public training sessions

Hands fiddle at the paper card, the number twelve on the bottom left and top right corners, the capitol's symbol on the back, and twelve little black clubs line up in a row, just like they had at the reaping. Every boy and girl lining up like they were going to walk to their graves. Dressed in the fanciest clothes they owned, just waiting for their name to be pulled by the escort. Cards in a bowl spin, Kings, Queens, Jacks, Jokers, and Aces, all waiting for their cards to get pulled, sentencing them to fight for the king of them all. The Judge of the damned's hand reaches in and pulls out the Twelve with the name that he would dread for the rest of his life, no matter how short it would or wouldn't be.

"Mitchell Laws!"

His name gets called. The card holding his name that had been called once, would be called multiple times over. Mitchell. Mitch. Mitch the Bitch. Son. Dear. Twelve. All things that he's been called out for in his entire lifetime. Nothing would ever come as close to being called his full name. Mitchell Laws. The name that would only be remembered by the echoes of a microphone as he stepped foot onto a train to the city that makes or breaks tributes. Usually, breaks them more than makes them.

Mitchell didn't realize it. No one ever realizes it, until it's too late to go back. Mistakes already made before he could have fixed it. Accepting death wasn't the answer to the problems at hand for him. Dealt a hand full of killers and he can't go back, there was no go back to start card in the world they were living in. Only the cards that are dealt to him, until the stack runs out. Mitchell realized way too late in his experience, that death wasn't what he wanted. Death was only asking for the easy and selfish way out of the games, but there was another way. Another way that he didn't consider until he met the Number Two card of hearts. Fighting for her father had shown him there was something to survive for. Carter. Jack. Jasper. His father. His mother. Himself.

"Mitchell Laws!"

The speaker announces once again, telling him that the Eleven Card of Hearts, as red as her hair, had left the room to him. Cards sit in his pocket, weights of them all, their names written upon the whites of the background. A glance to the queen of District Twelve, a small smile, and hopes of her doing well. As for him, there was a plan that Carter had only given him after the word game rang through the stiff air. That's what his plan going into it was. Only time would tell if the games went right. Playing games was how you played the game. The Hunger Games was no more different than a giant game of cards. Some are worth more than others. Kings and Queens aren't afraid and are the ones to take out the lower cards. Numbers useless to do anything against other cards. They all had a place where they would do better. They all had a perfect spot, but most wouldn't be so lucky.

Names written upon cards that he had stolen for this moment. A trainer's way of curing boredom with his trainer friends. It was an easy snag for someone who was supposed to be teaching him skills to kill. If only Mitchell had a knife, he could have proved it. Cards were the second best thing to have happen. Snagging them while the friend's went to get something from the other room. It only took seconds for Mitchell to be in and out with a brand new deck of cards in his possession. Swiping the cards from right under their noses, while they were distracted. Nothing could have been easier.

The night was spent putting Twenty Four names upon twenty four of the Fifty two cards. The cards that sit in his pocket, calmly swaying with every step. The Gamemakers stand in an area where they can watch his every moment. "Do not speak Mitchell. Don't let them see what you believe. Make them think." His father's voice rings through his ears, advice from the bullies that used to haunt Carter and him through school years. This was different. There were no bullies in the games that he would be living in. Only killers and the dead. Don't let them see. The phrase rings throughout his mind, pulling him in, only silence and eyes watching.

Eyes scan him like he's a caged animal waiting to be saved. A deep breath and he's moving. Feet taking him to a trainer, happily holding an apple in his hand. Eyes stare at the trainer, Mitchell doesn't want to hurt him, only wants him to follow Mitchell. A stare down happens for a little while. The trainer backs off only a bit, until Mitchell snatches the apple with swiftness, ignoring the trainer's protests. Avox in the corner, Mitchell smiles towards her. The avox comes forward, only for Mitchell to whisper in her ear, "You'll be okay. Do this for me." A nod off the young girl makes him smile kindly at her.

As she comes forward, he points for her to stand in that spot. Placing the apple upon her head like he had done to Carter and Jack multiple times as kids. His father, the one who taught him the trick he was about to pull off. Cards were an item that only people who could afford the luxury get. Theirs had been a hand me down to Carter from their father. Their father, a man of kindness and good will, who taught his kids how to throw cards like they were a weapon. Only a myth. Cards couldn't kill, only give someone a severe paper cut, but that was it. And yet, he was still going to throw the cards before three of the people who could indicate his death or life.

The girl stands calmly a good distance away from him. The cards appear from the depths of his pockets. Names filling a little less than half of the cards. Placing the card between his middle finger and ring finger, he breathes softly. Aiming at the apple above the head, he pulls back like he would if the card had been a piece of sharp metal. Breathe. One. Breathe. Two. Breathe. Three. Fire! One by one, the blank cards go sailing in the air, cutting through like the times it had done before. Precision and practice is what he had to do to master the skill as a young boy. A skill that couldn't kill, or that's what he had thought. The apple receives the first card straight in the middle, cutting deep enough for the card to stick inside of the apple's skin.

