thearena | In the Race Against Time, I'll Come Out a Winner [Open]

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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.

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Tom moves in shadow, a wraith of the underworld. As irate as he is about how useless his powers are here, that doesn't make him helpless, and Molotov's knife in his hand has made him into threat enough to start hunting down others. When he hears conversation, he presses himself against a wall down the corridor, listening in until he can place the voices with faces from the Arena tapes. He's never met Albert, Felicity or Jet before, but he knows well enough that they'll hardly be allies to him here.

He waits. Soon the girl will pass by him, and he can take Felicity as a hostage and 'negotiate' with them. It'll make for good television, a damsel in distress and her gallant pair of knights. The only thing that could go wrong would be if one of the said knights were to pass by first.

"Alright, Flash Gordon. Why don't you and Princess Aura here keep your feet on the ground instead of in space." Despite his disparagement, Albert relaxes a little at his husband's antics. He can't stay so tense with Jet reminding him of their early days, the then-red head regaling him with stories from his comic books ("graphic novels") or just things he came up with from his own head. Jet certainly was creative, and it's even more softening to see Felicity feeding into that joy of creativity and imagination that they both share.

In spite of himself, he smiles warmly at the both of them, a few steps behind.

Albert's reference had gone right over Felicity's head, but she was content to play make believe anyway. Humming softly, she continued on her merry way, skipping along after Jet playfully. What a pleasant reminder it was that she didn't have to be a complete grown up if she didn't want to. "What do you see up ahead, Captain Link? Are there any space pirates afoot?"

Jet's grin widened and he turned back to continue heading down the hall. An adventure through space with potential danger around every corner. It was so easy to imagine.

"None yet, Madame Worthington, but stay on your toes, these fiends like to set traps! How does it look from the rear, Mr. Heinrich? And spare us your senile rants." He shot a soft look back at the both of them, to Felicity to show her he appreciated her indulgence and the one for Albert so he'd know Jet didn't really think he was senile. Ninety-nine percent of the time.

It isn't Felicity who passes closest to him. It's Jet. At that moment, Tom realizes that he has two options, equally risky; either who could try and do hell unto a cyborg, knowing that the fight will likely end up one-on-three, or he could try and retreat, knowing they might pursue him anyway.

He trusts his gut instinct, which is to try and reduce the number of enemies as quickly as he can. He lunges forward out of the darkness, knife brandished, and plunges it into Jet's face from behind, hoping to hit brain (that's the only surefire vulnerability). He throws his arm around Jet's neck and clamps on, keeping the man from throwing him or falling forward, as a shield for just a moment before he makes his next move.

It's over in an instant yet seems to take an eon. In one instant Jet is laughing and playing pretend and in the next the interior of his skull is splattered on a long knife and the hand wielding it. Brain matter squeezes around the edges of the wound like toothpaste from its tube and it's not blood that accompanies it, but the viscous, darker colored fluid that's replaced it in his cybernetic body, something that send an acrid machine-shop sort of scent into the air, still metallic but more crude.

And it all happened right in front of Albert's face, leaving him flat-footed, slack-jawed, and unable to prevent the attack.

There's no scream of anguish, though it's clear in his eyes it's there, simply not voiced. Instead Albert's expression drops into sub-zero, all emotion drained from his expression and a frigid and eerie calm left in its wake as he surges forward, a long knife snapping out of his hand to be brandished at Tom as he goes.

It takes a second before Felicity even realizes what's happened, a second too long to do anything to help Jet. She realizes as much in an instant, that no matter what happens, there's no saving her friend. Instead, her instincts take over and she gives herself over to the goddess she'd committed herself to centuries ago. While Felicity has no magic of her own, she could swear the spirit and power of Artemis are guiding her as she draws her own dagger and darts around their assailant, intent on stabbing Tom quickly in the back.

Tom moves too quickly for Felicity's first blow to hit; he shoves Jet's corpse at his husband as a human hurdle and twists out of Felicity's way. The blade slips from Jet's eye, wetted on blood and brain and god only knows what else, sending a splattering wick across the wall. He throws a slash at Felicity's face, unaware if it hits, more concerned at the moment with putting a little distance between him and at least one of his enraged foes.

He gets a foot of space, and that's enough for him. He turns and he runs.

Albert's first instinct with Jet's body being flung at him is to catch. He does, with a heavy noise of covered metal striking the same and lets out a small sound of pain. It's not from being hit with the mess Tom had made of his husband, but instead a less concrete agony. Every time. Every time Jet goes out, before or after, whether he's there or not, it tears at it. It never gets easier, never less raw or less painful.

