thecapitol | Among the Garbage and the Flowers [OPEN]

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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.

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After being talked out of continuing to destroy her Suite, Molotov spent nearly all her time locked in her room, lying in bed and watching the rest of the Games while eating box after box of chocolate sent by loyal fans. The notes attached were meant to cheer her up, she assumed, but they really just made her feel worse, so she'd been throwing them out with all the flavors of candy she didn't like (cherry cordials, white chocolate, oddly colored truffles designed to cater to the weird tastes of the Capitolites).

She'd watched Thor die, watched Tom die. Watched with horror as her underwear were used as a weapon and generally strewn about, and then featured in camera closeups.

Even after the end of it, Clara winning, it takes Molotov a few more days to will herself out of bed. She tells herself it's because it's time, but really she knows that Tom is back now, that they'd nearly promised to find each other back in the Capitol. And she wants to, wants to see him, wants to maybe feel the way she did back on the floor in the Arena -- happy and warm and powerful and not fat from a week of eating nothing but chocolate.

When she dresses, it's more conservatively than usual. She's still covered in scratches and little wounds from wood splinters and glass, even if she'd been forced to actually let a doctor tend to her, but a long black dress with elbow-length sleeves hides most of them. Her marred skin is only visible in the deep plunge of the neckline and on her forearms, but she's not self-conscious enough of it to cover up any more.

It takes an Avox from District 10 for her to find Tom, and she walks up softly behind him, stopping a few feet away and clasping her hands in front of herself, almost sheepishly.

"Hello."

He asked for Molotov when he came back. He was told that unless he wanted a box of chocolate thrown through his head (not at his head, through it), he should wait for her to set the terms. Allow her to decide the pace, to emerge from her cave when she's good and ready and less willing to put her fist through the first unfortunate face she saw.

And so he did, like a photographer waiting for a wild tiger to come to the water. Dangerous things must be handled with patience and care, and the best things in life are not gained through plain taking but through enabling them to be gifted to you. He expects she's like the oracle, and that she will show herself for the devout alone.

He's stroking his chin and somewhat bored when he hears her behind him.

When he turns, he sees her looking almost kittenish compared to when he last saw her. To tell the truth, he's a little disappointed; part of her thrill was in that infectious confidence, that aura of self-possession that was stronger than any perfume and would choke a weaker man.

And yet, that's all a distant concern. He's quite happy to see her, and if there was any concern about that he has a rush of adrenalin at the sight of her that says otherwise. She's still exciting, the most exciting human being he's met in Panem, possibly in his life.

"About time I saw you again." He sets the network device aside and stands. "So. It seems like we both have problems with being impaled."

Honestly, Molotov is a little disappointed in herself as well, but it's hard to eat such a huge slice of humble pie and still strut around like you're queen of the world. If he'd seen her when she first came back, raging and practically trying to tear the entire world asunder, he would understand the exhaustion that came along with it all.

But there was also the fact that she didn't know what state he was in. When the only person you talk to can't answer questions beyond a point or a nod, it's hard to know if you'll get stabbed in the face for surprising someone. Not that she couldn't handle it, but she also didn't really want to have to.

There's still some of her furious confidence in the way she immediately reaches for his arms when he stands, as if he belongs to her already and she's merely come back to claim him. No hesitation, no questioning, only raw possession in her grip, her steps closer to him, her gaze.

"At least you had the dignity of a proper death."

Alex only takes a second to pause at the entrance to the gardens to allow his HUD to identify the man. Cassidy, Tom pings along with a scrolling list of his crimes. He doesn't stop to wonder if this is a good idea, gunning after another Tribute in the Capitol. As far as he's concerned, Mr. Cassidy is a criminal, plain and simple. If the law enforcement here won't sentence him, then he will. It's that kind of go-getter attitude that will ship Alex's shiny graphene ass back to maintenance after this.

He ignores the rows of roses and tulips and orchids, all designed to be pleasing and eye catching and always blooming with green leaves no matter what time of the year it is. Maybe once he would've at least stopped and thought "wow, that smells pretty good". Now he treats them as the background, observable non-threats.

Alex only has eyes for Mr. Cassidy. An armored foot smashes down on the orchid he had been so occupied with, grinding it into mulch. The next second Alex has a fistful of his shirt as he hauls him to his feet in one bodily motion.

"Mr. Cassidy, you're under arrest for murder," Alex rattles off the whole list of crimes while he's at it. While he can't feel pissed off or even put together a grudge with the suppression, he does feel the faint satisfaction of shoving all his infractions in his face. Making him sit through it, however long it takes.

