Just another reaping. Another dreadful year of waiting and watching and doing nothing. Except this time, he sat beside Annabelle. Waiting and doing nothing beside her. And that was so much worse than just absently gazing out into the crowd on his own.
He couldn't speak due to the reaping going on with Vinyel just starting toward the girl's bowl; he couldn't whine because the man was just opening the envelope; he couldn't roll his eyes because now the name was being read. Have fun dying, was Gryffon's response to the girl going up on stage and shaking Vinyel's hand. Samantha something was her name. He didn't give a fuck either way.
The boy was young. Thirteen, at most, but very small in stature. Gryffon was sure Stephen was taller than him height, but he shrugged the thought out of his head. The kid obsessed with making flower crowns for other people wasn't there yet, and wouldn't be for another two years. Gryffon didn't need to worry . . . Not that he would, anyway, but . . .
Shaking his head, Gryffon waited for Vinyel's signal to stand up, and the moment he did, he was practically escorted into the Justice Building with the tributes. "An hour," he announced gruffly. The kids hesitated a second in front of him before Vinyel waved them off with an ever-mute Annabelle beside him. The woman refused to look at either man, and kept her eyes solely on the ground or on the tributes, but never on the two she worked and lived with for the past however many years of her life.
He didn't question it, though. He tried not to care. Annabelle probably just didn't have any work that week and moved up any jobs she had throughout the month so she could come. Maybe she was bored, maybe she wanted a break. Maybe she missed watching her kids die. Whatever it was, as long as she didn't bother him, Gryffon didn't care.
They headed toward the back of the Justice Building and one of the two cars outside took them toward the train station a couple of miles off. The tractors lay in wait out in the orchards, and the streets were busy with people and Peacekeepers. The long grasses and trees were alive with bug and birdsong, but there were no familiar hymns or lullabies being sung by the people that normally worked there outside Games-time.
"This sucks the life out of our district," he heard Annabelle sigh under her breath, to which he just scoffed and rolled his eyes. Sucked life out of the district? It was the most lively of the districts - 11, 7, 4, and maybe 9 from what he had seen. Everywhere else was nothing but industry. Hell if the Games took life out of the place. It just gave people a break.
Gryffon was the first to hop out of the car and mount the train when they reached it. He ignored the Peacekeepers who stood guard there, and disregarded the slight tilt of their heads as he crossed between them. Same old routine.
The tributes arrived about an hour later, and Annabelle invited them to go sit, eat, and then they could watch the recaps together if the kids would like. Which they did. They barely acknowledged Gryffon, and he returned the manner. They were unimportant to him, as was every other child that was to get reaped in the following years.
By the time they reached the next district, the tributes were babbling their heads off, asking every question they could ask in between bites of suddenly rich food. And by the time they passed the last district, picked up the last pair of lucky children, and the recaps started, Gryffon was sick of hearing their voices. Tapping his fingers over the table, he pushed himself up. "Have fun," Gryffon mused. In the same beat, Vinyel placed his hand over his arm as if to beckon him to stay, but the younger man just shrugged away and maneuvered around the table to the next car.
"Mute," Gryffon greeted curtly as he passed the Avox who stood at the door as he crossed over, and he barely glanced at the Peacekeeper when he reached the compartment car. He wasn't relatively tired, but he had no business staying with the tributes. Usually he could chat with them, usually ridicule their hope, crush their dreams early, but with Annabelle there he couldn't do any of that without getting reprimanded.
He glanced down at his hand, pulling out the small vial he had in his pocket. The pills sucked, made him unable to wake up easily when he needed to or wanted. But this would probably be the only night he'd even be willing to get a good amount of sleep, and that wouldn't happen without the damned thing . . . So, might as well.
Sleeping at least beat the boredom of staring at the window or watching the recaps.
His head pulsed, colors exploded behind his lids, and he felt trapped inside some sort of kaleidoscope. Gryffon blinked his eyes open to the walls, all of which seemed to be dancing about the room: expanding, contracting, reaching for him only to recoil again with a loud, sizzling hiss. He ran a hand through his hair and lowered his feet to the wooden floor, but couldn't quite feel it . . . The ground was bubbling and it seemed to expel his very presence.
"You can't just attack him like that!"
"I'm his father, I can do whatever the hell I please."
"Alick, please - "
The walls seemed to crack and something like an acid tendril seemed to whip out at the interruption of the voice and lick at Gryffon, making him jump and caused his arms and back to sting. He pulled his legs up to the bed, crossing them with the surprising ease of a child, and continued to listen. He had heard these voices - tones - words - before, he knew he did.
But that all felt like a distant dream, one that was just as silent and obscure as the stillness of the moment.
Forever seemed to go by before someone spoke up again, but to hear, Gryffon had to lean in closer to the wall. Pressing his head against the coolness of the surface, he immediately tensed and froze in place. "I can easily ship you off to serve Snow if you keep this up. You are nothing more but a tramp, okay? A dirty whore, and he'll buy it. If I were you, I'd fucking listen."
