Public Training Sessions

Alone.

Alone after everyone's gone in to do their tricks. A performance by kings, queens, jacks, aces, and numbers. All of this to get the highest number that they can get for proof of their strength. Dancing humans with cards up their sleeves waiting for the moment to change into the entertainment the capitolites want. Instead of silence like the others, he sits in a chair, shuffling his cards in quick successions. Face passing by without a single notice to them. Would they be a queen, jack, king, ace? He didn't care enough to try and tell. Putting people in categories of their strength wasn't his job. That was for the jokers up in the viewing seats to decide.

Jokers like death himself. Deciding which of them live or die within a moment's notice. Flipping the joker card in his hand repeatedly like death himself might appear in front of Carter Laws to give him some more answers. The surprise in his pocket weighing less and less as he shuffles the jokers back into his deck. Hearts, spades, clubs, and diamonds glaring back at him like Mitchell Laws own from the past. His words flashing back to his mind once more with a metaphorical slap that makes his stomach hurt even more from anxious nerves.

"One day, I won’t be here. When that day comes Carter, you’ll become stronger. Stronger than I’ve ever seen you. I’ll always be with you though."

Stronger. That's what everyone wanted to be. Stronger than they were the day before, but all he felt was weaker and weaker when the days came and gone. Mitchell was with him, but all he could do was feel the nerves eating his stomach alive again. Drawings of nature and animals already coating his skin from a childhood nervous tick of his. The face of a yeti on the back of his hand to remind him of his brother's demise. No tears come, but he can feel the sorrow wash over him as he looks to the door of the training center. Hoping that he can impress them enough like Mitchell had did to at least keep him longer than his brother.

With every heart comes a spade, every diamond has a club, and with every joker comes death. Death drives human nature into violence or living. Carter was born to live. Running away from fist fights as a young boy. Running until he couldn't run away. Weaker than the bullies who wanted to pound their fists into the smaller kids. Pound and pound and pound until red becomes the only color you live by. That's why his father showed him the power of cards. The power that each card carried, waiting to be awakened by someone focused enough to awaken it. Instead of running, he learned to manipulate. Eyes are the most important sense to the human body. Always the focus of them as it lets people perceive reality. Without eyes, things get easier to do.

Carter learned to never run, but instead live. Live to change the pattern of his own life with just a deck of cards. Enough practice to trick someone into focusing on something else. People called it magic and have even taken it far enough to call Carter Laws a witch, despite the chuckle he used to give them, yet here he is. Trembling in fear on a chair outside of the place where Hell Mo had gone in. Fear lets them all live, but he's not running away this time. Born to live, his brother would see him get stronger. Stronger than he's ever been before. No longer a number among the masses of other numbers. Carter was an ace capable of being more than just a lowly number.

"Carter Laws."

The trainer who calls him for death like before. Hearing his name was just a reminder of death and fate playing a game of poker over if he'll die or not. Feet take over his mind as he moves forward with his deck of cards and the surprise in his collar, secured from falling out. Alone and in front of the jokers themselves, he can feel the beat of his heart going. No smile on his face because content and unreadable is what he wants before he starts his session. The game that Carter Laws has played for years before. Never the enthusiastic, especially when death looms over his shoulder waiting for him to secure that blood to end his life. Stopping in the center, he looks over the flashy gamemakers with clothes that resemble something out of dreams that he has had.

Without looking up again, Carter pulls the deck of cards Mitchell gave him out. Swishing of cards as he shuffles them quickly. The deck goes from one hand to the other and back again, until he smiles and pulls out a joker of black color, just like death himself or the eyeliner that Glamour Kinkade wears. The card of the evening would be this joker that resides comfortable in his hand. Shuffling the deck once more, he puts it back in the box it belongs to and sets it on the table in a corner. Once he's back in the center of the training room, he clears his throat and shows the gamemakers the card in his hand. Words come from his throat steadily.

"This will be the card of the evening. The joker."

