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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: MOLOTOV AND EPONINE
After a while, she comes across the science labs. She doesn't really recognise them for what they are, but she does hope for food or water in a cupboard. She creeps in as silently as she can, the first aid kit and gels tied about her waist with rope knocking against her thighs as she walks, looking around cautiously. And of course, it is Black Tom whom she spots, and her worried expression breaks into a happy smile.
"Sir! Oh, Mr. Tom! Do you have any food I might have? I will pay you back, truly, but I am so dizzy, I mayn't go another step without seeing people throwing knives at me, or the like. Please! I promise I will replace it."
Had she seen Molotov, Eponine would be running back out the door or using a teleport gel to get away. As it is, she moves closer to Tom.
no subject
Anyway, there are worse foods for an Irishman and a Russian to be eating at every meal.
When Eponine comes in, whining and begging as usual, Molotov slinks down to the floor behind the one-way glass, holding tight to her switchblade and waiting for Tom to sufficiently distract the little brat. She might have promised that last Arena's gruesome murder was because of the thievery, but this one would be for the game.
no subject
He leans against one of the counters, one that used to be stacked high with beakers and test tubes and now is nothing but a nice, clean surface to look at people over. He looks at his fingernails. He watches Molotov from the corner of his eye. He's a cat toying with a mouse.
"It's not that I'm totally heartless, mind you, but how do you plan on replacing our food when you clearly can't find any of your own to start with?"
no subject
She steps back a little, watching Tom warily. Her confidence is already fading: an unsettling feeling is stirring in her stomach. It's that same sort of feeling she used to get in the pit of her belly when she lied to her father or Montparnasse about how much money she'd got, so she could keep some for herself. It was definitely a feeling of trouble brewing.
"I..." She has no answer for Tom. How can she get food?
"I can steal it for you. I am a good thief, Sir, clever with my fingers. I swear. Only, I wanted to be good. Wanted to ask so I could win. When I win, next time, I will keep you fed all arena. I swear. Please, Mr. Cassidy?" She's still edging backwards, closer and closer to the door. This is definitely a mistake: she needs to live, and to live, she needs to remain unhurt at all. And right now, she's not sure at all whether Tom is friend or foe.
no subject
She takes a potato and hands it up to Tom, nodding at him. Let her trust you. Dead girls can't eat potatoes anyway.
no subject
He sighs, then smiles with an expression almost kindly. "So perhaps we could be a team for that reason. There are so few people who understand a robber's creed, am I right?"
no subject
She is so thankful that she is actually getting somewhere for a change. And if he takes her up on her offer... let him kill off a few dozen people, and then find a way to get rid of Tom, so that she, Eponine, can win.
no subject
She'd been planning to make it quick, a slit of the throat or a twist of the neck. Easy for everyone.
That plan is gone now.
Eponine just never seems to learn.
no subject
He's done drawing this out. His tone gets serious, snapping into place like a tumbler in a lock.
"Regardless, come here and I won't hurt you." He raises his gaze to Molotov, ghoul-faced and now positioned between Eponine and the exit. "But she certainly will."
no subject
"No. No, Tom! Mr - oh no, don't"
She tried to get behind Tom, and use him, almost as a human shield . She couldn't let Molotov get her , not after last time , not after how painful it had been , and humiliating, and all the rest. And she knew Molotov would be furious now.
"Please - Mr Tom - Cassidy - please don't let her hurt me - Molotov, please!"
no subject
"Come on, then," she snarls, stabbing the knife forward, aiming for Eponine's kidney. "Show me how much better you are." Molotov pulls back, then stabs again, and again. "Not so brave to speak up now, are you?"
Her arm comes up, and the knife comes down, toward the big artery in the side of the girl's neck.
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."
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"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