He takes long enough to lower Jet to the floor, to cover Jet's face - he can't leave his lover like that for the whole of Panem to gawk at - and steps back. His demeanor remains cold despite his tender handling of Jet in death, and the look he gives Felicity if she's still there with him is as cold and frigid as the void outside. His knife still extended, Albert snaps to attention and starts down the corridor through which Tom has fled, either after Felicity's lead or expecting her to follow in his wake.

Either way, Black Tom Cassidy has little time left to live.

Tom's blade slices her cheek, a relatively superficial wound in light of the damage he'd done to Jet just seconds before. She doesn't hiss, doesn't scream. She doesn't even flinch. She's instead locked eyes with Albert, knowing that while Tom has drawn first blood, he's drawn it for the last time.

Albert needn't say a word. Felicity is at his side, sprinting after Tom at full speed, weapon still in hand. She's unbothered by the gash on her cheek, determined to catch up to the bastard and drive her knife into him.

Tom isn't fast enough. He realizes this belatedly, and feels almost as if he's been cheated by some cosmic first to have understood this only after waging an attack instead of trying to retreat. He's adequately judged Albert but Felicity- he could kick himself for underestimating the teenage girl who made it to the final week every Arena.

He turns a tight corner and, rather than trying to keep running, decides to stand and fight, using the blind fishtail of the corridor as a way to make a quick ambush. As soon as Felicity round the corner, he'll try and his her in the neck with his blade. He exhales through his nose and grips the handle of the knife tight, preparing to swing it at the person coming at him.

It's not hard for Felicity to gain distance on Albert. She's much lighter than he is with all his artillery built in, even when not loaded for bear. He is, however, hard to stop when he gets going, and virtually impervious to anything lower on the technological scale than a laser. Tom's shot on Jet was a lucky one; he'd hit the one place Albert's husband was vulnerable, but Albert himself? Even his skull is alloy.

But it means very little if he can't catch up with Felicity.

Quick as she is, she temporarily loses sight of Tom as he leads her through the halls and so she must slow her pace some. This gives her caution, elevates her hunter's instincts as she treads lightly on his trail. Her slowed speed gives enough time for Albert to catch up to her, though she doesn't say a word as they continue after Tom. Moments later, they'll wind up rounding that corner to face the enemy. Felicity's knife is at the ready.

Tom twists around the corner intending to hit Felicity with his own blade, but he's made a fatal mistake: he misjudged her height. He swings the knife for her head, giving her enough space to duck beneath it and take a shot, possibly completely unharmed.

Felicity does duck, at once grateful for her height working in her favor. She doesn't give in to the surprise though. There simply isn't time. She uses this chance to push herself forward and toward Tom again, knife at the ready, aiming for something swift and sure.

Albert comes upon them a moment later, taking a breath of time to compute the situation. Felicity at close quarters means Tom can't use his longer reach to his advantage against her. He seems to even be having trouble with fighting a much smaller opponent. Small enough that Albert, after that one moment of assessment, decides he can use it to his advantage.

And, well, what is it they always say? Tom should pick on someone his own size.

Felicity goes for Tom's gut and Albert sprints, taking a great leap and grabbing onto a protruding bar from above in the corridor's ceiling. On the heels of Felicity's blow are Albert's literal heels as he swings from the bar once like a pendulum, aiming to plant both of his metal, boot-clad feet against Tom's face with the entire weight of his over half-ton body swinging behind them.

It isn't because Tom's trying to avoid Albert's feet that he takes Felicity's knife to the gut, but it is because of his instinctive dodge that the blade sinks as deep as it does, ripping through muscle and organs alike on the way in and near-sawing through the viscera back on the way out. Blood spatters across the wall in a straight line that seems nearly unnatural, like a laceration in the wall rather than in Tom's body.

He throws a backhand at Felicity and continues his forward momentum past her and under Albert, hurling himself at a transportation chute that'll take him upwards or downwards or anywhere else. It'll take him to escape, and that's what matters. He grabs the wooden necklace around his neck and a flash of heat and light from his palm melts the control panel right after he's set the chute into motion for himself. He is, very suddenly, beyond their reach.

But the wound is fatal, and the amount of blood over even that small distance between them and the chute should be enough to tell them that.

Felicity reels from the slap, but she's somehow able to back away from Tom as he staggers past them and away. She considers the merits of chasing him for a moment, but a quick glance down to her blood soaked sleeve and outfit assure her the Tom isn't worth expending further energy. No one could survive that. Not for long anyway.