Fingers tighten on it as he shows the room the card, hoping everyone's seen it. Eyes glance around the room, until he notices three trainers that had been there just days before. Strength, target practice, and blades trainers are over in the corner next to the supply of weapons. A smile pulls at his cheeks as he moves closer to them and carries the card in his hand, where it's still in sight. He stops right in front of the three as he looks back to the gamemakers and speaks once more.

"We're gonna play a game. A deadly one."

Index finger pointing out the three trainers, who all are extremely talented in their field of training. A smile on his face as he looks to them and not at the gamemakers anymore. They're all bigger and probably stronger than him in many different ways. Definitely not smarter than Carter is, or maybe that's his own head telling him that. Either way, he speaks out to everyone in the room still as he focuses on the trainers.

"We'll be playing keep away. Now, the way this game is played is the opponents have to take this joker card away from me. You three, get to use your specialty with intent to hurt me. Get the card and I give in. The gamemakers will give me a low score. If I win, they'll decide what I deserve. Anything is allowed."

A smile pulls on his cheeks as he stretches his arms, letting the bones crack in succession. Ready or not, he was ready for this game of live or die. Nerves still crawl through his stomach, but he holds the joker in his hand carefully to not fold it. Every heart has a spade in this room. As he watches the trainers grab an axe, a sword, and a belt of knives, he moves back to the center of the room and patiently tells them that the game starts. The game that will determine his strength and if he's truly stronger than Mitchell will ever have seen. Physical strength wasn't everything, but he had a few tricks up his sleeve.

"Let the game begin!"

A knife in the air is the first thing that comes at him. Remembering back to the times when rocks were hurled at him by bullies, Carter instinctively ducks from the knife, pulling the card into his sleeve and out of sight. The knife misses completely, but the blades trainer is already swiping low for him, which he can see for the most part. Carter rolls backwards out of the swipe, feeling the card move through his sleeve inside his shirt now. A smirk on his face as he can hear the blades trainer grumble about Carter getting away. The bullies had grumbled about it the first time that he tricked them with a simple card.

The strength trainer was absurdly strong, slow to start, but the fact was he was already in a full swing when Carter jumped, dodging the axe's blade. The card in his other hand now, he lands and sweeps the trainer off his feet, remembering that Jack had once told him the bigger a bully is the harder they'll fall. Self defense helped with this feat as he watches the card glimmer in his palm, until the blades trainer reaches for it while he's distracted with the return back to a normal stance. Closer and closer the guy gets, Carter can feel his card about to be grabbed by the man before Carter laughs.

Teasing the trainer as he throws the card up and swipes it with his other hand and into his sleeve once more on the opposite side of the blades trainer. Hand coming forward in a shove as he pushes the weight of the blades trainer backwards over the fallen strength trainer's body. A muffled thump sounds as Carter pulls out the card in his other hand, glittering red and safely in his control. Hopping quickly over the two trainers on the ground before they get up, he moves across the room to a new wall, empty of other people and where he can take his time, until a knife cuts into the card in his hand. Putting it against the wall, stuck to the knife and most likely, unable to come out, until after the session.

"Got it!"

Carter shakes his head at the foolish man as he lets out a chuckle. Never play with the hearts of a seasoned magician who has played this game multiple times as a kid. Mitchell had kept the card away for a long time from Carter when they used to play, but right now Carter looks up and frowns at the guy before speaking.

"Awwww, I was just starting to have fun."

Silent as he lets the diamonds contain their clubs and the faces watching over with disappointment.

"Or maybe you should look again, Target guy."

Out of his sleeve comes another card and as he flips it around, it's the real joker. A laugh follows as he explains the situation out loud for everyone. His weight going to the front of his feet and back to the balls of them as he thinks of Mitchell's toying with him. His father's own smile after finding out that Carter was so close, but still failed to have gotten it. The ace of Carter Laws trying to prove he wasn't a lowly number like the rest of District Twelve. A girl who spoke to the dead flashing in his eyes as he remembers her telling him Mitchell can't wait to see him. Death's glint somewhere far off and out of his view. The smirk still attached to his lips.

