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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.
no subject
She wraps her arms around his waist, winces at the movement's impact on her middle. "I promise. If you drool, too."
no subject
Let the Capitol speculate on their romance. He's endlessly bitter that this Arena is one without Sponsor gifts, when he's so certain that there are fans on the other side salivating over their relationship, projecting themselves into shoes they could never hope to fill. Tom has no interest in the groupies that clamor for his attention in the city, that imagine that if they had Molotov's body or face that they could steal his heart. He knows his affection for her runs deeper.
And it terrifies him, and it's why sleep won't be coming now. He's worried not about his foes but about his ally, the woman next to him poisoning his better judgment with her wiles.
"Have you ever been in space before?"
no subject
Molotov buries everything she feels, thinks only about the here and now, and not anything deeper.
"You think that," she teases, then sighs. "I can't say I have. Not too many targets out in space."
no subject
He rests his hand on her chest, listening to her heartbeat through his palm. "It must be nice, to look at the stars and see a vast frontier."
no subject
"Even if they are out there, I've never really been in the line of work to interact with them." She gives a little chuckle. "That's the superscientist racket, the heroes and villains and all that nonsense. I'm busy with the politicians and the drug lords on Earth."
She sighs again, nuzzles her nose to his neck. "What do you see, then?"
no subject
"More of where sentient beings have mucked everything up. To be honest, I never really was much for space. I prefer the powers of the Earth." He sighs deeply and pats her shoulder. "I hate this Arena. I honestly do."
no subject
She's frowning now, her brow knit with irritation, body going tense. "I don't know how this can possibly be entertaining for anyone. We haven't even heard any screaming, that can't be good television."
no subject
He growls, nearly. "Had I my powers..."
no subject
It's a little thing, the only thing she can think of, and she knows it doesn't help or make him feel any better. Nothing helps in this stupid Arena, this whole idiotic concoction of the Gamemakers. But maybe it counts for something if they look at the very, very small list of positives: his kill count, his powers, her supplies from the Cornucopia.
no subject
"I wanted to show you magic."
no subject
It's yawned, her hands loosening their grip on him as she finally starts to feel the lull of sleep looming around her mind. She doesn't really want to sleep, as it's both risky and means she'll be leaving Tom alone, but she's to weak to be very resistant.
"I don't need fireworks. Just you and potatoes."
no subject
"Sleep, my dear."
no subject
"Wake me up if you need me," she mumbles, and more of her weight falls against him as she nods off, finally, blissfully.