![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
In the Race Against Time, I'll Come Out a Winner [Open]
WHO| Black Tom Cassidy, Molotov Cocktease and you!
WHAT| Joint log for the power couple, come one, come all.
WHEN| First week.
WHERE| A science lab for the joint prompt, anywhere else for the second.
WARNINGS/NOTES| Death and violence in the subthreads. Please let us know in the header if you want Tom or Molotov in specific!
Tom isn't particularly good at hiding his frustration with their current predicament. He'd entertained the fantasy of dominating this Arena, taking a rightful revenge over the people who chose to punish him both inside and out of the ring for playing the game the way the Capitol had so requested. He's in a sour mood for the most part, loath to leave Molotov and yet made irascible by her impediment, no matter how understandable it is (she does have a burn the size of a bread-load across her abdomen).
The twice-an-hour slamming certainly isn't helping matters. Even finding ways to strap themselves in hasn't prevented them from getting roughed up, and Tom has only just managed to keep from complaining. Molotov's worse off than he is, after all. He can only bemoan his bruised face and twisted ankle so much.
They trade off shifts sleeping with limited success. Molotov's injury doesn't seem to be getting infected, which is fortunate, and the Arena is sprawling enough that they've found a science lab to hole up in that hasn't seen much traffic lately. Tom's certain that the relative peace won't last, but he has a theory that the first nasty things the Gamemakers will send at them will be through the ominous abandoned zones in the lower floors.
The one thing he can take great delight in is knowing that he and he alone has the pleasure of resting next to Molotov, even if it is in this terrible environment. For all the troubles of adjusting to a partnership where they're both calling shots, rather than him being the de facto brains of the operation, he appreciates the company. It's worth the irritation of having to consult another person who can't be easily swayed.
The science lab, thankfully, has a window of one-way glass, and he and Molotov spend their time behind that, watching as people come through. He's sure that once upon a time, scientists were supposed to stand behind this, watching their test subjects. They have no friends, but some of the people they'd rather not pick a fight with they let pass unharmed.
As for the others, Tom's quite fond of wandering out from behind the pane of glass with a bit of a swagger to his limp to add some drama to the impending conflict.
-/-
Tom's not afraid when he scouts out the empty corridors, but he is wary. The limitations of his powers have become painfully obvious in this Arena, and with his reputation very well ruined by the events of the last one, he can't afford many chance encounters. He has faith that he and Molotov can win, one or the other, but not that their luck will make it happen.
There's a fine line between arrogance and overconfidence.
He has Molotov's switchblade tucked against his wrist, ready to emerge at a moment's notice. This time, he doesn't bother with pleasantries with anyone who's seen footage of him in the last Arena; he either avoids them entirely or he engages them with militaristic efficiency. He pauses at corners and listens at each one to make sure he doesn't just stumble across someone, and he keeps to shadows when he can, never entering a room with too many places for someone to catch him unawares.
WHAT| Joint log for the power couple, come one, come all.
WHEN| First week.
WHERE| A science lab for the joint prompt, anywhere else for the second.
WARNINGS/NOTES| Death and violence in the subthreads. Please let us know in the header if you want Tom or Molotov in specific!
Tom isn't particularly good at hiding his frustration with their current predicament. He'd entertained the fantasy of dominating this Arena, taking a rightful revenge over the people who chose to punish him both inside and out of the ring for playing the game the way the Capitol had so requested. He's in a sour mood for the most part, loath to leave Molotov and yet made irascible by her impediment, no matter how understandable it is (she does have a burn the size of a bread-load across her abdomen).
The twice-an-hour slamming certainly isn't helping matters. Even finding ways to strap themselves in hasn't prevented them from getting roughed up, and Tom has only just managed to keep from complaining. Molotov's worse off than he is, after all. He can only bemoan his bruised face and twisted ankle so much.
They trade off shifts sleeping with limited success. Molotov's injury doesn't seem to be getting infected, which is fortunate, and the Arena is sprawling enough that they've found a science lab to hole up in that hasn't seen much traffic lately. Tom's certain that the relative peace won't last, but he has a theory that the first nasty things the Gamemakers will send at them will be through the ominous abandoned zones in the lower floors.
The one thing he can take great delight in is knowing that he and he alone has the pleasure of resting next to Molotov, even if it is in this terrible environment. For all the troubles of adjusting to a partnership where they're both calling shots, rather than him being the de facto brains of the operation, he appreciates the company. It's worth the irritation of having to consult another person who can't be easily swayed.
The science lab, thankfully, has a window of one-way glass, and he and Molotov spend their time behind that, watching as people come through. He's sure that once upon a time, scientists were supposed to stand behind this, watching their test subjects. They have no friends, but some of the people they'd rather not pick a fight with they let pass unharmed.
As for the others, Tom's quite fond of wandering out from behind the pane of glass with a bit of a swagger to his limp to add some drama to the impending conflict.
-/-
Tom's not afraid when he scouts out the empty corridors, but he is wary. The limitations of his powers have become painfully obvious in this Arena, and with his reputation very well ruined by the events of the last one, he can't afford many chance encounters. He has faith that he and Molotov can win, one or the other, but not that their luck will make it happen.
There's a fine line between arrogance and overconfidence.
He has Molotov's switchblade tucked against his wrist, ready to emerge at a moment's notice. This time, he doesn't bother with pleasantries with anyone who's seen footage of him in the last Arena; he either avoids them entirely or he engages them with militaristic efficiency. He pauses at corners and listens at each one to make sure he doesn't just stumble across someone, and he keeps to shadows when he can, never entering a room with too many places for someone to catch him unawares.
no subject
"This will be easier for all of us, Eponine, if you stop making a racket." His knuckles go red and white over Eponine's mouth. "You may as well thank Molotov for making it so quick as this."
no subject
"Don't! Oh, I can be useful - I can - oh, please -"
She tries to grab the knife, but to no avail, and she doubles over in pain, screaming out her agony as the knifeplunges into her. Her legs are unsteady; she'd fall, if not for the support from Tom as he pulls her back to cover her mouth. Too late she realises that he is yet another person she can't trust. She sobs quietly, and snot drips from her nose onto his hand, and she closes her eyes, already dizzy, waiting for the death blow.
no subject
She feels the orbital bone crunch under her fist. What gall this foul little wench has, to think that she exists in the same realm as Molotov? That Tom would ever choose such a stupid, weak girl over his red gloriosa?
There's one more punch before she wrenches the knife from Eponine's neck so that the blood gushes out faster, so that her blood pressure will drop instantly. But she's petty, so Molotov stabs her once more on the other side of her jugular. Just for funsies.
no subject
Still, he understands the need for rage. He knows that Molotov usually is much more professional about these things.
Eponine's not even entirely dead before Tom says "we should get her to an airlock before her bowels go slack. I don't want to deal with the mess."
no subject
Molotov takes a step back and nods, breathing a little hard. With the blinders of anger gone, she can feel the throbbing of her middle, the soreness of her fist. She wraps her arm around her waist, clutching at her side, then leans against a table.."You take her, I need to sit down."
no subject
The airlock isn't far, and bloody footprints leave a clear path to it from his and Molotov's hiding place. When he returns, he's got a bit of a frown at the fact that they'll have to relocate from their convenient two-way glass, or clean. He bends over the blood marks and using small fireballs, starts to scour and scorch away the evidence of the crime.
no subject