"I still have the joker. That card was a decoy that I took out without any of you noticing when I put the deck down. What you caught was a lowly two of clubs."

Then, the three trainers all charged after that, frustrated in their first attempt at catching the card. Moments spent toying with them as he dodges blows with somewhat ease and avoiding their grabby hands that threaten to take his card. Moments extend, and he feels like he could do this for hours, but it's only been minutes. They don't get the card as Carter moves away from this wall to the center of the floor. Sweeping them all onto the ground as he throws the card up in the air and catching it once more. Self defense training was really helping, especially against the three with weapons.

Good thing, he was always a listener and practiced until he got things just right.

Their final charge was happening. They had gotten up and said something that he couldn't hear. Then the charge happened. Like cornered wild beasts, they lashed out as hard as they could. The axe, the sword, and a knife all coming at him at once in order. Dodging sideways out of the axe's arch, he jumps over the sword there and lands solidly on his two feet. Nothing flashy, just a safe movement and jump, when the knife comes flying at the card once more. Too focused on not getting injured, he snaps his finger to distract them and in that quick moment, he replaces the card with a regular piece of paper that he had brought with him in his sleeve. A silence follows as he charges the three himself.

The axe swings and Carter moves out of the way, pushing his hand hard into Strength's head. The sword is next as he ducks under the blow, kicking the guy hard in a place where no man should be kicked. Poor guy, but he didn't have time for that as he moves towards the Target guy, dodging a knife here and there as reaches him. The guy drops the knives and blocks his blow perfectly, making Carter panic for a moment, until he shoves his elbow the other way into the guy’s gut. A thud hits the ground before he bows and says out loud to everyone.

"That's the end of my game. Now for the grand finale! A gift for you!"

Silently, he faces away from the gamemakers and trainers that slowly get up off the floor, mumbling things. Every heart came with a spade, every diamond had a club, and with every joker comes death. The mystery item is torn from the inside of his collar where he had securely put it for safekeeping. Applying it to his lips, he holds his breath. The yeti still stares at him with dark eyes as he can remember Mitchell gurgling his last words. Legacies were made that day. Carter would have none, but Glamour Kinkade would. Glamour Kinkade would have a legacy built upon their blood just like he has all this time. A moment is all it takes for him to decide on his decision.

Lips touch the joker in a kiss as he pulls away gently and turns back to the gamemakers with the card in his left hand and the tube of lipstick in his right. A smirk on his face as he speaks to the gamemakers.

"Sorry about your lipstick, Mr. Kinkade. You should watch it better."

Finger pull back as he throws the card up to the gamemakers hoping they see the indigo markings of Glamour's famous colored lips. A smile on Carter's face as he reaches for his cards and makes his way out of the training center. Nerves in his stomach still pulling tightly and as he leaves, he leaves them with one last word.

"If you want it back, you know where to find me!"

Red is more of your color.

Indigo was more of his color.

As soon as the doors close behind Carter Laws, like others before. He pukes into the trash can right there. The nerves finally leaving him and all that waits is the fight for the death. He wouldn't run. He wouldn't be a coward like Jack was. The jokers mean death. Glamour had that power in his hands. That's what his kiss of death had meant.

Joker had marked him for death, but he wouldn't be going out without a fight.

"I am strong."

He wouldn't ever forget it.

“i don’t want to be alone, parson. i am sick of it—the isolation, the solitude. our creator made me and you and others for company. this buzz under my chest,” fingers reach out erratically at his and guide the palm to where my heartbeat lies, scared and polysyllabic but beating, nevertheless. “is my body telling me to connect, not let myself be alone anymore.”

eyes flash at his face; he ought to consider me a drunkard. “am i a drunkard, aren’t i?” voice descends, its usual effervescence a ghost now. “you probably don’t understand what i’m trying to say—it’s fine, i don’t too. some things are too dense for the small words to carry.”

the emptied bottle inside my feeble grasp slips out and fragmentizes, to a shower of tinted glass. i don’t pay much attention to the cracking noise it makes because i hear it often, inside me, resonant – crack, crack, crack.

