The path to the white house was perhaps the most familiar to him. Grass and trees in every direction, a light breeze and the smell of spring with each blow. The only differences lay in the darkness of the setting and the purpose he was there for.

Gryffon rounded a short grey hedge and stared at the clearing that led to the wooden door. The grass that surrounded the house was a bright, almost blue color, quite different than the smokey blades in the rest of the arena. It gave the house a sort of fairytale air, it made the cutely-structured building appear inviting. Gryffon almost, just almost, found himself smiling at the innocence of the clearing. He almost wanted to abandon everything he held and go explore for fun - but he refused to cave into that urge again.

Gryffon glanced around quickly, scanning the single wall he could see from the house. There was one window, small compared to the rest of the building, located near the top. He could swear he saw the figure of a body disappear from its presence after spotting him as well as the faint trill of a whistle, but Gryffon let himself think he imagined it as he walked. Before he even reached the door, the window appeared to disappear behind the steepness of the wall and the glass was hidden by the black sill when he tried to look up at it.

With a slight shake of his head and a refocusing on his target, Gryffon fixated his glare on the knob and felt a rush go through his body. He had just been kidding until then. He had been surviving off of luck. Now he just wanted to reach the point where he could leave the arena.

Gryffon eyed the door and without much hesitation, he reached for the bronze knob and turned it, expecting a click or a clonk to announce its opening. But nothing.

Just mere silence.

Now that he thought of it, everything was quiet. He looked over his shoulder at the trees, and though their dark leaves swayed and rolled in the wind, Gryffon could hear nothing of the breeze, and he suddenly felt like he was in a different world, a different dimension.

One where everything was bright and happy, not creepy, not enchanting, just childish.

And he loved the feeling - this feeling that made him want to turn this into a game!

After all, that's all it was, right? A game of death? He asked to take part, and now he might as well play the obligation.

Gryffon first pushed the door and found it didn't move until he pulled. There was no squeak, no squeal or cry as the wood opened and allowed access into the house. At first entrance, everything seemed dark and he was blind, like he had been in the beginning of the Games where he just faintly recalled having entered another building of sorts.

A castle of some kind?

In any case, all he knew was he didn't want to experience that again. He didn't want that same feeling - all those same fears, those same sensations. Gryffon just simply wanted some sort of access upward. He wanted to search. Because he was almost certain the Careers wouldn't have gone farther than this house. And where they were, Jay probably was, too. Then one more person. There was one person left, one person that would serve as an obstacle after everyone else was dead . . . But Gryffon could deal with them.

Everyone else? Just the Ones . . . he unconvincingly reminded himself as the door closed behind him, still not giving away any sound. The moment it shut, dim, fluorescent lights flickered on and outlined the blocks that Gryffon could only assume were the stairs.

Each level reached higher than he did at his five-foot-eleven height, appearing ten times larger than they generally were in reality. But what could Gryffon do to argue? Absolutely nothing.

Lugging the axe over one shoulder, Gryffon jumped and pulled himself up with his legs and his free arm, finding this single-ledge climbing incredibly similar to the climbs he had to do back at home when he was younger before he outweighed and outgrew the qualified numbers that allowed him to go too high in the smaller trees. This trek to the top of the stairs should be nothing for him, it would just take up more time, but he had those minutes available. He knew that, or he hoped he did, and just didn't question it.

However, Gryffon felt the ache by the time he reached the fifth step and stopped for a moment, hating the burning pain in his side. His muscles were already tense from the climbing, but it was the area around his ribcage that hurt. Every strain pulled the skin and muscle there, gradually reopening the wound the cat had inflicted earlier on. To give up now would be pointless, though. It'd just be downright stupid when he knew he could, at the very least, reach the top. The tribute swallowed once and held his breath, slowly blowing it out as he pulled himself onto the next step. Switching hands with the axe, Gryffon flung himself over one more wooden ledge.

