, ultimately knocking Gryffon down, too.

A gasp escaped his lips as the man got back up to his feet, his shoulder throbbing with the impact. Gryffon gritted his teeth and started getting to knees, but flashed out a hand to grip onto the trainer's shirt. He jerked his arm back and used the movement to pick himself up and throw the man off balance. When he bounced back onto his heels, Gryffon turned and pushed his foot into the man's chest, kicking him back.

Pointless . . . This is all just pointless, I'm only repeating what I've done and - Gryffon shifted aside when the trainer jumped back up and turned to grapple with the Victor. This isn't helping. Gryffon spat out a breath of air when he was forced back a step, then two, then three. He dropped his arms and tried to duck around the man, but he wasn't faster than the trainer's leg and instead, got kicked back into the ground. He rolled to the side to avoid getting hit again and staggered back to his feet where he barricaded the man with his arms yet another time.

I can't even - Again Gryffon allowed himself to step back, blocked another hit, and pressed against the rings of the platform just when he managed to grab the man's wrists again. - fend off someone who should be in a wheelchair! Gryffon pulled the man forward and pushed his head hard against the man's. The impact made his vision distort for a moment, but it made the trainer's arms go limp and step back away from him.

"Yeah . . . Thanks," he mumbled. He stepped out of the enclosed space and dropped onto the ground, having to stumble a step or two forward before he could regain his balance. Gryffon ran a hand through his hair and gripped his eyes shut for a moment. Goddamn . . . Why did he do that?

The Victor glanced over his shoulder with a slight smile, and chuckled when he saw the trainer shaking his head as he left his post. Too bad he didn't knock the man out. One day, maybe. Gryffon puffed a little bit of air out and blew up toward his hair as he stepped back toward his shoes. Now time to wander around before he could return to his floor with the kids sleeping.

Four days into the arena and Oliver had already died, and when she did, Gryffon abandoned Annabelle to watch the Games on her own. Close combat, hand-to-hand, gauntlet - all of that in the Centre occupied his time. Everything he didn't do before entering his own arena he was going to try and perfect now. Except the one thing that kept calling him back was the axe. And on the fifth day, he gave in.

By then, all he knew was that Chrys was still struggling somewhere, according to Annabelle. "I don't know where exactly, you gotta go down and check for yourself if you're so interested. He's your kid, not mine."

Of course, Gryffon couldn't care less.

Their interviews were a mess of confident and timid, but Gryffon hadn't worked out any sponsorships, so they had been as good as dead from the start without him sending anything. Gryffon had made the Training Centre a second home instead. Yeah, he had definitely given up the role of good mentor long ago.

One hit, two, duck, jump, hit, fall, throw, fail, start over. It was just a repetitive cycle, one he could say he was sick and tired of. He couldn't throw, he didn't even know why he was trying. And If anything, attempting to learn something new was only aggravating him more and -

Throw.

- only reminded him of how . . .

Miss, fall.

. . . he seemed to mess -

Go get it.

- everything up and he couldn't do a thing about it.

Annabelle refused to help him with anything, and he was far too stubborn to ask. All the other Victors? In all honesty? They frightened him. They judged him. They didn't get it (and really, in a way, he hoped they never did). He looked fine and would snap once in a while . . . But control was far from being fine. A threat was not a leash, it was nothing but a spray bottle full of acid water that would eventually run out.

Gryffon poised himself to throw again, though the sound of a light knock caught his attention.

"What're you doing here? One of your kids are still alive."

Gryffon's arm tensed, but with one collected sigh, he loosened up and let the axe fly, missing his target once again, and bounced off the wall on the other side with a loud bang. In the same moment, an arrow whizzed past his face and caused him to flinch back. "Goddamnit," he growled. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

The session ended abruptly and Gryffon stepped off the platform to go retrieve the throwing axe. The hilt of it was already familiar to his palm and it felt like a part of him; maybe a prosthetic limb that he had yet to get used to. When he turned toward the exit, the dark-haired woman was already there, blocking the opened door. "Well, it looks like you're trying to find your distraction and it's not working." She smiled at him and brought a hand forward, asking for the axe.

"You've trained with it. Of course you can use it . . . No need to show off," Gryffon mumbled but placed the weapon into her hand anyway. "But do what you want." The other Victor laughed, her tone clear and light as she moved away from him and closer to the other melee weapons.

