Gryffon's hand went flying forward, the heavy blade in his hands colliding with the head of a hologram. Whipping around, the young tribute threw a punch and followed up with another slice. His eyes were narrowed and in focus, his posture was stiff but flexible, his expression voided, his arms robotic. There was no thought, or so he wished. There was no emotion, or so he imagined. Everything that played behind his eyes drove him on in the session. The glances and the questions, he ignored. He was a loser kid from a loser district playing with Career property. Good for them, their amusement. He didn't give a shit.

The boy, with a grunt, took half a step forward, shifted his weight, and swerved to the side, hitting another hologram in the chest, sending the orange cubes of light flying all over the place. The session ended and the lights around him died down, but that didn't discourage the heated boy. He was angry. And he wanted to perfect at least this. Gryffon typed in another simulation and smirked as he was surrounded by six bodies. If they were real, he had a feeling he would never be able to take them all on his own. But this was just practice. Just a way to see how badly he failed or how amazingly he succeeded. Either way produced progress, and that's what he wanted.

Two figures jumped toward him, one thrusting a staff his way and the other had a spear. Gryffon swung his axe at the one with a short staff, cutting its arm off before behaving it without a second thought. Using the momentum of that half turn, he slid to he side and took out the hologram with a spear a moment before one of the bodies jumped at him from the wall platform. Ducking, Gryffon cut open its stomach only to feel the sharp sting of something between his shoulder blades. Whipping around, he narrowly missed a second arrow. Pushing aside his adrenaline-induced fear, Gryffon ran forward and killed the hologram. Just as he was about to face the last two, the session ended abruptly and a name was called out: "Holly Sader."

He let the axe fall at his side, his muscles burning. His gaze drifted over to he one-way window that separated the training room from the lunchroom and narrowed his eyes. They didn't get it . . . None of them did.

* * *

His amber gaze fitfully flicked over to the table the Careers had taken over. The few mentors that had come down sat on the table behind them, and the rest of the tributes were scattered around the remaining tables, mostly seated beside their district partner, all finishing up lunch to wait for the private sessions.

"They're all so comfortable with each other," Jay commented under her breath as she sat down beside him, a small slice of Eleven's signature apple pie on her plate. "They're going to kill us. Did you see them in training?" The first two days of training had passed in almost a blur, Gryffon couldn't say he saw them; and the private sessions were in a couple of hours.

Gryffon looked up as the pair from 9 stood and started out of the room together. A few of the Careers let out whoops and cat-calls. "The kids from Four weren't all that hot," Gryffon suggested as they were the youngest pair of Careers the Games had in a while. "You don't need to be all doom and gloom all the time. Relax, we'll pull through - I've told you this." A quiet sigh escaped his lips as he tore his gaze away from the laughing Careers to his friend. "Relax for me, okay?" Her response was an indignant scoff and a quick glance to the mentor's table; and as quick as her eyes had gone over, she stood.

"You can have it. I didn't touch it," she said dryly, referring to the pie on her plate before turning on her heels. Completely avoiding his gaze, Jay walked toward the door, tightening her ponytail.

"Aww, sweetheart, boyfriend make you mad?" Sapphire shouted from her place at the table, but unlike the pair from 9, Jay shuffled out seemingly unaffected. "Oh, well - how boring."

Gryffon caught himself glaring at the pretty Career when her bright eyes met his, a dangerous smirk matching the glint in her glare. A small hand rested on the blonde that moment, and just as she was about to say something, Sapphire thought against it and looked away. The owner of the hand started toward Gryffon, leaving Sapphire to gawk in place and roll her eyes, embarrassed, as the other Careers shot sneers at her.

"Hey, Eleven." The girl, definitely no older than nineteen, if even that, settled herself beside Gryffon, her back to the table top. "You okay?" The male tribute scoffed and looked up - rather, down - at her, a sudden familiarity hitting him.

"Yeah, just kinda tired . . . And I guess annoyed," he answered coolly. "Shouldn't you be tending to your own district?"

"They're irritating," her tone was smooth and childish, emphasizing the cute smile that formed on her face. "Plus, you looked like you could use some company. And some sleep, might I add."

"Why would you care about me, exactly?" Gryffon tried to keep his gaze away from her intimidating green glare, dare he admit she scared him. The mentor gave a light-hearted laugh at his question and eased one leg over the bench, leaning toward him slightly.

"You're cute," she mused her answer, giggling. "Maybe I care more for you than my own tributes?" Gryffon rolled his eyes and glanced at her quickly before averting his gaze again. She didn't answer his question . . .

"And why would that be?"

"I don't know; maybe you'll be able to tell me yourself when you get back." A smirk broke her sweet-looking smile and a sort of fire entered her eyes. "What's my name, sweetheart?"

Gryffon blinked at her first comment . . . Though the only thought that followed was, What a stupid question . . . "Diamanté Adalina, won three years ago, victor and mentor of One . . . Nineteen-years old now?"

"Correct," she smiled. "Who else do you know?" He faintly wondered why she cared if he paid attention to any of the other victors, but he answered nonetheless.