Chest heaving, he reached for the next one, but felt the floor cave beneath him. A loud gasp escaped his lips and his eyes were barely given the time to shut before his chest hit an inclined surface and the air was knocked out of him and his face was reminded of its new scars when the side of his head collided with the ground.

Gryffon panted in a breath, trying to find the force in his lungs to inhale and exhale again. What the fuck . . . What the actual . . . The tribute coughed and clenched his fingers, feeling the axe's shaft between his hands. Looking toward it, he saw the head of it had been slammed into wood and kept him from slipping back toward the door. Thank god for instincts . . .

He pushed out the little breath he had and pulled himself up, taking care to keep the axe lodged into the ground. Okay, so now he had to scale up the ramp. Damned Gamemakers - he had been so close to the top, too! Gryffon shook his head and pulled his knees up and planted the balls of his feet on the ground and tried his best to clutch onto the wood with one hand as he attempted to find some sort of balance. Gryffon inched the axe out of the ground, and with a wobbling balance, he pushed himself forward and sank the metal head into the wood again, allowing himself to climb a foot or two more with an uncertain footing.

This was going to take far too long . . .

With a groan, the ground shook again and he was jerked forward, falling onto his side as the last step formed beneath him again and sent him rolling toward the wall of the last climb. Blowing his hair out of his face, Gryffon got back to his feet, ignored the aching and bleeding on his side and face and, after pulling his axe from the ground, jumped for the last ledge and finally stood on a flat surface.

It felt slippery under his feet, slippery and cold. He didn't recognize the material, but it was shiny and the black and white splotches reflected his standing figure, as well as the flickering light from the room. Gryffon glanced around and saw the surface go around the walls in a square, edging along the corners like a counter. Along this counter sat a microwave at least ten times larger than one he was used to, an enlarged blender another corner away, huge cookbooks sat beside that, and by the wall he stood by was a stove just barely sizzling with the sound of gas. In the middle of the white-tiled floor was a rectangular island that carried giant fruitbasket, and across from that was a table set horizontally across the ground with four chairs, four plates, and the utensils placed properly beside each plate. Beside the table and the blender-corner rose a door that probably led to a bedroom, or a bathroom perhaps, or maybe even a living room.

Everything was, however, built to be larger than reality. It was all ten-plus feet times the normal. Strangely, that hardly affected Gryffon. It would just make it harder to find the Careers, but he would manage somehow. He would have to, and if he was lucky, the Careers would find him.

He took a step forward, trying to arrange his footing so he wouldn't slip and slide along the surface, and he kept going until he reached the stove. Its surface was mostly a dark grey with what looked like green or dark blue dots over it, and outlining what would be the source of the fire if it were to turn on were white lines that encased a squarish area. The quiet popping sounds that came from it startled Gryffon and made him want to stay right where he was, but he knew he wouldn't be able to do that.

Forced breath in, forced breath out, and he placed his foot over the warm surface. As he walked, Gryffon noticed he left red footprints in the areas he lingered over and left lighter colored ones when he just kept moving. They seemed so insignificant with such a large ground as the steps' backdrop, like they were nothing more but dirty marks over such a beautiful surface, tainting the perfect color and makeup of it.

Like us here . . . We don't belong here . . .

The floor beneath his foot grew hotter and hotter, and within the second, Gryffon jumped away from it, barely registering the pain on his soles until he tried to place the foot down again and the skin was red and tender and stung at the touch. Damn thing . . . He left a fire-red mark in the place he had been standing, and now he was decorating another point of the stove with a deep orange hue that reminded him to move again and not burn his other foot, too. Keep yourself in line, Gryffon scolded, quickening his pace as he got back in line with the path he had been taking.

"Crap!"

Gryffon's eyes narrowed at the abrupt comment just as his feet collided with the polished and cool surface again. He scanned every corner, every cabinet door that hung over the counter, every inch of the place until his eyes found the fur-tipped tail of a lion suit and the bare legs that flailed as they struggled to keep the rest of the body in place.