"Don't ask that of me without meaning it," she warned with a wink before her foot skidded and she pivoted toward the rack. "I can't believe you didn't learn yet, sweetie . . . " Diamanté dropped the thin blade in its place and grabbed an axe whose shaft was about the length of Gryffon's forearm. It reminded him of the axe he had used in his crooked wonderland of sorts.

"You became a lot more enjoyable when you stopped being careful - stopped thinking," Diamanté continued, "but throwing axes need accuracy. You're delicate with flowers, but pain isn't organized. Don't try to make it so." She swerved back in his direction and walked gingerly toward him, as if she was trying to preserve the ground she owned. She raised the axe to him, an offering of treasure that needed the utmost care but was begging to be abused.

"You would know."

"I need to teach it, of course I would know." She blinked at Gryffon slowly as he accepted the axe and her smile grew wider when he stepped back into the simulation room. He didn't look back at her, but he felt her glare on him the entire time he retreated.

No matter . . . It didn't matter where her eyes were. Her attention was a good one, and Gryffon had to think it - or at least accept it as a fact. She maybe didn't understand where he was coming from, but she didn't go there to yell at him . . . She was helping him.

If only she had been his mentor, instead, or Jay's. Maybe things wouldn't have turned out the way they did.

An orange body flared to life beside him and it swung, a mace just grazing his arm. Gryffon jerked back and tossed the axe from his left hand to his right, tensing his muscles and within the same motion, thrust the head in the body's direction. An arm perished, and with one last push through the throat, the orange figured vanished. Gryffon moved slowly and appeared almost bored with the exercise, and he was positive Diamanté was just as bored as he was. One glance at her, though, and he could think she was certain of the opposite.

"Imagine something you hate, Gryffon. You're drifting off already. Focus." Her voice just barely made it to him through the glass, and his only response was a roll of his eyes and his motion to set his feet firmly. His hands balanced the axe steadily between each palm and he exhaled his breath slowly.

Okay . . . Focus, focus, focus . . . think . . . Or don't.

His eyes closed and the world around him stopped. His breath slowed, his heart quickened, his mind began its rearranging of thoughts. Gryffon froze. Hate.

The word - the . . . sensation - the burn of it, the taste of it - sent chills down his spine and no amount of restraint could retain his smirk or the slight tilt - the twitch - of his head as he barely kept himself grounded.

Hate.

He hated so many things. He hated everything . . . He loathed anyone that had spoken to him, anyone to whom he had spoken to. And now, being away from all the districts . . . He didn't have to pretend to be fine.

Something sharp pricked his side, and upon opening his eyes, Gryffon saw the bloodied tip of a sword recoiling from his company. Oh . . . That was perhaps a tad bit cute, but so very annoying. It wasn't exactly a cut . . . It was a scrape. How pathetic.

However, whom the sword served as extension to was a mangled face, one so torn it wasn't deserving of being seen.

An imagined Denim pushed forward again, but Gryffon's feet were faster. He sidestepped the sword, ducked under the older boy's arm, and stuck the battle axe into the Career's side. It sliced right through the bulk, just as it had after the many hacks in the arena.

But the hologram quickly disappeared after Denim was killed and left Gryffon standing, poised to strike again, confused. Twice was not enough. It was not nearly as sufficient as three slices - four - five, even!

"Hey lion-boy . . . "

Gryffon whipped around, stopping short when his breath halted and a suffocating pain severed his breathing. "Hi, baby."

No . . . No, the bitch was dead. He fucking juiced her. No, this was nothing but another fucking tease . . . It wasn't working - it wasn't -

Gryffon gripped the knife and pulled it out of his throat, not even feeling it when it disintegrated from his hand. His other arm flew up and sent the axe through the girl's temple like nothing. If it wasn't for her dying screech, Gryffon wouldn't even have noticed her poofing away.

Before the burn in his skin, of the wound, could settle, Gryffon was forced off his feet, narrowly missing the blade of his own weapon as it dropped and skidded away. A reverberating throb staggered his heart and knocked the wind out of him, crossing his vision for a moment until a second kick hit his side where Denim had cut. Gryffon coughed and rolled over, now adjusting himself to darkness and instinct. What met his multi-colored glare was not something he ever wanted to see again, and when his swaying form registered it he almost - just almost - dropped back down and let it be done with.