Struggling, Gryffon sucked in a deep breath and pushed against what he thought to be his bed, but it was now too hard to be the mattress. Looking around, finally released of his static imprisonment, he noticed how he was facing a long wooden door: his parents' room. Oh no oh no oh no . . . He wasn't supposed to be there evesdropping. Daddy didn't like it. Oh no, oh god, he was dead. He was as good as dead.
No, no, no, no . . . Gryffon scrambled backward with the panic of a young boy with a heavy, warm liquid dripping down his cheeks. Daddy didn't like to see him cry, either. Daddy yelled at him every single time. Oh no . . . With yet another shuddering gasp, he collected himself and started to get up when his head hit something else, forcing him back onto his knees. No. Oh no. Oh no. Please, no . . .
He turned his head back cautiously, slowly. A wicked grin first met his eyes, then the scowl. The permanent glare led him to slide back and gradually get to his feet. "I'm sorry, Daddy. I'm, I'm - "
The smile widened, and widened, and widened - spreading across the man's face, stretching from ear to ear, splitting his skull.
I didn't mean to, Daddy! I promise, I promise! Leave me alone!
Darkness. Everything went quiet and everything lost its color. All but those teeth, those teeth that quickly became fangs, all spread in that disturbing, cat-like smile. Mocking. It was a mocking sort of comforting. It was telling him to be calm, to smile and cheer up, but it was aiming to tear his throat out. It wanted to claw through his body and strip his skin for it to eat later. And no . . . No, he couldn't let that happen!
Daddy, no, I'm sorry! I promise I'll be good!
The smile followed him back; it floated in front of him, chuckling, opening and closing. It grew wider. And wider. It was big enough to swallow him whole. To swallow the house whole. Oh god, it had already eaten his Momma, he was sure of it!
Gryffon gasped suddenly, his blood ran cold, and he stopped in place. Something was on his shoulder. It was freezing, furry, but thin like a finger. Like . . . Like many fingers.
Cold . . . It was so cold . . . It hurt.
Gryffon let out a yelp, but instead of pulling away, he only fell. Hands and knees to the ground, he screamed, gripping the hardwood floor with all his might as if he could dig his way out, but the pain didn't stop. It burned. It was burning through his skin. It reached his collarbone, tore out his shoulder blades. It was melting his skin off. He was dying. He was going to die. That was it.
He lashed out, aiming to grip the void that was his father's legs without much hope. He touched something. It was cold, too, smooth, thick. It felt like a bone, like one lathered in blood without the warmth of it. His arm swung on its own accord and released what it held. Seconds after, the sound of something shattering startled him and made him jump. It landed him on his back with a loud thud, one that flung his eyes open and rendered him breathless and mindless.
Dark. It was too dark. Way too dark. Oh god, he was still stuck there. No matter what he did - no matter what he said, it was always too fucking dark! Goddamnit. He said he'd be good. He said he wouldn't do it again. Why didn't Daddy ever -
"Gryffon?"
A pair of hands placed themselves over his shoulder, and he froze again. Those hands were warm. They were thicker and not furry. The fingers didn't remind him of a bug. "Gryffon, get up. Breathe." The same hands pushed against his arm as if to pick him up, and it took him a moment to agree and move to propel himself to sit with his hands. "Are you okay?"
Looking to the side, the man's eyes caught the curly hair of a horridly bright shade of green and the yellow skin that complimented the color. A familiar face without the wretched smile or tone of a monster or the scowl that followed Gryffon to the mirror constantly. "What happened?" . . .
Vinyel. Uhg. Fucking god.
He shoved the man aside and got onto his feet, stretching his arms up over his head. "Nothing. Mind your own damn business." He raised a brow at the Avox on the other side of the room, getting up with a bag in her hands. She met his gaze for a moment before ducking her head and moving out of the compartment. "The hell was she doing in here?"
"You threw a bottle, you wasteful mound of a person," the escort replied grumpily. "In your sleep, might I add. What were you dreaming?"
"I already told you to mind your fucking business," Gryffon snapped, taking the step it took to get around the older man. "Get out." Without looking back, he stepped into the bathroom and clicked the button for the door to close. Vinyel probably babbled on about something else, but the Victor didn't hear. His ears still rang, his face still moist, though just by feeling his cheeks Gryffon could tell it was more likely he was flustered with anger than tears.
And for him to actually move in his sleep? Usually the nightmares just hit him and woke him up. He never threw anything before, never fell off the fucking bed. He couldn't even blame the Avoxes for not removing the bottle from his room as soon as he fell asleep because he had told them time and time again to leave him alone and not mess with anything he didn't tell them to. Even his clothes they had stop setting out because of how many times he dismissed their aid.
Shaking his head, Gryffon turned the sink on and stared at the running water for a few moments. He wasn't afraid of Alick anymore. Had stopped being so almost a decade ago. Why was he still dreaming of the man? . .
