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)
thecapitol2015-04-22 07:43 pm
pimpcanes) wrote in thecapitol2015-04-22 07:43 pm
Entry tags:
Son, You Are No Chasm [Closed]
WHO| Black Tom and Cyrus, Black Tom and Darcy and Thorongil
WHAT| Black Tom rats on his fellow Tributes.
WHERE| Cyrus' driveway, then on the way to the break-in.
WHEN| Hours before the break-in, right before it.
WARNINGS| None.
I. Cyrus
Nothing says that the entire situation is under control so much as leisure, and that's why although Tom Cassidy goes straight to Cyrus Reagan's lush manor, he doesn't telephone. They have a few hours yet, by Tom's estimation, and if all fails he'll look not like a traitor but merely that he misjudged the timing of the foray he's been privy to. Besides, Panem has made something of a national sport of pretending to be more competent than they are, and while Tom would never say so anywhere it could be traced back to him that won't stop him thinking it, trying to stuff that impression back into his head so the disdain doesn't leak out his pores.
He exits the cab, taking in the sight of the Reagan mansion with the interest of a cat at a window, watching sunlight flick around the sill. This would be the sort of place he'd rob, back in the day when he had less ambitious goals than terrorism and international sabotage. To someone who didn't grow up in a castle, it would be so impressive as to melt the guts to jelly upon crossing the threshold. The opulence of the Capitol doesn't strike Tom as tacky so much as fitting for an appointed official of a government that could best be described as a dictatorship.
He reaches over taps an intercom by the front gate. A window opens, revealing an Avox ready to run messages to the mansion, by foot if it doesn't matter and by electronic format if time's of the essence.
"Tom Cassidy to see Cyrus Reagan. It's somewhat urgent. I'll wait by the gate." Tom understands there's an acceptable level of presumption which may, barely, contain actually showing up to a minister's house the same way a slightly too small bag holds cargo, but that actually assuming he'll be allowed into a politician's house would be a step too far. He leans against the Roman columns by the entrance to Cyrus' driveway, one foot crossed lazily over the other, palm flushed and red over the palm of his cane.
II. Darcy, Aragorn
Once Tom's gotten permission to accompany the Peacekeepers on this little 'pick me up', a sinister sort of jubilation animates his face. It isn't sadism; it's a sense of accomplishment, of forward momentum, of finally getting a piece in place for a larger plan. That, plus a sense of superiority that tends to come with unraveling someone else's plot, with plucking at strings found in the imperfect seams of someone else's knit.
Three Peacekeepers wait in a vehicle, armed and ready, around a corner while Tom paces the street he knows some of the troublemakers will be passing. He paces, not out of anxiety but simply to give himself something to do. He absentmindedly rubs at his goatee as he thinks and waits.
When they pass (Darcy and Thorongil), Tom hails down his fellow Tributes with a wave and a smile that could draw blood from glass.
WHAT| Black Tom rats on his fellow Tributes.
WHERE| Cyrus' driveway, then on the way to the break-in.
WHEN| Hours before the break-in, right before it.
WARNINGS| None.
I. Cyrus
Nothing says that the entire situation is under control so much as leisure, and that's why although Tom Cassidy goes straight to Cyrus Reagan's lush manor, he doesn't telephone. They have a few hours yet, by Tom's estimation, and if all fails he'll look not like a traitor but merely that he misjudged the timing of the foray he's been privy to. Besides, Panem has made something of a national sport of pretending to be more competent than they are, and while Tom would never say so anywhere it could be traced back to him that won't stop him thinking it, trying to stuff that impression back into his head so the disdain doesn't leak out his pores.
He exits the cab, taking in the sight of the Reagan mansion with the interest of a cat at a window, watching sunlight flick around the sill. This would be the sort of place he'd rob, back in the day when he had less ambitious goals than terrorism and international sabotage. To someone who didn't grow up in a castle, it would be so impressive as to melt the guts to jelly upon crossing the threshold. The opulence of the Capitol doesn't strike Tom as tacky so much as fitting for an appointed official of a government that could best be described as a dictatorship.
He reaches over taps an intercom by the front gate. A window opens, revealing an Avox ready to run messages to the mansion, by foot if it doesn't matter and by electronic format if time's of the essence.
"Tom Cassidy to see Cyrus Reagan. It's somewhat urgent. I'll wait by the gate." Tom understands there's an acceptable level of presumption which may, barely, contain actually showing up to a minister's house the same way a slightly too small bag holds cargo, but that actually assuming he'll be allowed into a politician's house would be a step too far. He leans against the Roman columns by the entrance to Cyrus' driveway, one foot crossed lazily over the other, palm flushed and red over the palm of his cane.
