Black Tom Cassidy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pimpcanes) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2014-10-03 06:00 pm
pimpcanes) wrote in thecapitol2014-10-03 06:00 pm
Among the Garbage and the Flowers [OPEN]
WHO| Black Tom Cassidy and open!
WHAT| Black Tom's back from the Arena and is talking to plants and stuff.
WHEN| A few days after the end of the Arena.
WHERE| District Ten Suites and in the Tribute Center garden.
WARNINGS| None yet, except for rampant douchebaggery.
OPTION A
Tom's been making himself quite at home in the District Suite. Compared to the mall, the Suites are a sort of resort, all steaming hot showers and fine clothing and disgustingly luxurious meals. He finds that the hand-and-foot service of the Avoxes, while somewhat disconcerting at first, is quite palatable to his moods at times, and convenient when it comes to getting the lay of the land - the mute slaves can't talk, but they can point him in the right direction more often than not.
Unfortunately, Molotov hadn't warned him that he was going to be rooming with the people he tried to kill. Tom spends nearly five minutes trying to decide how to play this, considering whether he should blame the poisoned water or feign atonement, then decides that he doesn't really care enough about Carlos and Clara's opinions to debase himself for nothing like that.
After not-very-much deliberation this morning, he puts on the sole t-shirt that the Avoxes have stocked in his closet, a plain white one with the words I KILLED THOR in bold print. He goes to the kitchen, using his cane because he just woke up and his leg is stiffer in the morning, and finds that his Districtmates have been kind enough to leave half a pot of coffee. He pours some for himself.
One of the Avoxes prepares him breakfast as he sits back in one of the lounge chairs. He whistles while he begins scrolling through the network device for interesting news.
OPTION B
The garden at the Tribute Center isn't entirely to Tom's liking, though he appreciates that the Capitol provided one. It's too sterile, for one, too many clean lines and white walls of the same plastic and metal of most of the other buildings here. The flowers, genetically-engineered and visually stunning, have been tended by slaves and automatic sprinkler systems. They feel lonely, sad hands of the earth reaching up for a loving touch.
Tom's always had a way with plants. When he was a child, while Sean kicked a football around, Tom liked to work in the dirt, feeling almost at one with the silent, gentle life around him. His power manifested first as raging, inexplicable fevers that would last for days on end, and he might have thought himself cursed had he not eventually realized that the upside to the mutation that caused him so much suffering was that he could feel the energy coursing through plants. As he went through puberty this new world opened up to him, the currents that ran through roots and wood and leaves standing out like the strings of a violin, one only he could see and play.
He gets down on his knees and gingerly touches an orchid the size of a dinner plate. Despite its resplendence, he can see that it needs water, that it's being slowly choked by the growth around it.
"Someone hasn't been giving you the attention you deserve, have they? No matter. Black Tom Cassidy's here for you."
And he begins to work.
WHAT| Black Tom's back from the Arena and is talking to plants and stuff.
WHEN| A few days after the end of the Arena.
WHERE| District Ten Suites and in the Tribute Center garden.
WARNINGS| None yet, except for rampant douchebaggery.
OPTION A
Tom's been making himself quite at home in the District Suite. Compared to the mall, the Suites are a sort of resort, all steaming hot showers and fine clothing and disgustingly luxurious meals. He finds that the hand-and-foot service of the Avoxes, while somewhat disconcerting at first, is quite palatable to his moods at times, and convenient when it comes to getting the lay of the land - the mute slaves can't talk, but they can point him in the right direction more often than not.
Unfortunately, Molotov hadn't warned him that he was going to be rooming with the people he tried to kill. Tom spends nearly five minutes trying to decide how to play this, considering whether he should blame the poisoned water or feign atonement, then decides that he doesn't really care enough about Carlos and Clara's opinions to debase himself for nothing like that.
After not-very-much deliberation this morning, he puts on the sole t-shirt that the Avoxes have stocked in his closet, a plain white one with the words I KILLED THOR in bold print. He goes to the kitchen, using his cane because he just woke up and his leg is stiffer in the morning, and finds that his Districtmates have been kind enough to leave half a pot of coffee. He pours some for himself.
One of the Avoxes prepares him breakfast as he sits back in one of the lounge chairs. He whistles while he begins scrolling through the network device for interesting news.
OPTION B
The garden at the Tribute Center isn't entirely to Tom's liking, though he appreciates that the Capitol provided one. It's too sterile, for one, too many clean lines and white walls of the same plastic and metal of most of the other buildings here. The flowers, genetically-engineered and visually stunning, have been tended by slaves and automatic sprinkler systems. They feel lonely, sad hands of the earth reaching up for a loving touch.
Tom's always had a way with plants. When he was a child, while Sean kicked a football around, Tom liked to work in the dirt, feeling almost at one with the silent, gentle life around him. His power manifested first as raging, inexplicable fevers that would last for days on end, and he might have thought himself cursed had he not eventually realized that the upside to the mutation that caused him so much suffering was that he could feel the energy coursing through plants. As he went through puberty this new world opened up to him, the currents that ran through roots and wood and leaves standing out like the strings of a violin, one only he could see and play.
He gets down on his knees and gingerly touches an orchid the size of a dinner plate. Despite its resplendence, he can see that it needs water, that it's being slowly choked by the growth around it.
"Someone hasn't been giving you the attention you deserve, have they? No matter. Black Tom Cassidy's here for you."
And he begins to work.