"Trace Brun, Four's victor; Annabelle Miranda, Eleven's victor, Treyshaun Carter of Ten; Kella Fairbane of Three . . . Abir Bernon from Eight . . . To list a few, anyway . . . "

"Oh, you know more than I expected," the dark redhead purred, letting out another light laugh. She noted that he kept track of some of the ones who made the biggest impacts - who were still alive.

"Why?" Gryffon growled rather coldly, turning his eyes back toward the young mentor. "Why do you give a shit?"

"Because why not give a shit? I wanted to know, and that's reason enough." Diamanté tilted her head to the side a bit, insisting on keeping her stare steady on his face. "Why are you trying so hard to ignore me or chase me away? I could help you, you know."

A frustrated sigh left him, and Gryffon blinked once. "Because I don't see why I should bother with you."

"Same reason you bother with your little girlfriend, Gryff'." She watched his expression go from cold to hesitant, and as that happened, her cruel little smile grew.

"She's not my freaking girlfriend, and don't call me that." With that snappy and somewhat evasive note, Gryffon got to his feet and made a point not to look at the victor. Though the fiery red ringlets that dropped down to the center of her back and those emerald-like eyes that popped from behind the black eyeliner she wore were hard to ignore. And God, the rest of her. Fitting black tank top, short black jeans shorts with a chain belt, black yet transparent leggings, and black army boots - all it did was outline her body for others to notice her, as well as make her look unnecessarily demon-like.

"Oh, if that wasn't the case you wouldn't try so hard to please her pretty little face," she continued, totally unfazed by his cold tone. "You're going to pretend you care for that cute little girl 'till the moment you realize she doesn't, and never will, give a fuck about you." The redhead stood up, and though she barely reached Gryffon's shoulder in height, he felt like flinching away from her.

He swallowed another sigh and as the jeers came from the Careers when he turned away from the One victor, Gryffon ignored them and started away from the curly redhead. "Good luck, Eleven." To him, he thought as he let the door close behind him, her tone didn't sound as sarcastic as he thought it would. Did she really have hope in an outer district's skill? That was a comical thought; to even consider a former Career and current victor would think like that. Especially her: who volunteered at sixteen, won, and came out fairly sane-looking. Whatever she-beast she was hiding behind those green eyes of hers was a mystery to Gryffon, and became even more obscured every time he saw her smile.

Manipulation, he thought, that's how she won. Made friends with all the Careers, allied the youngest, remained silent when she killed. The whip had been her favorite weapon. If she didn't lash someone to death, she would behead her rivals when she got the chance, unless they were younger than her; then she toyed with them, covering them with gashes before finally slitting their throats, or left them to bleed to death. The arena hadn't exactly helped her victims either by becoming an active volcano near the end of her Games.

Gryffon shook his head. He shouldn't trust Diamanté to help him; she was a lot more unstable than she looked, which would explain the lack of regret when she left the arena. But she had won, and like any other victor, knew how to get out of the arena alive.

* * *

He made one hasty, maybe inaccurate, observation, "But she's a hell of a bitch." Gryffon stepped out of the glass room and glared down at his aching hands. He was exhausted, to say the least. He had hardly slept in the three days they were there, and when he did sleep, it was restless and full of weird colors and shapes and faces, distorting his peace and corrupting his dreams. When he was awake, he was going from training to taking a sip of water here and there. Gryffon had maybe touched upon how to make snares for a few minutes the first day, but otherwise, had done nothing but try to perfect his skill with an axe. He learned that every swing was similar to throwing a punch, but you just needed a different force and angle behind it. It was easy to learn, but he was still having difficulties in controlling his strength and footing. But he was trying. And it had to pay off, otherwise he was screwed.

Jay had taken care of the survival skills, already knowing that any sort of combat with weapons of any kind - melee or body - wouldn't settle well with her. She was good at running, hiding, climbing, plants, how to make fires. She was mediocre at first aid, but anyone could figure out how to patch a wound or set a leg or arm, or so he thought. She had been acting weird, though. Had been resetting certain ideas in his mind. All she did was misunderstand and misinterpret, and she would refuse any explanations. She had looked so pissy when she saw Annabelle leave his room only partially clothed, but nothing had happened - obviously. She hadn't even bothered to talk to him until that morning, and even then their harmless little race from their floor to the lunch room hadn't kept the casualness for long; Jay quickly abandoned it to be bitter. "It was just so much easier before," he observed, running a hand through his messy array of locks. "But things were more innocent then, too . . . "

* * *

Bet you can't catch me," he growled as he stared into her challenging glare.

"Oh?" Her lips curled into a grin at the same time as her hands bent over the table's edge, ready to push herself off. "Bet I can. Bet I can even win."