The girl gives a thumbs up to him, only for Mitchell's own head to shake in defiance. He wasn't done. The Gamemakers would want more. More cards. More precision. More art. More practicality. One by one, he tosses each card perfectly into the apple. Names of tributes flying at the apple. The ace of spades containing Asha Lumiere's name. Queen of Hearts, Hyacinth Mortuus. Queen of Spades, Maye Talliago. King of Clubs, Jenoah Rasoio. Queen of Clubs, Samira Hart. Name after name buries itself deeper and deeper into the apple. Until Mitchell was left with only one card. His own card, the Twelve of Clubs, his favorite card in the entire deck. Never would he give up a precious memory like that. It was the card that Carter had used to beat him in a simple games of cards. The twelve of clubs was unique because it meant something more than the rest of the cards in the deck.

The Twelve of Clubs was the first sign that Carter didn't need him anymore. Not many people needed him and that's why he believe he was going to die. No one who needed Mitchell Laws in everything that he was, but that was never true. Everyone he knew needed him. They needed him at home. They needed him to comfort them. They needed him to live life without any guilt. Mitchell Laws had to fight, no matter what he believed in because Carter would do the same. Jack would have done the same. His father. Jasper. Everyone would do the same. And that's why he needed to fight for not only himself, but for them. Pocketing the card instead of sending it on a journey to the apple, to be forgotten like the rest of them would be if he made it out.

The girl pulls the apple from off her head, placing it softly upon a table, venturing back to her spot, she stands watching him, like they all do. Mind rushes his next decision before he can process it. They would need more from him to deliver something more interesting. That's when the shiny glint of metal catches his eyes. Knives of all sorts sit upon the table where the apple sits. Hands grab quickly at the metal knives, until he has only four of them. Precision and accuracy were something he had from card throwing, stealing and practicing in the training center.

Dummies line up in a circle, like the bullies in school that Mitchell and Carter had to scare off or get pummelled. Memories of Carter's words pull at his brain, but he can't cry, not now, not ever. Strength. He was stronger than those memories. Stronger than he's ever been, only for the fact he knew death was coming and he needed to be prepared to fight death. Four knives, two dummies, four chances, and yet one of the knives' glints tells him not to throw it. Breathe. One. Breathe. Two. Breathe. Three. Fire! Knives fly out of his hands.

The first knife sits inside the first Dummy's left eye.

The second knife sits only centimeters away from the first one.

The third knife sits in the second Dummy's right eye.

Dead. Dead.

The fourth knife sits in his hands as Jack's voice comes to mind, Come play a game with me? Winner gets to go on a date with the hot girl down the street? Mitchell had lost that game. Lost it with pride, as he had ended up in worse shape than before, but he would prove that he could do it. He could prove that he was better than Jack. He would prove he could do more than play games and believe he was going to die. The Gamemakers could be watching him or ignoring him, this would be the perfect thing to catch attention if the card throwing hadn't. A deep breath, eye closed, and he moves to the table again. His body sits forward, facing the gamemakers, he stares up hoping to attract the attention of at least one. Calm and steady. Calm and steady. The knife in his hand glints against the lights.

A palm lays flat against the cool metal, the blade in his other hand glints dangerously at him, like it wants to stab him. Breathe Mitchell Breathe. The blade comes down fast. Stabbing the metal on the outside of his thumb. A stab at the metal in between the index finger and thumb. He continues between each finger, moving between them, avoiding stabbing himself like the game they had learned. No one knew where it came form in their family, but they played it day after day. As he reaches the end of his hand, he moves quicker and quick through each space with precision and skill. Eyes had been watching his hand and the blade, but as soon as he was going fast enough, he stares up at the gamemakers. No fear. Mitchell's face is blankly staring forward to the gamemakers with no fear of stabbing himself.

Accidently, he nicks his middle finger, letting the blood flow softly to the ring finger. Nothing appears upon his face. No pain. No fear. Nothing. He's calm and pain was something he's dealt with before. Being whipped had caused a lot of pain, but also increased his own pain tolerance. Cutting a finger was nothing compared to the pain. His head doesn't move from it's position of staring at the gamemakers like they were nothing more than his own brothers watching. No emotions. He would win this game for the day, the next one would be harder to win, but he had to win, for Carter and for Jack, even if Jack caused him so much pain in his past, they were still brothers, no matter what. The Laws Brothers don't quit on one another. They had told themselves that so many times, that he couldn't be the one to break it.

After he reaches his thumb for the fifth time, he breathes and drops the knife that holds a sliver of his blood along the blade. The card in his pocket feels heavier than it needed to be. The memories of his brother Carter tells him that he has to fight for him, but the knife reminds him that he needs to fight for himself. Mitchell Laws was going to fight for both. No one could stop him, No one could tell him not to. No one could tell him anything. He was on his own and he knew that. As he walks towards the exit, he stops for a second, looks back at the gamemakers. He reaches his bloody hand into his pocket pulling out the Twelve of Clubs that had Mitchell Laws written in black ink. It only took one toss for it to reach the gamemakers. The words upon his breath only a whisper to them, "Don't count me out of this." His blank face staring at them, until he turns back around, hand bleeding, eyes staring forward, fists clenched, and mind cleared.

Mitchell Laws wasn't meant for greatness, but he wasn't going to die easily.