II. Darcy, Aragorn
Once Tom's gotten permission to accompany the Peacekeepers on this little 'pick me up', a sinister sort of jubilation animates his face. It isn't sadism; it's a sense of accomplishment, of forward momentum, of finally getting a piece in place for a larger plan. That, plus a sense of superiority that tends to come with unraveling someone else's plot, with plucking at strings found in the imperfect seams of someone else's knit.
Three Peacekeepers wait in a vehicle, armed and ready, around a corner while Tom paces the street he knows some of the troublemakers will be passing. He paces, not out of anxiety but simply to give himself something to do. He absentmindedly rubs at his goatee as he thinks and waits.
When they pass (Darcy and Thorongil), Tom hails down his fellow Tributes with a wave and a smile that could draw blood from glass.
no subject
Six minutes later, he's made his apologies and is walking down the estate's long, long driveway, frowning in the late-evening sunlight.
It took him a long minute to decide to come out. The temptation to send back a curt Make an appointment had been strong. It's not often he allows himself an evening off, and he is not lightly dragged away from family under any circumstances.
In the end, he goes because he knows that if he doesn't, he'll be distracted all evening. He'll sit with his grandmother and his mother and have to ask them to repeat themselves, while he runs in his head over every reason a Tribute might have to come out to his private residence. It's a conundrum of politics he's had before - risk letting something genuinely important slip by him, or allow someone unworthy to believe he's at their disposal? Both carry their risks, especially where Tributes are involved.
But upon consideration he'd realized (absently swirling his wine in his glass as he pondered the problem), that he wouldn't have allowed most Tributes this much thought in the first place. There are few among them he believes would come to him only with something important-- and he doesn't know Tom particularly well, but he thinks, maybe, that Tom understands importance somewhat better than most of his peers. A brief impression, to be sure. But in the end it's what drives him to stand; to straighten his jacket (much more casual in design than what he's in the habit of wearing around the Tower) and to murmur "Excuse me" to Portia and Livia.
By the time he makes his final approach down the driveway, the gate is sliding noiselessly open, catching the light as it moves (because it's gold over steel; of course it's gold). He has no security detail with him. Who needs it? Privately-hired Peacekeepers are visible from the gate, from every spot around the grounds, and there are four cameras on the Avox's call box alone. And those are only the ones one can see.
He stops some twenty paces from the gate, plants his feet, shoves his hands into his pockets and regards his visitor. Inviting Tom to walk to meet him with his posture, saying I am staying here and you will come to me. A spider beckoning a gnat into its web. A pointed setting of the encounter to be on his terms.
"Come in!" he calls, short but not unfriendly (a command that expects to be followed, like calling a dog). He has a moment to decide whether or not he actually wants to be unfriendly.
no subject
He comes in, back straight, using his cane as if inviting his limp along with him, not exaggerating it but simply letting it cast a certain judgment on the situation. It isn't a condemnation, because Cyrus isn't being any ruder by making a man with a limp walk to him than Tom was being by interrupting Cyrus' private time. In a way it's an evening of the scales, to both inflict these petty and invisible injuries onto each other. Exchanges among the elite are always made in peccadilloes as well as favors.
"Good evening, Minister. My apologies for interrupting you at your home," he says, getting the necessary pleasantries out of the way. The afternoon air is crisp, perfumed with spring (instead of stinking of autumn - all new growth, even the dead things being defrosted, rather than the rotting of summer's excess). "Once I tell you what brought me here, I'm sure you'll understand why I couldn't risk communicating with you in a more indirect way."
Some of Tom's excuse will be true, some conjecture, some just self-serving fabrication that makes this all convenient for Tom, because the truth is he wants it known that he believes coming to Cyrus at his home is an option, and just wants some plausible deniability.
"There's rebel activity afoot. They're planning on a strike tonight. The Tributes are, that is, and I believe there are members of the staff and even the Peacekeepers in collusion with them."
II -- let me know if this is all right?
When he hears the call, Aragorn's blood freezes. He has been neither friendly nor unfriendly to Tom, never shared any meaningful exchange, but the man has a rascally look to him, and his reputation precedes him.
He understands that being identified by Tom Cassidy here, in this situation, is perilous indeed. Their only hope is escape -- to disappear and lose their pursuit and deny everything.
"Come!" he hisses, taking hold of Darcy's arm. If she doesn't fight it, he'll pull her firmly but not too roughly to seem casual in a direction away from Tom, between buildings if he can, looking to get out of Tom's line of sight, to disappear.
no subject
It's not exaggerated. It's a slight tipping back of his head, a subtle lift of his eyebrows, a flaring of his nostrils like a hound that's just caught the scent of blood on the breeze. It's tension like a predatory animal crouching for a spring, a sprinter in the slow seconds before the gun goes off, apparent only in the way the folds in his jacket flatten as his shoulders stiffen.
