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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Out in the corridors again, this time in the search for food. By some stroke of luck - prolonging the painful inevitable death was not luck, he reminded himself - he and his fellows are all still alive, dealing with the surprises the Arena had thrown them with all the grace of young men woefully unprepared. They were slowly starving to death, the entire space port was working improperly in order to torment them, and he was very close to losing his mind. It made his complaints loud and endless, which had probably struck none of them as particularly surprising, and he was sure it had grated on their nerves. Feeling miserable and sorry for himself he hadn't been particularly sympathetic.

An inability to sleep had sent him away from his companions, anxiety driving him to seek some solitude, and he could make some use of the escape by searching for something to eat. It wouldn't truly sate what it was that he thirsted for but then, nothing in the worthless place would.

A wave of dizziness suddenly overwhelmed him and he slumped heavily against the wall for a moment, breath coming shallow as he swallowed back the reflex to be sick. Sweat prickled at his brow and this was worse than death, this was torture, let him die already and be finished with it.

"You look like hell."

Tom, by contrast, appears irritable but in his element; the foppishness of his attitude in the Capitol has fallen away, like skin peeling back to reveal nothing but taut muscle. He likes indulgences, but he's accustomed to suffering. He's soldiered through jungles and lived on the lam and pulled himself out of icy oceans like some ersatz Venus. He's not afraid, but wary. He holds himself with shoulders rolled back, and when contrasted with Grantaire seems a spectacle on how youth isn't the determinative factor in survival.

His switchblade is folded in his hand, resting in his palm and out of sight, but he makes no effort to hide that he's carrying something.

"I can't imagine you hold yourself in any higher esteem now than you did the last time we met."

"Oh, say it once more, I do not think I feel it well enough, I must be reminded."

Lack of sleep, lack of food, lack of drink to do him the good service of settling his nerves, there were countless reasons that excused his poor state. Looking upon Tom with narrowed eyes he observed with grim irritation that the other man had somehow escaped the suffering that had brought him to his low state.

He also hesitated in drawing closer. While their conversation in the Capitol had been entertaining enough Grantaire hardly counted Tom among his friends, and regarded him with all the trust he would grant a dicing partner.

"Icarus still, presently falling," he admitted. "And you, in exceptionally good form. Are you playing this game to win?"

"I am. Which means I'm playing for your loss, I hope you know."

He leans against a wall, angling his head like a dingo might when presented with questionable prey. He folds his arms. He has a certain fondness for Grantaire, but that doesn't make him sentimental. Tom's warmer feelings are reserved for a much tighter circle than one that includes a one-night drinking partner.

Tom flicks his wrist and the blade of the knife emerges, and he imagines it hungry for Grantaire's sallow skin. Murder is hardly his favorite part of the "business" of terrorism, but one doesn't last long in the field if they find it too distasteful.

In a way, knowing a little bit about someone makes killing them a bit more satisfying. It's a reminder that you're snuffing out a person, not just a body. It makes the guessing game more entertaining, the difference between poker and seven-card stud, to know a little about your foe. Will Grantaire run, plead, fight? Is he as hungry for the knife as it is for him?

"Granted, with the way you look now I might even be doing you a favor."

"Why did I expect anything else?" he muttered, taking a step back. Had be been privy to Tom's thoughts he would be horrified. Grantaire was many things but taking pleasure in another's death was not in him and never would be.

"If it is all the same to you I would rather be taken by chance, I have been executed once already and found the experience wholly unsatisfying." Only because he had woken up again, in this hellish pit, forced to walk these damn halls and play at survival.

Details not worth sharing.

His eyes dropped down the the knife in Tom's hand, the corners of his mouth tightening and he watched Tom, wary and miserable.

Tom brings the knife up, not to lunge forward with it but to tap that razored edge against his chin in thought.

"It is all the same to me. Alas, it's not quite the same to our audience, is it? They expect a certain amount of performance from us. I daresay you're disappointing them." He raises an eyebrow. "Come, now. I'll even fight you hand to hand if you think they'd prefer an even duel."

Which is a farce in itself, given how Grantaire's wilted like a housebound flower and Tom's sturdy, weedlike in his ability to thrive in this damp, harsh environment.

"Then their expectations are too high, allow me the privilege of being the one to lower them."

He smiled wanly at that, finding some amusement in the banter, though he was unaccustomed to utilizing it in such a potentially fatal position.

"Grappling hand to hand, oh, that I would be a bit more amendable to, though I fear the poor partner I would make. A good show relies on partner well matched, and you will have noted how ill suited I am." He took another step back, completely unwilling to participate in any death match with this man.

"And I have a gimp leg, but you hardly see me making a production out of it." He cants his head to the side, as if thoughts are allowed to settle too much in place if they aren't swished around occasionally. "Do you even have an endgame, lad, aside from meandering around making a fool of yourself until detoxing kills you?"

He sets the knife on the ground and kicks it away, then takes a step forward, then another, hands as limp as if they would never think to fold into fists.

"I'm offering to do you mercy."

Grantaire's eyes dropped to the knife, wishing for it to fly to his own hand preserved their distance, for every step closer, he took another back. "A production! This is no production, what an insult! Any bad review I garner will be well deserved, I am not making the effort," he objected, his garrulousness glimmering before it was smothered, crushed beneath exhaustion.