Defined jaw, constant scowl, hard green eyes, mindless smirk. Gryffon didn't know who he faced, whether it be his father or a mirror. Either way, he condemned it. Either way, he needed to kill it.

It.

Nor his face in a reflection or the man he idolized was human. They were merely an it.

Gryffon balled his hands into fists and he lunged. Many missed swings were swung and with every go, it was like dancing with a ghost. His throat clenched up, his feet tripped, but his expression never changed. He was but made of stone, though perhaps that's why he moved so heavily.

Once did a punch land on him, and then another, and one more, all the while Gryffon's steady anger rose. And rose . . . And he just couldn't see anymore. His vision edged with red and he tasted the blood that dripped from his cuts, he felt it soak his fingers, and it inched into his clothes. He was covered in it. He was filling the room with it.

He wasn't feeling it enough, though. He knew he wasn't. Not the right person's - not enough of it.

Gryffon jumped up, his feet skidding backward to throw his body forward. His hands encircled its throat and he fell onto its chest, taking the kicks and the punches unfazed until it couldn't breathe any longer and it went limp beneath him.

Done.

Now if only to quench its flame in reality was that easy . . . If only he could realize that in the state he was in.

"I'm so sorry, Gryffon . . . "

He still felt the blood, now seeping from his skin to the ground that pressed against his body. Gryffon couldn't move. He just downright refused to get up.

"Please . . . I'm sorry."

Sorry! But not really. There was no . . . apology in her words. So why should he have one? Why should he create one from a fault so nonexistent . . . He did nothing - nothing! And that made this the fun part.

Everything he was doing - had done - and would do was all on purpose - but all for a reason. A contradiction in itself, and that's all he was.

Gryffon slowly pushed himself up to his feet, just gradually being able to look around for his axe . . . And he looked, and stretched for it. It wasn't there anymore. The axe just wasn't . . .

"Where'd you put it? Where'd it - "

She had it. Her innocent smile and childishly swaying form had it! She took it. Fuck her!

He swiped forward, his fist brushing over her nose as she took a step back. "Gryff', please, just hear me out. Let me explain!" Gryffon hooked his leg around hers and elbowed her in between her shoulders, knocking her smaller body to the floor. "Gryff', I'm not like Dad, Gryff', I promise!"

Liar.

Gryffon dropped onto his knees and grabbed his battle axe back, and yet she still held one . . . Yet she still had one . . . Why did she have one? How could she use it!? No - no, that's not important . . . Kill her. Kill her!

A bright smile flashed, his arms were raised, but she swung first. It hit his leg, it cut his thigh, and it burned - oh how it burned - but he didn't feel it. How could he if that's not what he wanted to feel . . . He wasn't going to be her fool again, that wasn't the role he was given to play.

Gryffon held the shaft tighter and curled in on himself, pulling the axe's head down with him, cutting right through her jaw, tearing at her muscles, detaching her mandible. Oh, her screech, it lasted longer than the first time, and yet was cut far too short. She bled out . . . But it didn't really last. She was just . . . Gone.

No more blood or pain.

It was all gone. But nothing was accomplished. He just felt bare. He still yearned for all he claimed. But there was nothing. He gotnothing from what he did!

"That's more like it, Eleven," a smoother, a less familiar voice cooed. "Didn't that work much better?"

He clenched his jaw together, curled his fingers around the very end of the shaft, and flicked his arm to the side, letting the weapon launch toward the door where Diamanté stood. A light tchshh indicated the door's closing just as the axe collided with the clear wall.

Diamanté couldn't begin to imagine the tease she just created . . . Unless she knew, unless she could guess . . .

Hah. Ha! She was a fucking tease. She knew what he would do. She knew what he would want to do, but then she wouldn't let him kill her when the trick didn't work. Oh, the smart fucking . . .

"Bitch!" Gryffon swore, "Don't fucking play me like this, get in here!" But he couldn't hurt her, right? That would be wrong. Wrong. It would be wrong to harm her because she was actually still alive and he would get in trouble. He would get Stephen in trouble and he just couldn't . . . Couldn't he just - No. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I - "

tchshh

"I think I can help you with your distraction, Eleven." She didn't sound affected. Instead, she sounded almost affectionate. He couldn't find it in him to shrug her away, so he just nodded and let her help him up. Not a friend . . . She wasn't a friend, wasn't just an acquaintance. She could be a . . . . a support, a crutch for him. "C'mon, you'll be fine."