thecapitol | Treat Me Like a Don, Motherfucker [Semi-Open]

Skip to Main Content

Entry tags:

Treat Me Like a Don, Motherfucker [Semi-Open]

WHO: Black Tom and anyone with reason to be in the Peacekeeper's break room.
WHAT: Peacekeeper CR building post, also Tom bitches that the HQ isn't a castle.
WHERE: Peacekeeper HQ
WHEN: During the first week of the Arena.
WARNINGS: None, just dumb supervillain behavior.

To say that the Peacekeeper Headquarters don’t match Tom’s sense of decor is an understatement. Everything about the building, aside from the office for the Head, is excessively corporate, with little cubicles and bright fluorescent lights and fax machines and scanners posted around each wall like a depressing and sanitized crew of ersatz sentries. The carpet is a dull beige-grey that shies away from making any sort of statement, and the desks are allotted two personal decorations each of a certain size, no more (Tom has, of course, chosen a photo of him and Molotov and Arya and his Victor’s crown). The break room is dim and populated by a refrigerator and a microwave that they have to clean out themselves, due to the lack of Avoxes.

It shows that most Peacekeepers are District-born.

Tom arrives at the break room for lunch and opens up a package he had made back at the Tribute Center, where Avoxes were all too eager to select caviar and honey-glazed swordfish for him. It’s held up as well as seafood can over several hours in the fridge. He takes a seat, setting his cane aside, and sketches on a napkin with a pen all the ways he would renovate this building if he were in charge. He doesn’t see why they don’t all just move to his spare castle. That’s the sort of building that inspires respect, instead of just a dull tedium, in his opinion.

He’s doing that still when his co-workers come in, now fully dedicated to the idea of rehauling this terrible setting and turning it into something worthy of a fascist police force. If it’s a little unsubtle with the influence from villainous lairs, so be it; Tom’s never seen something garish, tacky or absurd that he didn’t have some fondness for when it came to aesthetics.

“Do you think the floor here would be better as a crimson spread, or just as cold stone? I’m of two minds about it, and the latter allows for trap doors.” He glances up. “Oh, Wesker, what are the dimensions for your dragon’s head throne?”

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Do you still think of yourself as a gun for hire?" Quintus asks. His eyes drop to the pipe, but he doesn't take the bait--not when that remark has him a tad curious.

"I wouldn't say I'm happy. It's been a rough transition, taking on this much responsibility. But that's true of any kind of big organization--the higher up you get, the more dysfunction you've got to deal with."

"Aye, I do. I've never made it a secret that you can only keep me so long as you keep me paid better than the opposition would. Since it doesn't seem the Rebels have much at their disposal, you've nothing to worry about."

He takes a puff. "Do you miss the field, then?"

"That's comforting. Always nice to know who's apt to turn around and shoot me once the going gets tough."

He shakes his head. "Not really. I had some good times out in the Districts but I got sick of the routine after a while. Not that I could go back now even if I wanted to."

He rests a hand against the left side of his ribcage. "Couldn't pass the physical with a reconstructed lung."

"Would you rather I lie to you? Because I haven't any moral compunctions about doing that either."

He pats his own knee.

"I probably couldn't pass with my leg in the condition it's in. Would you believe that there isn't even any adventure to go with the story of how I got it? Just a rotter of a cousin. Surely there's something more interesting about your lung."

He hasn't snooped on Quintus' file yet.

"I guess not, given the choice."

A hint of a resigned smile crosses his features--he'd known that question had been coming. "About five years ago I was stationed in Seven and got sent out to negotiate with some woodsmen who'd gone on strike. Turns out the whole thing was a setup. I got struck with an axe here and here."

He gestures to the scar crossing his cheek and to his side. "If his aim had been a little better I would've been killed on the spot. Luckily we did manage to round up the ringleaders of the attack afterward and had them avoxed."

Tom snorts. "At least there's a story behind that one. I got me bum leg in a family feud, falling backwards into an open grave. That was the extent of the drama."

Well, that and the fact that Tom's been nursing a grudge about it for thirty goddamn years, including kidnapping a kid and raising her to be evil just to get back at his cousin. But really, no drama there.

"You'd think swinging axes all day, they'd be better at turning them on a man. I suppose not."

Quintus shrugs a shoulder. "Well, that's...probably only the second time I've heard of someone getting injured at a funeral. Assuming it was a funeral and you didn't have some crazier reason to be standing at a grave."

"The guy was probably mad enough to get sloppy, fortunately for me. Some of my comrades weren't quite as lucky."

"It wasn't even a funeral. I was just paying respects, and I wound up in some grave they were going to use on the morrow." Tom shrugs.

"Do you think of them? I've always imagined that's the way a man knows he's really made for combat, if he can just shrug off the deaths of the people around him. I've seen too many people go weak in the knees over some blood and gore."

"I've never really been bothered by the gore," he remarks, retrieving his food from the microwave and blowing on a bite to cool it. "And of course in the moment you do what you need to do, but I still think of them sometimes. I was in Seven long enough that we'd gotten to know each other, developed some camaraderie. The whole thing was just a real shame."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only