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Entry tags:
Underneath It All, We're Just Savages [Closed]
WHO| Tom and Luke and Beth, Tom and the Psiioniic, Tom and Albert and Arya
WHAT| Tom gets injured during the patch game, kills a troll, and runs afoul of a cyborg.
WHERE| Throughout the forest near the lake.
WHEN| Week 3-4
WARNINGS| Death and violence.
I. Luke and Beth
The patch-capture seems almost quaint, the juxtaposition of the playful nature of the rules and the murderous stakes of the winnings as comical and twee as the cross between a death festival and the name "Hunger Games". Tom finds no small amount of amusement in it, and by early morning has convinced Arya to take part in it with him. The two of them sweep their way through the forest, the portrait of amiability. If it weren't for the knife that Tom carries in his palm, playing idly with, and the matching one that Arya's equipped with, they might look like a man taking his granddaughter for a stroll through a particularly wet and clammy winter.
That is, of course, until they hear others in the wood. From there they hunker down, alert, predatory, near hungry despite having been fed many times over from the generous Sponsor gifts and Molotov's hunts. At the moment there are figures moving through a snowy dell north of them, and to the east of them in the marsh.
"You manage the ones up north, will you, lass? We'll rendezvous here when the sun sets." He watches Arya go, impressed time and again with the girl's spunk and competence, before heading towards the marsh, keeping careful track of which trees he's passing so he can find his way back here when dusk comes. He could follow his footprints, but he doesn't trust the Gamemakers not to change them. They likely could change the trees too, but that seems more effort than would be useful. He's sure the Gamemakers find his rapport with Arya charming at best, harmless at worst.
He sees a blonde head of hair in the marsh, and he doesn't announce his presence. He pulls the knife out and moves near-silently through the snow-weighted bushes behind her.
II. Psiioniic and III. Albert and Arya
The end of the patch game really means very little to Tom; he plans to continue as he has with Molotov and Arya, and has put in his best effort not to let the stab wound in his shoulder slow him down. It's difficult, of course - the swelling has made it hard to sleep or to properly grip a knife with his right hand - but he only complains when Molotov's ears are sympathetic. As soon as Molotov mentions that they haven't done all that much killing this Arena, Tom shuts right up and sulks at the corner of their camp like a wet cat.
It's this insecurity, this gutting knowledge of his own uselessness, that drives him to spend longer each day looking for someone to kill and rob. It doesn't sit well with him to be both in pain and without an earned reputation to soothe it, nor does it settle peacefully in his stomach to have had such an uneventful Arena. He goes into the woods with his blade and a cudgel fashioned from a felled tree, made almost entirely unrecognizable by a ski mask and his heavy parka, hat and scarf.
He sees someone hunched over a part of the river that hasn't frozen over, collecting water, and he slips forward, looking not entirely unlike a panther moving through jungle reeds. He hopes to be silent, but the ground under him has different ideas for him.
As soon as the ice beneath his feet crackles and announces his presence, he swings the cudgel at his victim's head like a baseball bat.
WHAT| Tom gets injured during the patch game, kills a troll, and runs afoul of a cyborg.
WHERE| Throughout the forest near the lake.
WHEN| Week 3-4
WARNINGS| Death and violence.
I. Luke and Beth
The patch-capture seems almost quaint, the juxtaposition of the playful nature of the rules and the murderous stakes of the winnings as comical and twee as the cross between a death festival and the name "Hunger Games". Tom finds no small amount of amusement in it, and by early morning has convinced Arya to take part in it with him. The two of them sweep their way through the forest, the portrait of amiability. If it weren't for the knife that Tom carries in his palm, playing idly with, and the matching one that Arya's equipped with, they might look like a man taking his granddaughter for a stroll through a particularly wet and clammy winter.
That is, of course, until they hear others in the wood. From there they hunker down, alert, predatory, near hungry despite having been fed many times over from the generous Sponsor gifts and Molotov's hunts. At the moment there are figures moving through a snowy dell north of them, and to the east of them in the marsh.
"You manage the ones up north, will you, lass? We'll rendezvous here when the sun sets." He watches Arya go, impressed time and again with the girl's spunk and competence, before heading towards the marsh, keeping careful track of which trees he's passing so he can find his way back here when dusk comes. He could follow his footprints, but he doesn't trust the Gamemakers not to change them. They likely could change the trees too, but that seems more effort than would be useful. He's sure the Gamemakers find his rapport with Arya charming at best, harmless at worst.
He sees a blonde head of hair in the marsh, and he doesn't announce his presence. He pulls the knife out and moves near-silently through the snow-weighted bushes behind her.
II. Psiioniic and III. Albert and Arya
The end of the patch game really means very little to Tom; he plans to continue as he has with Molotov and Arya, and has put in his best effort not to let the stab wound in his shoulder slow him down. It's difficult, of course - the swelling has made it hard to sleep or to properly grip a knife with his right hand - but he only complains when Molotov's ears are sympathetic. As soon as Molotov mentions that they haven't done all that much killing this Arena, Tom shuts right up and sulks at the corner of their camp like a wet cat.