“when we go inside the arena, i’ll carry you along, if you promise to do the same for me.” there’s always a price to pay; nothing comes for free. if i am going to be his makeshift armor, he better be mine too.

“i don’t know what fiasco i am going to do for tomorrow’s one-on-one parade. what can an emotionally-ruined, cigarette boy be except that? gosh, i wished i had a smoke. straight-up burn my insides out – but i wouldn’t be able to, because i’m a coward in denial. craving death but can’t handle the post agonies of it, is the mentality of someone who’s weak at heart.”

slowly, i move closer to the warmth he radiates, hoping what they impart in schools are correct: heat migrates towards the cold.

the glass shards crinkle beneath our bodies, a glistening reminder of my weakness. the bright amalgamation of stars above films our most vulnerable forms for no one.

without the usual bustling from trainers and other tributes, the training center's quietness loudens the pandemonium that is my heart. the fidgetiness these fingers have displayed over the course of long days has come to a violent extreme. thumbnails toy with my shirt’s hem, finger-bones rattling beneath skin.

it's time like these which make me an alcoholic; the nerves can be drowned out by a flood of bitter elixir. one gulp, and i could go back to the gypsyish persona i feel comfortable in.

(but, we aren't here for comfort.) 

i want the liquid courage, i don't need it to appeal to the gold-bathed monarchy. ever since footsteps echoed in, their gazes never faltered – vigilante, predatory, going virtually at my pulsating jugular. at a corner of the eyes, they sit, a divine judgment in session.

i imagine glamour's outstretched arm, readied to bestow the spark of life from his gloved finger into my own. he looks better than the technicolor image inside a broken silver screen. 

fortunately, my talents reach optimum when there's an audience at bay, demanding a show. but, the isolation is there again, a suffocative air, and cotton falls on my eyes – blinding white. focus, i scream, with teeth clenched.

last night clings heavily onto me: he stench of alcohol in each breath, the empty space around my frame that parson filled. i remember each word despite the booze—about weakness, about breaking. and, it ignited an idea that i’ve thoroughly rehearsed in the cold light of morning.

the stage directions are clear; there’s no confusion to bring forth a debacle. exploiting this strange clarity, feet drag themselves

to the hand-to-hand combat station.

i maybe weak at heart, but this small frame is metal and steel condensed to calcium and bones.

(if they ask for a battle, 

i’ll give a blood-strewn war.) 

the plan begins with my garment. slow, sensual movements begin at hands – which voyage down the shirt, woven with sheer, black fabric, worn specifically for this ordeal. fingers draw the hem up, softly, as frame aids in its removal, rolling like a serpent would to shed skin.

and, what is unearthed, is an oiled frame, coruscating and breaking off soft ripples of movement.

i move to a rhythm i hum, a dance that blurs between sultriness and elegance. then, the station’s simulation wakes up and fake dummies arise from metallic sheaths, as formidable as the long shadows they cast upon me.

thoughts fall into retrograde—memories surge up, as a maelstrom which devours me whole.

suddenly, i am ten, with adolescent blood on my fists, mine and others’. the orphanage is loud, with war-cries and cheers. the elders don’t give a fuck, as small boys brawl. i left that scene with a crooked nose, but you should’ve seen the other boy.

suddenly, i am fifteen, chased by some outlaws who, after running tirelessly through alleys, i decided to face. one had a pocketknife but i clocked him straight in the face, knuckles breaking as they collide with his jaw. it was like a slow car crash, watching the chrome be splattered on the cold ground.

suddenly, i am seventeen, with endless, outstretched hands around me in a bar. one dared to touch me and immediately recoiled, because its owner got struck.

and those memories dance inside my two fists. i strike, a riptide of a movement, at the nearest target. crack, its plastic neck sounds. thump, it falls. one by one, they mimic the first one, knocked over like a pack of dominos. standing, breathless, amid this, is me, with my wings exhibited brilliantly.

blood tickles from livid knuckles, but it’s not something can’t band-aid and heal. i make a bow before taking leave, abandoning the carnage there.