The tribute chuckled and twisted the axe in his hand, glaring at the body, slowly finding the desperate hands clutching onto a tattered jump rope that was just barely holding itself together around the knob of a cabinet. "Caught yourself in quite a bind, don't you think?" Gryffon called out, shattering the silence that had once again fallen aside the grunts and huffs of the boy.

The other tribute froze for a moment until he was able to tilt his head to the side, spotting Gryffon's ragged and smirking figure walking right toward him. It was clear the setting of his jaw and the tightening of his hands expressed his fear, at least that's how Gryffon decided to take it. "Come down and you won't have to struggle anymore."

Yeah, but he would also get his life torn from him, that much Gryffon would make sure of.

"C'mon c'mon c'mon," the boy mumbled, talking to himself as he tried to claw his way back up the rope. "Please . . . Please no - shoot!" The rope undid itself and the threads released their hold on each other, sending the tribute toppling onto the counter with a loud thud! that surprisingly didn't crack his skull open.

"That wasn't too hard, now was it?" Gryffon drawled, just about twenty feet from the boy who he assumed to be just a year or two older than him. The boy's face was boyish and young, but blood caked his curly brown locks and his eyes were clouded with a confusion Gryffon couldn't understand for his own misconception had gone in a totally different direction. "No greeting, no nothing?" he scoffed, glancing at the blade of the axe. "How rude." His greened glare switched back over toward the boy as he flicked the flat side of the head, hearing the hollow thump of it as his finger hit it.

The older tribute took a few hesitant steps back before running, but he misstepped and slipped, falling with his arms outstretched over the counter. How smooth . . . Gryffon was sure the boy's sponsors were enjoying his little slip-ups.

"Oh, come on, aren't you bored? Aren't you tired of running?" Gryffon questioned as he placed a second hand over the shaft of his weapon. "If you want to get away so bad, maybe crawling will appeal to you?" After all, running took far too much effort, right? Might as well take it slow and easy, but legs made it too simplistic . . . Hm . . . How to solve that problem . . ?

Of course.

No legs, just get rid of the legs - problem solved.

Gryffon pulled the axe over his head and with a pained smile, he brought it down, catching the light of the room against the blade and it reflected into his eyes. With a grimace, Gryffon felt the blade hit the cold surface, but there was no scream or crack of agony or a split bone from the boy. He forced open his eyes again and watched as the boy rolled back onto his feet and ran again, this time with a more careful footing.

Oh, what a fucking smartass . . .

"I'm a sore loser, kid! Don't try me," Gryffon growled, pushing off the ground, and with a disregard here and there for the few uncertain steps he took, Gryffon caught up to the older boy as they reached the first corner. He tugged at the boy's lion mane and pulled him back so he fell again, this time on his back rather than his chest. Gryffon turned and planted a foot on the boy's other side before he crouched over him. Before he could even ready the axe to strike down, the boy sank his nails into the wounds on Gryffon's face and pushed him aside with a grunt, giving himself room to roll up again and get out of the small trap. Sharp pangs rushed into Gryffon's face, rendering him blind and mute for a moment, completely wiping his senses away.

Something so simple as a gash shouldn't burn so much . . . It shouldn't make him want to collapse and stay down for days. It shouldn't make him want to claw at something so bad he could feel the agony from their screams as he heard, tasted, felt, saw, and scented his own. But it did remind him it wasn't a game. He shouldn't be so careless . . .

Stupid scissors . . . Stupid 4 boy . . . Goddamnit, it hurt! It burned and stung and Gryffon, despite how hard he bit his tongue or screamed, couldn't get rid of the feeling. He somehow managed to get his eyes open again, and when the boy finally let go of his face, Gryffon watched as he reached for his pack, pulling the scissors out from the side pocket where one of the water bottles had stayed. He thrusted the smaller blade toward Gryffon, but knocked himself off balance when he tried to pull the pack off as well, sending both of them onto their backs.