It hadn't taken Pruna long to track down the man who had killed Sandy. Hadn't taken much investigating to learn who he was, which district he was in. Who else he had killed.

It seemed that once her mind had been opened up to nightmares everything found its way inside there to haunt her at night. Sandy's dead, headless body flashed into her mind in times where really she didn't want any thoughts at all.

It was all stupid but not being able to sleep had given her a lot of extra hours, and not having any money meant that a lot of her usual activities were closed to her.

So she found herself following Tom. She wasn't sure where she was expecting him to go, but the garden was not what she had imagined. She stayed hidden behind a perfectly shaped bush and watched in utter confusion as he spoke to the plant.

He's died enough times, or come close enough that it may as well count, that he's coping with this all rather well. There's no trauma to it, nothing but a dim sense of frustration at the familiar defeat. It's given him all the more reason to want to take it out on Carlos and Clara next time.

He lets her take his arms, and then he absorbs her immediacy and reflects it back at her, taking her face in his hand and pressing a kiss to her mouth. It's warm and hungry and vital, something put off in the Arena but so natural now.

If the tundra had warmth, it would be Molotov's mouth, forbidding and fierce and enticing and alien. When he pulls away he fancies she's still got a bit of his soul in between her teeth.

"And you have the dignity of being able to say you were the only person able to kill you."

Edited 2014-10-04 18:11 (UTC)

Molotov clutches at his bicep and the back of his head, eye falling shut as they kiss. It feels right, evenly matched, like they were made to fit together this way, complementing each other. Her fingers curl in his hair and she presses closer to him, until the space between them is gone, her chest crushed to his.

She bites at his lip before he pulls away, her eye slowly opening again as she lets her neck stop craning, smiles at what he says, the truth in it.

"That's true. But I didn't get a fun shirt for it," she answers, smirking, and plucks gently at the letter O in THOR.

He was afraid, and that fear just spurred his interest in her, that she might bite off his tongue, that she might punch or kick him, that he's woefully misread the situation and the kiss would not be as welcome as he's anticipated. And yet she presses closer to him, as if he's just validating her own longing, and he finds that that is equally intoxicating.

Even though their lips aren't locked anymore, he puts an arm around her waist and holds her close.

"I'm sure you could ask for a 'NEVER DEFEATED' t-shirt. It would be technically accurate." He rubs a gentle circle into the small of her back with his thumb. "And next Arena we can have a finale with the two of us."

He doesn't hear her approach, so engrossed is he with his work. He tends to the strangled flower, clearing away the thicket of weeds with his fingers, unafraid to get dirt under his nails.

When he does look up, he's surprised to see a young girl there. He hasn't had that sort of company for a long time.

Many peaceful days were spent, him and Theresa in the garden. Even when she was turning into a teenager, a young woman with her own strong opinions, they could find common ground with the soil and the roots, their stormclouds made from thunderheads to overcast gurgles.

But this is another Tribute. He saw a mannequin in her likeness back at the mall.

"You don't need to hide, birdie."

"I wanted to be the one to slit your throat." It's almost tender, like she considers this an endearment, a great compliment. One hand lays flat on his chest, feeling his heart beat in his rib cage, and she leans into him. "I'll kill them for taking that from me."

There's a pause, and then she smiles brightly up at him. "But I watched you. The whole time, I was watching. You were perfect. They get lucky, that's all there is to it." Her grip on his arm tightens. "Next time... next time, we'll know. They only have so many tricks. Maybe you'll get your powers back."

They can work together, instead of loosely in conjunction. Her hand on his arm has tightened with determination -- she took losing really badly, as he can probably tell just from the way she talks.

"When you do, I expect it'll feel like a kiss." And he presses his lips to hers again, this time more restrained and nearly chaste, although no less hungry beneath the surface.

He wasn't perfect. He let his urge to monologue, that hunger for grandeur and pomp, get in the way. Still, he hasn't held it against himself nearly so much as Molotov has taken her own failure, and soon enough he'll be agreeing with her that Clara and Carlos were just lucky idiots stumbling into a perfect opportunity. That they should be grateful to him, even, for clearing the field for them.

"I'm going to hold you to that. Just as I'm going to hold you to our agreement about me taking you out to dinner."

Molotov squeezes his arm when he kisses her again, closing her eye for just that moment, and resting her head against his shoulder after. She sees no problem with making a show of it -- this is the same woman that went through the trouble of stringing up a dead girl after writing on her. Molotov likes a big statement.