Cyrus has lived his entire life in the eye of cameras. He is a man with many secrets, balanced on his shoulders and stuffed inside his head by the demands of his family, his job, his role in his society. His control over his own expression is something he has honed since he was a child. It does not easily slip. It's likely that none of the cameras even caught this second's indiscretion, that no one can see how powerfully interested he just became. (A fruitful gamble, a good choice, coming out here for a Tribute. For this Tribute.)
"...Are they," he says, and his voice is steady. If he leans in very slightly, if he glances to both sides of them, sees how far away the cameras, the microphones are, then it need not look anything but natural-- maybe, maybe, half a second too hasty to be perfectly calm. "--Yes. Yes, I'm glad you came to me, Mr. Cassidy."
He turns his back to the cameras; his head turns a second later, lingering on Tom, letting him know it's not out of rudeness, that he isn't wholesale removing his attention but keeping the facts between them.
"Do you have names?" he asks, and the steadiness in his voice is, if anything, too deliberate now-- not fitting well over a quivering, vicious anticipation.
no subject
"I have the location to head them off." That's Tom's way of saying that no, he doesn't have any names that he's certain enough to throw out there - not because he fears getting the innocent in trouble but because a mistake could look bad for him. He's only willing to produce information he's sure enough to wager on, and in the years Tom's become something of a more conservative gambler. Long past are the days when he'd wager his entire castle on fifty-fifty odds.
"But - and I understand that I was only performing my duty as a guest of Panem and am not owed anything-" Tom's eyes glint, making it perfectly clear that he knows neither he nor Cyrus believe he believes that, that they're both entirely aware that he's behaving because it suits him and not because he's any sort of converted patriot - that would be too great a facade for even the best actor to truly commit to- "I would like to request a favor for being the one to bring you this news directly."
And there, there's the cruelty, the hungry, predatory look that is unique to humans, that is too sadistic to match the base urges of animals. It's that look Tom gets in the Arena, the one Cyrus is just barely suppressing now, the flared nostrils the narrowed eyes the brain basking in the light of the near-future, certain of its infallibility.
"I would like to accompany the forces that apprehend some of them. You know, to make a statement and divide myself from that lot. The seditious ones."
no subject
But that is currency, in the Capitol - the ability to hide what you know under the veneer of what you're supposed to know, what you cannot say outright and so learn to say more subtly. The best are the ones who can hide their knowledge like others hide their imperfections under sheer makeup, their insecurities under silk and jewels and corsets, their uncertainty under wide, cosmetically-frozen smiles. (What need for fashion, when you know how to clothe yourself in your secrets?)
It speaks well of Tom that he asked. Cyrus likes the neat feeling of that understanding between them - likes how clearly they stand relative to each other. It's a strange kind of condescension, that in this moment could almost be mistaken for respect, under the right light.
"...We might be able to arrange that," Cyrus says. His fingers drum against the side of his leg, a tiny gesture of impatience-- not with Tom, but out of a desire to go, to go now, to be ready for them, to make sure the Capitol is waiting for them, not chasing them. Tom has this advantage: There's only so long Cyrus wants to negotiate, when he has something so grand to set into motion. "Though it will depend. Do you mean that you want to be involved in the capture--?"
no subject
"I want to be the one to put the cuffs on their wrist. You must understand-" Tom throws back his shoulders just a bit, standing at his full height with the sort of pride and pose of a man who knows exactly how imposing his body can be when he wants it to be, without being threatening- "that I have a bit of a penchant for receiving credit, and who better to claim it from than the very people I'm catching at their own game?"
He gestures with his head towards the car he has waiting, resting one hand atop the other on his cane, a custom-one he's had made in the Capitol and had to petition for the right to use, for the right to carry a weapon that helps him to walk when his leg is aching and stiff and radiating hurt all the way up his hip and making his foot numb, that he's had to supplicate for and suffer the abject humiliation of begging for the right to walk easily.
"Shall we?"
no subject
He pulls his communicator from his pocket and speaks into it, low and quick: "Urgent business. Make my apologies to my grandmother. I'll speak with her when I'm finished. Make my apologies as well to Stephen's event planner." He slips it back into his pocket without waiting for a reply. The family, the party, the public appearances - they are so much less important than what awaits them.
He gives Tom a polite nod and a smile that conceals no part of his anticipation. Steps in front of him, expecting him to follow, and does not even wait for someone to open the car door for him.
But he pauses before he slides in-- turns back to look at Tom. "If we apprehend them," he says, "If what you say is true-- then this will not be the only favor the Capitol does for you. I can promise you that."
/wrap
He falls into line, following Cyrus, feeling no need to speed up so that they're walking abreast, no need to jockey for an sense of equality that doesn't exist. That will come with time, he hopes. He doesn't wait for the door to be opened for him either, and slides in onto the leather seats.
He gives the address to the driver, and can barely hide the glint of teeth as the car begins to crunch over the rosy gravel of the driveway, that hungry, vicious, anticipatory expression that reveals power and yet not youth.