Gryffon shrugged off the pack and pushed himself up, his jaw locked in place and his eyes narrowed.

No.

Oh fuck no.

Some stupid kid wasn't going to . . . No.

Not now.

He kicked the side of the pack, feeling it push into the boy's face, and aside his own pain, Gryffon knew it had at least momentarily halt the boy's breath. The tribute swooped his arm down and grabbed the collar of the boy, pulling him back up and turned him, shoving him toward the first flat surface he found: the microwave.

The boy, as well as he could behind his gasps for air, tried again to jab the scissors toward Gryffon, each thrust growing weaker and slower and aimed worse than before. He either flashed his hand by a cluster of hair, or over Gryffon's ear, or the empty space just above his shoulder, only once or twice actually grazing his skin. "Let . . . Let me go," he choked, slitting the side of Gryffon's face. The few small drops of blood that traveled down his head was hardly noticeable at that point, and his first instinct to the boy's plea was to release him, but not without a price.

Gryffon pushed the boy's body harder against the microwave, hearing a loud beep and click as the door opened, and only let go of the collar when the boy began to cough. The brief break gave him enough time to take a step back and swipe the axe toward the boy, and Gryffon was really only assured he had hit anything when the coughs turned into gasps and groans and shouts of pain with heavy tears that welled in the boy's eyes.

Half his arm was cut, and Gryffon assumed the end of his humerus would have been visible if it wasn't for the pool of crimson leaking from the missing crippled piece. Gryffon shook his head and reached down, pried the scissors from the limp fingers, and looked back toward the boy.

He wouldn't stop sobbing.

He wouldn't stop staring and blinking the tears out of his eyes and screaming.

God, how it was getting to his nerves! Couldn't he run away or fight back? Couldn't he just do something other than just cry there in place!?

Gryffon glanced at the small tool in his hand and opened it slightly. Scissors cut.

He could just mute the boy, right? Make him an Avox?

He shoved the flat side of the axe against the boy's chest and pushed his screaming form along the buttons of the microwave until he fell back onto the circular plate inside it. Gryffon held the axe along the boy's shoulders and knelt over the rest of him, ignoring his kicking and flailing arm and a half.

Just shut up . . . He pushed the scissors into the boy's mouth while he screamed, applying as much pressure as he could until it felt like it could go no further into the boy's face. He screamed harder, nearly splitting Gryffon's ears, and how agonized it sound, how terrible . . . It was so hard to make him be quiet . . . "Jesus fucking Christ!" he snarled, twisting the scissors one more time in the boy's mouth, causing blood to get coughed over his face. With a groan of disgust, Gryffon abandoned the boy's body and stepped out of the object to let him struggle on his own.

The microwave shut on its own and the green start button beeped, its counter already set to twenty seconds. Gryffon's eyes widened and he took a few hasty steps back from the thing, but the sparks started in under ten seconds, then the minor flames inside the microwave . . . But the smoke rose and the flames grew faster and faster, and before half the time ticked down, the entire oven popped and -

- BOOM

The explosion sent Gryffon flying back along the counter where he landed hard on his back and skidded closer to the cookbooks. The air in the kitchen burned and stung his eyes; his ears rung loudly, and the whole front side of his body hurt to the touch. The hand that held the axe felt especially hot, but he couldn't find the strength to let go of the weapon.

He . . . He hadn't expected that.

Gryffon pulled a hand to his eyes and rubbed them, hoping to clear them enough to see, but all he did was smear blood and tears across his vision . . . Or . . . The room, once shiny, clean, and white, was now ablaze with a fire that covered half of it. In the direction of the microwave, blood was smeared over the counter and nothing that could even remotely appear human seemed to be anywhere in sight.

The kid had just simply . . .

Blown up.