Vinyel can't even leave me alone about it, either. He's not gonna drop it, he scoffed. Gryffon cupped his hands under the water and splashed it over his face, holding his palms to his eyes for a few seconds to wake him up. The cold water did nothing, though. It dripped over his shoulders, his chest, even managed to trickle down his back, but it didn't soothe him. If anything, it only made Gryffon feel like he was one inch closer to drowning.
Pulling his hands away from his face, he drew up more water but stopped in midair. His reflection barely showed through the liquid in his palms; it appeared murky, brown . . . Red? Little figures looked as if they swam about there, and somewhere in it, deep within the surface of the water, was a clock. Tick, tick, ticking.
"Very funny," he chuckled as he closed his eyes and splashed the water onto his face again, this time retreating his hands much faster than before. "You're awake, Gryffon. Act like it."
Minutes later, he was escorted from the train alongside his tributes and into the Remake Centre. He didn't speak a word to the kids, barely even looked at them. He knew they were going to die and they knew he didn't believe in them. There was nothing to say.
Vinyel sent them off to their prep teams and the two headed off to the lower floor of the Training Centre where mentors and escorts alike had a few hours to kill. Food, drinks, catching up on the year that went by; it's what everyone did.
Gryffon stuck to himself this time. Didn't speak, didn't go and bother anyone. He ate, drank, watched everyone melt away, walked around at some point, avoiding whoever he could avoid. He caught a flash of red once, and curiosity told his eyes to look for the source; only Rose heading toward the elevators, though. Nothing important . . . And he couldn't quite see Emily. At some point, Vinyel stopped by, said a word or two, placed his third drink in front of him
Gryffon glanced upward at a movement he caught from the corner of his eyes, and had to keep from getting up and leaving when the body sat in front of him. Of course she'd come bother him . . . Of course. Barely appeared during the train ride, hadn't spoken a word to him since before they left, and now she wanted to talk? Of fucking course.
"What was with that fit last night?"
"Go bitch to Vinyel, Anna, I don't want to hear your bullshit," he scoffed, sinking back into his side of the booth. "Why'd you come?" The woman stared at him with a narrowed look, her expression hard and judgemental. It was like she was waiting for a forever to pass to answer him all while trying to turn him into stone.
With a deep sigh, she finally went on, "Vinyel says you haven't done your job at all. Figured I'd come supervise before anyone points it out." Gryffon cocked a brow, his scowl quickly curving into a smirk.
People were always pointing it out, but no one really cared. No one important, anyway. But she was scared of the possibility of officials finding out. Because she was afraid of everything. She needed to be perfect or she had to prove everyone else wrong. "You either start doing what you're supposed to, or I'm coming every - "
"What are you? My mother?" he chuckled. How many times had he said that to her already? Did she not get the message yet? "Snow's nose is poking around other people's business for the time being; you and I are fine." Gryffon tapped the rim of his glass before glancing up at the woman who now had her lips pursed. "No one cares about Eleven, Annabelle."
"I do, okay? You're busy seducing poor girls and being an ass to the other mentors, but these kids want to go back home, Gryffon. It's fine for you to come, to break a normal district-to-Capitol routine to watch children kill each other, but you have to do something to help the kids you'll watch die." She spoke rapidly, but quietly without moving her lips too much, and her composure remained kept. "Or I will."
"Then fucking do," he growled, motioning toward where Vinyel stood with the stylists. "I'm not stopping you. I have never stopped you. You told me to come and do my job. If you want to do it differently, be my guest." Did she expect him to promise he'd do his job and beg for her to stay home? He wasn't going to whine to her and plead. He'd do whatever the hell he wanted, and if she wanted to change that, then she could go right ahead, rearrange her own schedule, and fucking do it the way she wanted. "All you have to pin against me is that I don't do my job; find a new blame, I'm tired of this lecture."
Her worries didn't concern him at all at that point, and he literally had nothing to do with them anymore. It was five years since he won, him not doing his job wasn't news anymore.
Gryffon caught Annabelle's eyes flashing away from him for a moment, and following her line of sight, Gryffon managed to see Phox quickly avert his eyes with the redhead leaving his side to go toward the elevators. Where was the girl going? And was Annabelle seriously taking orders from 8's mentor?
"Gryffon, what are you looking at?"
He huffed out an exaggerated sigh at the older Victor's question and pushed himself up with his drink in hand, "The empty space next to Vinyel that you should be standing in to greet the kids."
He was tired. Had been tired all day. The one time he got to sleep, he woke up to colors and old condemnations ringing in his head all day only to listen to Annabelle's old bitching. "Go do your job, Oh Mentor Goddess. Maybe I'll learn a thing or two."
Ignoring her next words, he distanced himself from the table and the woman, and headed toward another set of elevators. Gryffon stepped inside when it dinged open and, barely sparing a glance over his shoulder, headed up to the eleventh floor.