"Did you think I was going to forget or let you out of it?" It's only lightly mocking, just teasing him for even thinking that she wouldn't force him into it come hell or high water. "I would have had reservations made, but I am no psychic."

Tom may be forced to bear witness to Alex reciting a lengthy, lengthy list of crimes (he snorts as "obstruction of justice" and "possession of an unregistered firearm"), but he doesn't have to do so peacefully. He shoves Alex's hands away from him, stepping back and nearly falling as he puts too much weight on his bad leg.

"Get off me, you damned psychotic!"

Alex keeps rattling off that list of crimes, and Tom gets a look at the state of the garden that Alex just trampled his way through.

"Look at what you've done," he says, filling with anger at the state of the flower he's just spent the better part of twenty minutes cultivating. He shouldn't be surprised, he knows; Alex is all but an automaton, and finding beauty in small things, in nurturing them, is something reserved for only the more refined members of humanity. Tom sounds as if he's scolding a dog that just bit its owner.

"Are you quite through telling me what I already know?"

Edited 2014-10-05 04:23 (UTC)

It's impossible to tell whether Tom is aware of the picture-perfectness of the way he brings his hand up, holding her against his chest, his cheek against her hair, or if this sort of showmanship comes as naturally and as unbidden to him as breathing. Regardless, he loves the smell of her shampoo, and beneath that, the even more appealing natural scent of her skin.

"Generally, you only let people out of things when they actually want to escape." He finally steps back, this time to look her over, and he sees the superficial injuries but doesn't comment. From what he's heard, she threw a table into the elevator. There was bound to be a little bit of shrapnel. "Where to, my dear? My calendar is as empty for you as a red carpet."

She relaxes into his hold, straightening back up only when he retreats to look at her. There's a sudden, faint pinkness to her chest as she remembers that she's covered in tiny scabs, as they aren't battle scars she can wear with pride -- they're only the result of a monstrous temper tantrum, a senseless fight with a weird gladiator, a drunken night she can barely remember beyond her own all-encapsulating fury.

"The restaurant in the trees, the one I told you about. Tonight. It's private there, I hear." She gestures to her eyepatch, her bright red hair, self-depreciatingly. "I am easy to find, so the paparazzi tend to be bad. But maybe there, they will have to leave us alone."

Oddly enough, Tom isn't the only one with a fondness for gardening, though Thor's is only really a fleeting interest through magazines he's picked up. He has an appreciation for plants, but he's not yet realised just how soothing the act of gardening is. As such, he's simply walking through the area in silence. His temper has flared as of late, but it's less like the roaring flame it was and more like a simmer deep in him. Long ago, he might have tried to burn the Capitol to the ground with little regard for who it hurt along the way, but he's learning that the careful approach will reap the most rewards.

As such, he tries to keep grudges to a minimum and knows he ought to remove himself from feeling pride or shame as far as Arenas go. They are not a challenge he needs to prove himself able to overcome, but that doesn't mean his foundations aren't somewhat shaken from the way he died not long ago.

Coming across the man who did it so soon is enough to send conflicting feelings through him. Anger rises in him and he tries his best to stifle it, shame would have him turn and leave and he refuses. He's not the sort to walk away from this sort of thing, so he continues to carry himself with his noble air and approaches Tom. The shirt is obscured from view at present, so he will speak without malice.

"I wager you'd not made it long after I departed, then." Bastard.

She wrinkled her nose, a bit annoyed at being caught though the bush wasn't the greatest hiding place. She stepped out though, no point in staying behind a bush when she had been seen.

"I did no be hiding." She said as she stepped out. "Why do you be talking to the plant?"

Since Eva's passing, Eponine has been splitting her time between the rooftop garden at the Tribute Centre and Eva's own garden. Aside from preparing her poor Mama for burial, Eponine hasn't dared to go back into the house yet, despite having a key. Despite having sworn up and down and left and right that Eva had left the house to her. Maybe nobody cared enough to question her too much, for nobody had changed the locks. It was just too painful to go in just now.

Today though, Eponine's gone up to the top of the Tower, to visit her secret little hides-hole she's clawed out beneath the big rock in the middle of one of the manicured beds. That had been her intention, anyway. But before she gets there, she sees the hunched over back of a man, hunching over a flower. And not just any old flower. One of Eva's favourites. Eponine's over in a flash.

"Don't you dare pick that flower, Sir." she threatens in a curiously choked voice. "Don't you dare. They're my Mama's flowers. Leave it alone. Pick the others."