She turns then to Albert, face stony and resolute after their nightmarish encounter though her body communicates something else. She's breathing hard, adrenaline sending her body shaking. She isn't sure what to do, can't tell what to say. What can she say to Albert, when he's just lost Jet and they've just committed together. Hesitating, she trots to him, dagger falling to the floor as she silently throws her arms around Albert.

His kick goes wide as Tom ducks and the bar in the ceiling breaks, not able to hold Albert's considerable weight. He tumbles behind Tom, left in the proverbial dust as the younger man is sliced and makes his escape. From the spray of blood, he won't make it far regardless.

Albert collects himself from the floor, not hurt at all for not landing on his head and undamaged as apparently the alloy from which he's constructed is stronger than that of the station, judging by the dent he's placed in the floor. Once standing, he dusts himself off and retracts the knife, not managing to turn around before Felicity's arms are around his waist and her face is buried against his back.

It was easier thinking about Tom's last moments of life, of taking stock of his injuries or lack there of, but with Fee hugging him comes feeling. Ebbing anger, choking grief, and a numbness that seeps into his heart. Or that was always there, and Fee's contact let it free.

Either way, he simply places his hand atop hers, not sure what else to do or say, just standing with a blank face and either unwilling or unable to show his grief.

"Come, Albert," Fee whispers softly, pleading with him in hopes of wiping that blank expression from his face. "We have to get out of here. There's been too much commotion. And besides, we may be able to get back to Jet before they take him. We can tell him goodbye."

"He's already gone." He imagines there's no emotion in his voice. It's how he feels now regardless, or wants to feel. Empty. But even if he hears nothing, there's a crack there, at the end of his words.

"He'll be in the Capitol when this is over." And watching until then, which is why he can't follow Tom further, can't throw himself after the man in a desire to run head first into Molotov - he has to be running to Molotov, after all - and fall on her knife like a good little murder victim. He could probably take her normally, or at least make a good fight of it, but the way he'd let her do him in now would easily betray that death was on his mind the all along.

But Felicity's here, and while she's demonstrated she can take care of herself, he still considers himself her guardian for now. He can't help it, she's so young...

"You are right though, we should move. Someone or something might smell the blood." He starts to pull away.

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iphigeneia - 2015-04-02 03:42 (UTC) - Expand

It takes him a while to get to Molotov, and when he finally makes it to the lab they've started their occupation in, his face is pallid, his skin nearly translucent, his lips the mottled grey of a corpse. He's left a trail of blood behind him, unfurling like an errant piece of yarn throughout the space station.

"Molotov!" he wheezes, closing the door behind him and then promptly collapsing, sitting against the wall. Blood continues to seep through his clothing, having painted the fabric down one thigh entirely and most of his abdomen. He holds his hand over it and the contrast of his pale fingers and the red blood is akin to poppies in summertime.

It's the worst thing she could have imagined. She crawls toward him, too pained to maneuver herself into a standing position. "No, no no no," she mumbles, sitting next to him, putting her hand over his, staunching the flow. "No, Tom, you have to stop bleeding, please."

There's panic in her face, something that rarely graces her features, and pain and concern, and even fear. She didn't see him die last Arena. She's not sure she wants to see it now, and yet she can't leave him like this. He already looks dead, and it makes her stomach turn, makes her feel desperate in a way that she never does.

"You can't die," she whispers. "Not now."

"I'll try." He reaches for her with his free hand, one that has his blood on it too. He knows full well, from bleeding out last time, that he doesn't have a say in it now, that no force of will can save him, that death is inevitable. But what else is he supposed to say to her when her face is so scared, so panicked?

He never thought he'd see that expression on his gloriosa's face. It speaks of something they share that's more special than he wants to give words to, something that terrifies him in its realness. He loves her, he knows that, he isn't too self-deluded to realize that, but he can't say it.

"Albert Heinrich and Felicity Worthington. They did this." He winces and arches his neck slightly as a shudder of pain rolls up his body like the tide. He can feel the world slipping away from him, blacking out at the corners like a badly-developed photograph.

There are tears in her eye, ones that don't slide down, but linger on her waterline, shimmering, and she nods when he gives her the names. Molotov bends down, putting her forehead on his and letting her hair fall all around them to act like a curtain.

"Please, Tom, please. I need you."

She's choking on her words, knowing logically that it's ending and neither of them can stop it, but unable to let go of the thought that if he just tries hard enough, if she wants it enough, that he'll make it through.

"Tell me what you want."

In the Race Against Time, I'll Come Out a Winner [Open]

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cw: blood/gore/gross death

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Felicity next?

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