"What do I get when I win?" He watched as she cocked her head a bit, and after a second or two, only a slight shrug answered his arrogant question."Wanna decide later?" Slowly her head bobbed in a small nod . . . Good enough for him. "Okay - ready . . . Set . . . "

"Go!" She shot off the table, and though she didn't bother looking back, she could hear the chair falling over, as well as the command from Gryffon's mother to pick it up. Her shorter, eleven-year old legs pounded down the stairs, and though she could hear his feet coming down right behind her, she knew she was going to win this one. "You can't catch me!" she laughed, leaping off the last four steps. Her feet slipped on the carpet, but using the wall to keep her balance, she managed to dash toward the door and flung it open, revealing the long stretch of grass that surrounded a concrete path on both sides.

"Move it, Little Bird," he laughed, pushing past her.

"Hey!" Her breath caught in her throat, but she had to win this time - she wasn't going to lose to him again a third time.

He always won, though. He always won the races - she figured it was because he had always been so much taller, always had the longer legs. But maybe not.

"How about just a favor?" he suggested with a smug smile, stretching his legs out on the grass.

"Uhg, fine," she huffed, dropping back down onto the green stems. "Fair enough . . . Let's rest now, though."

* * *

"Gryffon Sauntor."

He looked up at the doors as they parted, revealing a room that connected to the training room; the rooms were identical, but one had holograms and the other didn't. Gryffon took in a breath and started forward, his feet taking him to stand in front of his audience confidently. "Gryffon Sauntor, District Eleven," he introduced. No one so much as looked at him. They carried on their merry way and continued eating and drinking and talking. "Gryffon. Sauntor." he repeated a bit louder, catching the attention of at least a couple of the men. Good, at least that was something.

He turned toward the axes in an almost threatening, robotic fashion as if he had been doing this for years. His right set of fingers curled around two slim shafts while the left hand picked up the sturdier battle axe. The training dummies were set up closer to him, but the wall targets, smaller targets with a few slices already across them, were farther and more of a challenge. He would try them. He had to get it right.

* * *

"Fight session: Axe - commence!"

The orange body of a holographic image appeared in front of him, and as the lights crisscrossed around him, Gryffon outlined his focus strictly on the 'person'. They held nothing but a sword, but he figured that would only add to his already difficult-challenge. He sighed and gripped the shaft of the black weapon, his glare hardening when the body surged forward.

Gryffon closed his eyes for a second, trying to picture something more. Something to trigger . . . Not just determination, that would get him killed . . . He sighed, opened his eyes, and smirked. The Training Center turned to a blank, leaf-covered clearing with thirty-feet high fences covering two sides. Beyond the fence lay what Gryffon had always assumed to be a charred field and behind him was the abandoned orchard. The Victor's Tour would be later that day, and everyone was off work; it was one of the few cold days Eleven got throughout the year, but despite the unusual chill, his father had taken advantage of it and the silence of the few moments before dawn.

A two-year-old Stephen stood in front of Gryffon with curious, wide eyes, their father a few feet in front of them with a blank smile on his face. "What do you do now?" Gryffon side-stepped the hologram, reflexively slamming his elbow against the person's head, the orange cubes moving out of the way to show he had hit. His other hand swung over and though the movement was clumsy, the axe hit the center of the target's back, splitting the hologram down the middle.

"And now?"

"Move out of the way," he muttered under his breath, jumping back before the hologram could retaliate. The lights by his legs rearranged, and as he glanced over his shoulder, he saw another of the bodies had appeared. He rolled his eyes and moved his position so he stood facing the Gauntlet, watching both holograms. The one he had hit staggered back a bit, but seemed to recover and lunged again. Gryffon stepped back, narrowly missing a hit to the head by an orange-glowing dagger. "Fuck . . . " He felt his heart sink and his mind swirl. How was he supposed to take out two people at the same -

He felt a quick static pain rush up his arm as the fake sword sliced across his forearm, leaving a trail of orange light on his skin. With that one bit of hesitation, two more strikes of pain hit his shoulder, then chest. Ah, he'd be screwed if these were real people and weapons . . .

* * *

The first axe flew out of his hand in an almost perfect swerve toward a lower, but farther, bull's eye, hitting it dead center. If he had aimed for it, it couldn't have landed any better. Gryffon charged forward, using his left hand to remove a few mannequin arms before slamming the battle axe's head into the target, slicing right through to where the metal hit the wall and vibrated back up his arm; but using the impact to jump back more smoothly, Gryffon let the second throwing axe launch out of his hand toward another mannequin, however, he missed completely and, instead, hit the collection of knives and sent a good bunch clattering onto the hard floor.

A few drunken chortles and laughs came from the elevated seats the Gamemakers sat in, and though the noise had caught the attention of a few more, Gryffon was merely dismissed with a lazy flick of a wrist. Too humiliated to look at the clock and too angry to argue to say he was sure he had more time, Gryffon pivoted toward the exit and ignored the Avoxes standing as guides there, pushing one or two out of the way to give him easier access to the elevator on the other side of the hallway.

"Always," he growled, passing a hand through his hair. The trip had started out so well . . . A great parade, a somewhat-not-really-but-whatever-successful first day of training. Yesterday hadn't been too bad, either . . . But then now. Now, because of the two people he cared most about, he was had failed the one thing that would have sold him to the Capitol.