Alex gives the trampled flowers and grass a cursory glance.

"I will file for the proper gardeners to correct that." It's unclear if it's a little subconscious dig at Tom, if maybe there's a part of Alex that does enjoy seeing him angry about losing something he seems to care about. “I’m done. As I’ve said, you’re under arrest and due sentencing.”

He would suggest cooperation but Mr. Cassidy doesn’t appear to understand the value of it. It would be painless if he doesn’t move. If he needs to slow him down, Alex decides that the man’s weaker leg will be a good place to start – if he can’t run, walk, or stand, then he can’t get to the transmitter this time. Alex is confident that he can pacify him. Alex advances on Mr. Cassidy, targeting that bad leg. The knee seems like a good place to start.

His foot lashes out at Mr. Cassidy’s knee. As the Capitol hasn’t returned either of his guns, he can’t just shoot the man. It would be quicker, Alex feels. He’ll submit a complaint after this is dealt with because carrying out his duties weaponless lowers his efficiency rating.

He reaches over and slips the back of his fingers against her neck, avoiding the scratches, avoiding the little yellow and red scabs, seeking only to pass over her bare skin like a breath of wind over snow.

"Can you blame them that they want to look at you? I'm sure the two of us will be the talk of the town no matter how quiet we try to keep things." In fact, he'll be shocked if there aren't already rumors flying about their little tryst. "How dressed up should I be?"

He's not going to a fancy restaurant in a t-shirt. He's not some tactless American.

He sits back, folding his hands into his lap.

"Why not? I'm going to be spending some time with it. I may as well introduce myself."

Tom doesn't even really dignify Thor with looking up, at first. He's busy, you big Asgardian dimwit. Can't you see he's tidying up what the Avoxes were clearly insufficient at?

"I managed to do terrible damage to a Roomba and our Victor's hand, so it wasn't a total loss. I was rather impressed with Ms. Murphy's ability to wield a sword. It nearly made up for being disappointed in people with actual reputations."

His voice carries enough of a sneer that Thor doesn't even have to see his face.

He wipes his hands and slowly gets up, turning to face Thor. "Now, did you want something? This hardly sounds like you congratulating me for a job well done, and as you can see, I'm busy."

Thor can see you're busy, Tom. He just doesn't particularly care so much as to imagine that whatever he's doing is more important than settling whatever it is they inspired within the Arena. Most people have no interest in carrying grudges out of them, but it's becoming abundantly clear that Tom isn't like most people. He is a very distinct kind of person, he believes the term used most frequently is asshole.

"Such is the consequence of underestimating one's opponent." And that goes for Thor as well. He manages to get that out eloquently before he needs to force himself to grit his teeth and inhale nice and deep through his nose. He'll just excuse himself from this conversation knowing that he's the bigger man here.

"Nothing more than.." He trails off, eyes traveling down to the shirt. Something in him snaps, but his first reactions is to laugh long and loud. It practically resounds for how enthusiastic it is and he invites himself into Tom's personal space, placing a firm hand on his shoulder so he can smile down at him. "Very funny." He murmurs, wasting no time slamming his magnificent forehead hard against Tom's face. "Congratulations." He steps back and he just can't stop grinning.

"Pick it?" He looks up, his face a faint and gentle visage of alarm, well shy of indignation. "I'm hardly going to pick it. I'm tending to it."

Tom doesn't think much of Eponine's Mama if she's let her garden become so overgrown. It clearly hasn't been really tended in several weeks now. He sits back, letting her see clearly that the flower is fine, and then, with the help of his cane, rises to his feet.

The girl looks a bit like a sewer rat, with a face that has a hideous burn on it. He doesn't respond with horror or staring, but as he's seen the mark before, decides that he'll ask about it later.

"Does your mother come here often?"

"They may want to look at me, but sometimes I only want to be seen by one person," she says, gazing at her hand still on his chest before looking back up to his face. "Panem Nightly is implying that I left Cyrus Reagan for you, so don't be surprised if you get hate mail or questions about it. I was blackmailing him into pretending, for sponsors, so I'm sure he's only relieved. He might send you a thank you note."

She closes the distance between them again, wanting to be back in his space, his warmth, and shrugs. "Everything here is fancy, but it's not black tie, I can't imagine. I don't know that any man in the Capitol owns a black tie, actually." It's said thoughtfully, because that's something she's not thought about until now -- do they have pink tie formal parties, instead of white? "I trust you to make the appropriate choice."

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Among the Garbage and the Flowers [OPEN]

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