It's this insecurity, this gutting knowledge of his own uselessness, that drives him to spend longer each day looking for someone to kill and rob. It doesn't sit well with him to be both in pain and without an earned reputation to soothe it, nor does it settle peacefully in his stomach to have had such an uneventful Arena. He goes into the woods with his blade and a cudgel fashioned from a felled tree, made almost entirely unrecognizable by a ski mask and his heavy parka, hat and scarf.
He sees someone hunched over a part of the river that hasn't frozen over, collecting water, and he slips forward, looking not entirely unlike a panther moving through jungle reeds. He hopes to be silent, but the ground under him has different ideas for him.
As soon as the ice beneath his feet crackles and announces his presence, he swings the cudgel at his victim's head like a baseball bat.
II
Psii was on alert for enemies, but he still didn't expect anyone to get this close before he noticed. If the ice hadn't announced Tom's presence, Psii would have been out in an instant. Psii ducked at the sound. The cudgel caught his horn, cracking it, and Psii's head split with pain. He cried out, dropping the leftover food packaging he was using as a water holder and hurling himself to the side on instinct. His parka kept him warm enough to still be somewhat fast.
His eyes watered as his head rang, but he was too busy drawing the stone knife at his hip. He scuttled towards the shore where there was less chance of being thrown in the water. Psii was tall, but not a heavyweight. It was hard to tell where exactly the shore was, given the snow. His eyes were wide, not from fear, but from a subconscious wish to optic blast his attacker. His dark lips peeled back from his fangs as he hissed, brandishing his knife.
It occurred to him to try intimidating the human away now that the element of surprise was gone, but it didn't occur to him to try talking his way out of a fight. He wasn't a pacifist; he was an overly paranoid troll covered in a map of scars. Violence was commonplace for him, and death was cheap.
Re: II
Which does not, in fact, dissuade him. Psiioniic snarls and Tom responds with a near-hungry grin, as if he's been waiting for this a long time, as if he's been the villain so long that playing the role feels like slipping into a warm bath. It's here, in the midst of cruelty, that he sheds any shame he might have for what he is. It's here, with his hands tight around a weapon and his blood pounding away through his veins and an enemy at his hands.
He advances on the Psiioniic, voice nearly a sing-song with that thick accent and that heat of battle.
"A charming knife. Did you carve it yourself?"
no subject
Psii was vaguely aware that he wouldn't be able to dodge around here for long. He had no way of knowing where sure footing was, where the ice ended and the water began. The man grinned with relish, something that put Psii in mind of either cruel highbloods or a particularly rough kismesis.
"....Ith thith really the time to be throwing falthe complimentth at my shitty knife crafting abilitieth? Are you actually trying to kill me?"
Psii never could learn to keep his mouth shut for long.
no subject
Even if Tom weren't playing up the part of a ruthless killer for Capitol cameras, he would still be perfectly pleased to taunt, to play with his prey like a cat with a mouse. He grins and the shadows on the side of his mouth become like jagged arrowheads.
He doesn't swing this time, but thrusts the cudgel towards the Psiioniic's middle.
no subject
Psii had an instinct for knowing when he was totally fucked, and that was when the sass kicked in. It didn't matter if he held his tongue, he was going to get beaten up anyway. Why did he have to go and get water? Why did he have to fail so spectacularly at not being seen?
He stepped back on reflex, and his foot sunk through snow and the hidden ice underneath it. Cold water burned his foot and spread up his leg. His shitty boots, already worn from weeks of snow, didn't protect him in the slightest. He stumbled and fell on the snowy shore. He'd plowed through pain many times before, but he couldn't get his numb foot to cooperate. He never thought he could outrun the guy anyway.
He hissed. In desperation, he lobbed his stone knife at Tom, and whipped out the smaller folding knife in his jacket pocket.
no subject
As soon as Psiioniic stumbles, Tom lunges in for the kill. He dodges the knife thrown at him easily, with a sort of grace that doesn't seem to match his usual limp - that makes it seem almost affected, by comparison.
He throws blow after blow at Psiioniic's head, mouth wide with a grin that seems nearly fanged.
no subject
His opponent seemed to have overcome the awkwardness of his limp, working with it to beat Psii to a pulp. Psii jabbed futilely with his smaller knife, but a clip to the head sent blood streaming down his face into his eyes. Blind, he could only throw his arms up in defense. His second knife slipped from his hand into the snow now peppered with dark yellow blood.
Trolls took a few extra hits before they could go down. Even with the pain of several broken bones, Psii struggled in the snow. Only when he bled enough to impair motot functions did he finally stay put, wheezing with each hit.
no subject
Finally, he stops, not from exhaustion or mercy but because he's become bored with this, because he feels the injury done to him (the insult) has been adequately repaid and he would really like to get back to Molotov before it's dark. He considers waiting for the cannon, but his clothes are wet with Psiioniic's blood and melted snow, and so he decides instead to opt for assuming that if Psiioniic survives this it'll be an earned miracle.
"Never seen one bleed that color before," Tom says, kicking at the Psiioniic's face. And with that, he limps his way back into the trees.