Among the Garbage and the Flowers [OPEN]

[pimpcanes]

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.

Comments

[pimpcanes]

Tom wants to say that that answers one question begged in that statement (whether she was ever with Cyrus) but fails to respond to whether she considers herself with him already, but he both knows better than to push and somewhat prefers the uncertainty. Why fixate on labels and possession when they can just enjoy each others' company, minds, bodies?

He lets her head rest on his shoulder again, linking his hands at the small of her back. "I still have to meet this Cyrus Reagan. He must have quite a lot of influence if anyone even thought you'd give him the time of day."

A Capitol version of a black tie is probably some polka-dotted monstrosity that shoots sequins and feathers at unsuspecting passers-by. "If, by some machination of heaven, there were only one thing I knew how to do, it would be to dress for an occasion."

[molotov]

She doesn't elaborate. He still has time to escape, to get away from her powerful sense of property and ownership. Approximately twelve hours, if he plans on bedding her tonight.

"He works directly under order from President Snow," she says. "Rich family, good-looking, extremely powerful in politics. Good at double-talking. He and his brother, my District's Escort, they are famous in their own right for being born with the right last name. Think Kennedy."

Molotov smiles, rapping her fingers against his sternum. "You can wear the tee shirt that says I BLEW UP THE FOOD COURT."

[pimpcanes]

Why escape when captivity can be so sweet? He leans back, then in and rests his forehead against hers.

"He may be a valuable ally to have here. Perhaps you shouldn't cut your ties yet."

Tom's mouth forms a thin line that shows that he's actually a little bit annoyed with his competitors. "From the way they're going on, it's as if they think I actually targeted children with the bombing. I didn't know it would be so populated with minors."

Petulant? Just a little. But intentionally singling out and killing children is a bit beyond the pale even for him.

[molotov]

"Oh, I can't cut ties with him. I use his bathroom. It's private." Molotov is, occasionally, a woman of very simple desires. A private bathroom is one of them.

She smiles and closes her eye, shifting just enough to touch their noses together. "I think they believe you went after the little girl at the end intentionally. She was the weakest one left. You also didn't cry and sob and apologize about it -- they want remorse. Tears and what have you." She sighs contentedly, peeks at him and reaches up to stroke at his chin.

"I hate people who apologize for things like that."

[pimpcanes]

"They must imagine tears and blubbering would put her broken head back together," he mutters, until her fingers draw him back into a happier place. Her touch has a way of doing that, an electric impulse as righting as any shock therapy. He closes his eyes for a beat too long to be a blink, not unlike a cat getting its ears scratched. "I would rather waste my breath on the living."

Namely, hunting them down and killing them to win, but those are small details.

[molotov]

"The Capitol put her broken head back together, I imagine she was revived roughly at the same time you were." She lets her thumb slide up his jawline, eyes cast down to watch her hand, his mouth, the place where the tips of their noses still connect. "I'll apologize when I kill you. Only because it's a shame that you'll have to go through an arena without me."

Molotov did apologize to Dave Strider, by way of a cookie bouquet. But it was only because she had been unusually brutal from exhaustion, and she has a sense of propriety about her dramatics. Plus it's a pain in the ass to have to live next to his creepy brother, so she thought maybe a peace offering would make day-to-day life more bearable.

Tom would condone it if he knew about the puppets.

"Waste it on me."

[pimpcanes]

"I'll be holding you to supporting me once you're out and I'm in there. Not that I'll need the help, but it'll be comforting?"

His fingers wind through her hair, down the side of her face, and he closes his eyes so he can appreciate the warmth of her body against his, her forehead on his.

"How best would you like me to praise you?" he whispers, leaning in close to her ear, letting his breath roll over a patch of her neck like river over stone.

[molotov]

"I can't be your Mentor, but I have the contacts to keep you flush in supplies," she coos, her own eye falling shut as he moves his hand. His words hit her like a warm beam of sunshine, forcing up a small sigh even as she smothers the urge to shudder with happiness.

Fingers tightening where she holds him, she smiles. "I'll test them all."

[pimpcanes]

"I think the people who will reap those benefits will be the other Tributes, since I'll have less reason to steal from them. I may just pour myself a drink and watch them all kill each other, see what it's like as a viewer rather than a participant. I'll be watching with you in spirit."

Although odds are people will be gunning for him in the next Arena. He thinks he probably won't get much time to rest.

"I'd appreciate that. I like you for your conversation and your mind as much as anything else."

[molotov]

"I am a liquor spokesperson," she chuckles. "I'll have to see what can be done. They may not allow mixers."

Her fingers curl idly in his shirt, and her head angles slightly as she opens her eye just a bit to look at him, peeking at him through her eyelashes.

Molotov can't help but to bite her bottom lip for a moment. "Waiting for you to come back was almost as hard as dying. I had no one to talk to."

[pimpcanes]

"Imagine if we were to be the faces of rival liquor companies. The media frenzy would be unimaginable."

He leans down and kisses that lip, as if trying to push away the nervousness with his own mouth. "It's not fair that you should suffer because they couldn't find other good company for you."

[molotov]

Her grip on him tightens in that beat, and she keeps looking at him. "There's other company I could keep. Jolie, the Stylist from 8, or Cyrus Reagan, who at least provides conversation that doesn't bore me to death. But I didn't want them. They don't compare. They don't understand like you do."

Of course, it's rare that most people would be able to connect over their disdain for things like organized villainy and general criminal activity, so it's only high praise in the fact that Molotov means for it to be.

[pimpcanes]

"Other company, maybe, but I'm your favorite." And for the moment, he's satisfied with that, and her praise is like the harking of angels. It's a prize he's quite happy to have won, one that was worth the effort.

"We could rule the world together, if we were interested, you know."

[molotov]

Arms raising to loop tightly around his neck, Molotov puts one hand at the base of his neck, in his hairline, holding him in place. "I told you before, I am not interested in the world. But if you want to be king, I won't refuse a crown."

[pimpcanes]

"Like I said. Our only obstacle is our lack of ambition." He relaxes into her hold, uninterested in even trying to escape. Perhaps this is how flies feel when they walk into the mouth of a pitcher plant.

"I'll see you tonight, my dear?"

[molotov]

She can only smile, stretch her neck up to kiss him again before slowly pulling away. She would stay all day, but it's been over a week and she has things to do, to catch up on before she spends the entirety of her evening with him.

"Tonight," she agrees, voice and face soft, holding his hands for a moment before letting go and turning, heading for the elevator. She doesn't look back, never looks back, but the train of her gown drags behind almost as if an extension of her before she rounds the corner and is gone.