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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.
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.
Re: now is certainly a good time!
"Damn!" By fortune, the knife comes towards Tom after ricocheting off the wall, and he easily catches and palms it. Less fortunately, he finds that his last step, the one he made right before the gravity kicked out, has sent shockwaves through his bad leg, as if he stepped onto a place where he expected a stair and found nothing to support his weight. And it pushes him away from Grantaire, the two of them floating slowly away from each other.
"Brace yourself, lad..." Tom frowns, dispensing advice to the man he was so eager to kill mere moments ago. He's sure Grantaire knows what's going to come next: the unpleasant crash, gravity weighing twofold on their bodies as it slams them to the ground with the vindictiveness of a petty god. He could try and push off the nearest surface he hits and pursue Grantaire, but he worries now, with his leg throbbing, what will happen if the crash comes next with him not braced.
no subject
The thought of even beginning to list them exhausted him, he was growing tired of all the complaints he had, piled high as some god forsaken barricade.
"Heard, noted, embraced even, if one can hope to practice it, God damn this farce, damn our audience double!" Grantaire bumped against the wall and moved too quickly, slapping his hand flat against the wall. It sent him spinning in the opposite direction and he cursed. The one bit of luck he suffered was that he was sent down instead of higher to the ceiling and so when the gravity returned just as abruptly as it had vanished the distance he had to fall was not nearly so bad as it could have been.
Small comfort when he still managed to bang his hip painfully upon the floor, pushing himself to his feet again with a pained groan, limping to put more distance between them.
no subject
It's agony, and he finds himself leaning against a wall to spread out his own bodyweight better. Were Grantaire within arm's reach right now, Tom would just stab him in the neck and be done with it, but the boy's a good few yards away and Tom isn't willing to take the steps - the physical steps - necessary to close the distance.
He'll be able to walk without pain soon, he hopes. After he sits here a while with his legs still and slightly elevated.
"You know, I think we should call it even, right here." He pulls the knife back out, flipping it in his hands as if daring Grantaire to try and claim he'd won. As if he's being so magnanimous. "If you want to walk, now's a good time for it."
no subject
He sneers the words and would execute a bow if he thought it would not compromise his own steadiness and settles for retreat. He waves a hand, the only gesture of farewell he will make before he leaves Tom. To think Grantaire had been so well entertained and charmed by the man when they had first met. To think he should he surprised by the betrayal is the greater shame. Ah well, he had never claimed to not be a damn fool.