changing targets {tom}

Walls of white, purity in meaning, but blood coated in them. The walls of the center are too white for his eyes, almost blindingly white. Innocence, another word to describe the walls, yet the place that he stood in had no innocence. A place where boys and girls grow up to be killers or die within the arms of another killer. Mitchell wasn't going to be like them. He wouldn't die slowly in someone's arms, crying his eyes. No, he would die in a blaze of glory. Not giving up until his last breath. Mitchell Laws wasn't a man to give up without a fight. He was meant to die, but in his own way. Mitchell Laws blazed a path of his own destiny. If he believed in destiny, after all, most things were only myths created by the weak to feel hope. Destiny was one of the ideas that Mitchell knew didn't exist, but he could hold onto some sort of hope.

Hope. A simple phrase that held so much meaning to so many others. People following the word blindly in hopes of something new that will hold them to certain standards and have a reason to avoid doing something on their own. An excuse was what the word should have been. Hope only gave the weak something to cling on when death was imminent. They would fall the way that the world wanted them to and soon enough, they'd be brought to some black space where nothing comes and goes. That's what he could see being the truth about death. When you die all there is, is blackness and nothing. No thoughts. No life. No comforts. No pains. Nothing but black expanse that holds a person and what they used to be. Nothing but black. This was his view of death. No one would change that, not even Ansgar, the holy.

Eyes stare out at him, watching his every move like he was some precious object that had no rights. All he can do is hear Jack's voice in his mind, Run Mitch. Just run away. Mitchell had told him he couldn't. Carter had sobbed when he told them that, but it was the truth. No one could save him from the hell that he was going to have to endure, all he could do was follow the path that was in front of him. Show that he was worthy of saving and have him truly keep up with the rest of the killers. Killing would be the hardest thing for him, but at the same time, death wasn't something that he was uncomfortable with. Death was seen every day at home. This time it would just be his own hands cutting down the people, not starvation.

That's when he noticed the District Nine Male, Rolf Parks. A man who had seen death. Mitchell only kept up with the games when he had to, but some of his brothers really enjoyed it, unlike Jack and Carter and himself. Glimpses of names had been something he saw. Parks. Rhodes. Fray. Mortuus. So many others that he couldn't name, but Parks was a name that hadn't been heard in awhile. Mitchell could barely remember anything and yet, he wouldn't speak of it, instead, he calmly approaches. Hands reach for an axe. The blade's sharpness shines in the florescent lights as he feels the handle calmly. Silence was his friend, just like practice was his ally. A toss of the blade and it fumbles to the floor with a thud. Eyes stare at Rolf for a quick second, silence was his friend, but he needed to escape his comfort zone. Learn things about others that he deserved to know. "Throwing axes are not my weapon of choice, I think. How about you?" Silence was his friend, practice was his ally, Rolf was a future killer just like himself.