His posture slackened, a puppet with strings cut and his expressions was one of wretchedness. He could take this offer and be done with it, calling it a mercy was valid and he had stood willingly before death once already, could he not do it again? But that had been for something, that had been for someone. Yes, he knew it was inevitable, yes, but this time he would spend the moments up to the end running from it.

"I decline, regretfully."

Tom frowns, continuing to step forward, wider strides to close the gap between him and Grantaire's wobbly retreat. He shakes his head and clucks his tongue like a disappointed professor.

"Alas, I'm not the sort of man who enjoys being turned down for a good brawl. Or disappointing an audience. Maybe I'm just more generous to them than you are."

And he lunges for Grantaire, bestial in his speed and ferocity, throwing a punch at the younger man's stomach.

Grantaire is overcome by a sudden swell of disgust with himself, paying for his choices in his pathetic display now. Desperately he throws his body to the left in some poor attempt to dodge the fist, but catches it painfully in his side instead, a star bright burst of pain shaking through his weakened body.

His only hope is to run, he recognizes that, being without weapon or much strength. He could make a dive for the knife that Tom has thrown aside but the weapon is there as a temptation. To believe that seizing hold of it would put him at any great advantage was a joke. If he hadn't the strength to wield the knife in the face of such a concentrated attack he had no hope of winning, unless by some happy chance Tom tripped, and fell conveniently upon the knife.

Grantaire is not relying on happy chance and makes a fumbling effort to push himself to his feet and run, his body slow and shuddering with pain. He is not fast enough, he will not be able to escape this.

Tom doesn't stop Grantaire if he moves for the knife, but he has no intent of letting him get away, and so he pursues, throwing an elbow down onto Grantaire's lower back and then kicking for his legs.

Tom's face glints with a grin that can only be sadistic, hungry for combat and for victory, for the rush of power that comes with bringing another to his knees. That Grantaire is easy prey hardly dampens the thrill at all.

"Come on, now. I took you for a nihilist, not a coward."

Grantaire falls, of course he does, the action is nearly expected. Nonetheless, knowing does not keep his knees from hitting the floor with force and he grunts at the pain. He rolls onto his back, scrambling backward and trying to stand. He is faintly aware that he is crawling back in the direction of the knife. He is also more firmly aware that he is being played with.

"Something you missed!" he blurted. "Let me go and your unforgivable inattention is forgiven."

"You're no fun when you're detoxing, Grantaire. I prefer you soaked." Tom approaches slowly, teeth flashing with a maddened grin in the dim light. "Go on, go for the knife. It may even things out."

He feels no guilt as he stalks forward, dragging his bad leg ever so slightly. He feels the same rush of power and satisfaction as he would if Grantaire were squirming beneath him in a business deal, wiggling like a lizard trying to find a corner to escape into. It's not about bloodshed, and it's not about that thin membrane between life and death, and Grantaire's likely resurrection is hardly even a consideration.

The truth is, Tom's never agreed with the simple principle that all lives are worthwhile. Everything that follows from that - killing being wrong, principally - falls under that weight like a domino. It's hedonism without restraint, pleasure-seeking without the underpinnings of remorse.

We are perfectly aligned in that opinion. He glances back to the knife again, licking his dry lips. It wouldn't serve him well, he knew that. His body was weak, he suspected the moment he was caught his own struggles would show all the pathetic strength of a child, and disarming him would be done with humiliating ease.

It would be so much easier to give up. He wondered what it said about the grasping desperation of human nature, to struggle even in the face of death. He wondered what it said about him, he who lambasted the trouble of trying and then acted thus. Grantaire knew himself perfectly capable of facing death unflinching but not like this. He supposed that should have meant something.

He scrambles for the knife and is just about to seize hold of it, his fingers brush against the hilt, when suddenly the jarring feeling of weightlessness blankets him and he is floating. The touch of his fingers knocks the knife spinning away from him in midair and it strikes the floor, bouncing off and floating further away. Grantaire sucks in a startled breath, his heart beating fast as he looks back to Tom with wide eyes, praying that he is still out of immediate reach.

In all the adrenalin, in all the thrill, Tom's forgotten to try and keep careful track of the time between each lurch of the gravity controls. It's as if the air itself has plucked them up into its mouth, mulling them over in an invisible jaw, deciding whether to swallow them or retch them up and back onto the floor.

"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.

Tom, he has decided, is a complicated man and not one he has any real interest in puzzling out right now. He takes his advice, what else can be done, and he tries to bring himself nearer to the floor, a long drop would be just one more unwelcome thing among the many he'd thus far endured.

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.

Tom, despite trying to brace against the wall, doesn't make out quite as well when the gravity returns; he lands on his feet, but as soon as he does his knees buckle under the doubled weight of the faulty controls. When a half-second later physics return to normal, he's left wondering exactly what materials are in a human knee to destroy as he gingerly picks himself up.

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."

Grantaire turns, panting, and is viciously glad to see Tom in pain. "Then it is called!" he hisses, not in the mood any longer for the absurd banter they had been exchanging. He was finished, hurting, angry at himself for his weakness and Tom for his madness. "I hope that hurt of yours brings you low in the next few hours, I hope we do not meet again in the meantime! The best of luck to you between then."

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.

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

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shall the gravity give out?

now is certainly a good time!

Re: now is certainly a good time!

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