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Scott was fed up. He glared at Jimmy, currently squatting on an open trapdoor with his arms stubbornly folded across his chest and a determined look in his eyes. It was a familiar look for Scott, one he'd have seen in the first set of death games when him and Jimmy had been friends - even closer than that - rather than enemies or allies.
But that was in a different time, when Scott was content living with Jimmy.
Now he wanted him out. And quickly.
He tightly gripped his flint and steel, maintaining eye contact with Jimmy's warm brown eyes.
"You've got ten seconds to get out before I set you on fire." His voice was calm, like the sea before the storm. His eyes burned with controlled anger, a wildfire that he would only push inside until he lost all inhibition as a Red.
Jimmy adamantly stood his ground.
Scott began to count down slowly, stepping closer like a predator stalking their prey. With each number ticking down his voice grew lower and lower.
"Three." Sparks flew from the flint and steel. "Two." Fear flickered in Jimmy's eyes as the realisation set in that Scott was serious. "One."
Scott lit the ground around Jimmy on fire, watching the flames climb higher with ravenous hunger. Jimmy yelped and began to jump around. Following, Scott lit and put out fires with incredible speed. When the flames latched onto Jimmy's skin, searing pink flesh, a smile stretched across his face.
Jimmy panted heavily, landing on a higher trapdoor. His arm was singed, the jacket and shirt sleeves practically ribbons.
"I'm not leaving." Jimmy said, his tone convicted.
That only left Scott with more of a challenge. His grin widened with the idea of a new game, a chance to see how long it'd take, how many injuries Jimmy would sustain, before he finally decided to back off.
Scott balled his fists and drew closer. Jimmy tried to jump, but couldn't get past Scott. He fell into a corner, his palms flat against the walls.
He reared his fist back and slammed it into the wall next to Jimmy's head. The blond flinched, eyes wide and panicked, yet still containing that flame of determination.
"Five seconds. Or I'll be punching you instead of the wall." Scott pulled his fist back. He looked at the dent he made in the wall with pride.
Jimmy, in typical Jimmy fashion, did not back down.
"Five." He balled his fist. "Four." Into the wall. "Three." Pulled back. "Two." Grabbing a fistful of Jimmy's shirt, yanking him closer. "One."
Scott slammed his fist into Jimmy's nose.
Thick red blood ran down his face, yet he made no reaction. Scott, frowning, prepared to hit him a second time.
Jimmy sprung into action and darted past him. A growl escaped Scott's lips and he trailed after him, blood staining his hand.
Upon him moving towards the entrance, Jimmy flung himself forward once more and back onto the high trapdoor. He wiped the blood running down his face but didn't clear it away, only leaving a smear behind.
"I. Am not. Leaving." Jimmy enunciated each word with a new wave of fury.
They both breathed heavily, chests rising and falling in unison.
Scott, for a moment, wondered why exactly he was doing this. Greens weren't meant to be particularly violent, yet there was no denying that there was a bloodlust that burned inside him, the kind that only a Red could achieve.
His vision went red.
A familiar weight fell into his hands. An axe, he realised. Scott glared at Jimmy.
This time he gave no warning. He lunged immediately, lifting the axe up and bringing it down in a swift arc on Jimmy's chest. The scream that followed was euphoric to Scott.
Finally, Jimmy fled. He sprinted past Scott, coughing and wheezing and hacking, barrelling out the door and into the open.
The axe dropped onto the floor. Scott stared at it, the blood on the blade and his hands. On his clothes. Even his shoes. Scott left his house with the desire to see himself guiding him towards Gem's diving board and flinging himself off of it.
He landed in the water and swam to the land, climbing onto it. Scott peered at his reflection.
Scott was covered in blood, although some of it had been washed off in the fall. His hair clung to his forehead, his eyes flickered red, then settled back on green. Blood was smudged on his cheek - how had it gotten there? It was all over his shirt, covering the green on it, and splattered on his trousers. The edges of his shoes were stained with a mix of blood and dirt.
He didn't look like a Green. He looked like a Red.
Scott fell to his knees, a laugh bubbling in his throat. He was cackling, bent over and clutching the ground. Dirt crept under his fingernails and each laugh out of his throat was like coughing blood.
He didn't recognise himself. Not really. He wasn't a Green. He was the spitting image of a Red. Of someone who'd lost every ounce of self-restraint. Someone wild.
He looked like Pearl, who went Red early in Double Life, even though she was still on her first life.
He looked like Martyn at the end of the previous life game, dirty with blood and grime and sweat, but cackling and joyful with madness.
Scott looked like a Winner.