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Entry tags:
You be the prey and I'll be the predator
Who| Molotov + you (places for various people in comments)
What| Molotov has somehow survived this far. She's determined to make it to the end.
Where| The Arena and then a little bit in the Capitol
When| Week 3 to the end and also a little bit afterward
Warnings/Notes| Violence, gore, crazy ladies, ~raciness~, etc.
Honestly, even Molotov was surprised to make it this long. Once Tom was gone, she figured that she didn't have that much time left, not in her condition, not with a wound this size on her stomach.
It's a wound that had been taking a turn for the worse. The antiseptic and gauze had run out within a week, and without the ability to clean and change the dressings, infection started to set in. Underneath the now-grimy bandages, the injury is black on the inside, oozing and starting to smell. Her skin is red and swollen and aching. Fever's made her sweat uncontrollably, plastering her hair down and keeping her face flushed. When she's not facing delusions, she is uncomfortably aware that she's dying, and not just from infection.
She hasn't eaten in three days.
So now she stumbles through the Arena, searching out food or anyone with it. She has a switchblade and cord, weapons that are dangerous in her hands even when she's in a state like this.
Molotov rounds the corner.
What| Molotov has somehow survived this far. She's determined to make it to the end.
Where| The Arena and then a little bit in the Capitol
When| Week 3 to the end and also a little bit afterward
Warnings/Notes| Violence, gore, crazy ladies, ~raciness~, etc.
Honestly, even Molotov was surprised to make it this long. Once Tom was gone, she figured that she didn't have that much time left, not in her condition, not with a wound this size on her stomach.
It's a wound that had been taking a turn for the worse. The antiseptic and gauze had run out within a week, and without the ability to clean and change the dressings, infection started to set in. Underneath the now-grimy bandages, the injury is black on the inside, oozing and starting to smell. Her skin is red and swollen and aching. Fever's made her sweat uncontrollably, plastering her hair down and keeping her face flushed. When she's not facing delusions, she is uncomfortably aware that she's dying, and not just from infection.
She hasn't eaten in three days.
So now she stumbles through the Arena, searching out food or anyone with it. She has a switchblade and cord, weapons that are dangerous in her hands even when she's in a state like this.
Molotov rounds the corner.
Bork Sampson desu
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Not that Brock ever held any illusions about murder orgies being, you know, fun and games. But generally speaking, his life up to this point -- or at least the last twenty years or so -- has led him to be somewhat desensitized to murder as a concept. Logan's Run-ish gladiatorial Road Rules doesn't really faze a person that much when they've seen spinning butterfly naked boy armies. But the way the Capitol is fucking with them is difficult to ignore: the puzzles, the airlocks randomly sealing (Brock almost lost a leg as he dove through the last one all Indiana Jones), the fucking gravity flipping on and off like so many problem lights. As time drags on, it's like they're getting more desperate to see some blood. Again, not like... Brock has any particular issues with, you know, blood. In general. But for a government agent, Brock is not exactly thrilled about being told what to do.
He lost his taser somewhere below, so he's now brandishing his screwdriver in an icepick grip, one half of the scissors he'd pulled apart in his other hand. The other half is tucked in his belt; they work much better as separate, close-quarters weapons than actual scissors, because seriously. It's not arts and crafts up in here.
He hears the uneven steps around the corner, and he stops and presses himself against the wall, trying to suss out the threat level just by sound. Someone injured, maybe. Slight of build, so maybe a woman -- but just as easily a smaller man. He watches for shadows, still listening, and waits until his adrenaline builds to the point where his instinct is screaming at him to turn around the corner, and then he waits another second more. Only then does he bolt around the corner, experience dictating that he's timed this right, and reaches out to grab the person in a headlock.
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It's really her only option.
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The feel of this person's body, though, is a woman -- so he gives up on the idea of just kind of snapping her neck pretty quickly, though it would be a solution to getting the shit stabbed out of his arms. "Stop --"
Red hair. He would know that throat in the crook of his arm any day.
"Molotov. Stop, it's me."
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"Brock?"
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It's a stupid question to answer, yes it is me, I'm Brock, so he doesn't. He keeps her in a headlock, though, not exactly trusting her enough to let her loose with... what is that, a box cutter? She can't slash his throat from this angle.
"Are you gonna quit stabbing me if I let you go?"
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She says that as if it's the same as a solid yes, but it's true -- she only started stabbing out of self-defense when he tried to choke her, geez.
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He lets her go and takes a necessary few steps back, because even if he understood that to be a yes, that doesn't mean he fully trusts her yeses. Also, he needs to check out his arm and see just how bad she cut him. He is dripping all over the floor. "Goddammit."
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"Oh fuck you," she mumbles. "You shouldn't have grabbed me like that."
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He means to rinse off his arm, but then he finally looks up at her, his face contorting into a concerned grimace.
"You look like shit," he says, closing the distance between them and waving at her hands, wanting her to let him see. "What the hell happened?"
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"I'm fine, leave me alone." She's obviously not fine, but she doesn't trust Brock to not take advantage of her, to not lock her away somewhere that she'll just starve to death and lose anyway.
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Exploding and dying (a one-person show) [cw: decapitation]
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Molotov warily darts through the halls, trying to find somewhere that looks like it can weather whatever storm the Gamemakers are sending in. In a room she didn't mean to enter, the door locks mysteriously behind her, leaving her stuck somewhere on the east side of the space station. The view is spectacular, the endless field of stars dazzling on the other side of the large glass window.
It's exactly where she doesn't want to be.
She runs back for the door, pounds on it and screams. There are still a handful of friendlies left out there in the halls, all she needs is one of them to help her, to wrench the door open.
The countdown continues, blaring over her cries and drowning out every crash of her fist on the door.
The voice announces the five-minute mark, and Molotov blanches, running out into the room to try and find anything that can give shelter. There's nothing save a desk, and she's not stupid enough to think that it would provide any real safety for the impending doom that was just announced.
There's a sudden sense of calm washing over her; she feels relieved, weightless. There's nothing she could have done. This isn't death at the hands of a competitor, it's not a fight she lost. It's the Gamemakers playing by their own rules, and that takes the burden off of her.
Molotov spends the last two minutes of the countdown standing in the middle of the room, looking out into space, taking in the view she never got to revel in before this.
Gagarin flew into space, but he didn't see any god there.
She is still at peace when the explosions hit, when the glass shatters and flies all around. It is deafening and horrible and a godsend all at once. She thought it would be the pressure of space or the lack of oxygen that got her, but before either can take her, a piece of the glass roof falls, swings on the metal support holding it. It's a painless death, the glass slicing through her neck, her throat, her spine, taking her head off and carrying it away with the momentum.
It's over.
She will not remember that her last thoughts were of the stars.
For Tom, in le Capitol
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It's not the first time he's watched someone he cares for die, and it's still a pale imitation of the explosion decades ago that claimed his cousin-in-law and upturned his life. It's different because his affection - he refuses to call it anything else - for Molotov is less all-consuming, and because he knows she'll be back soon. He knows, even deeper than he knows that the Capitol wouldn't shed one of its rising stars so quickly.
He sits in his room and drinks whiskey and watches as her head is cleaved from her body. Then he waits.
The next day, he arrives at the District Six Suite with flowers. He lets himself into the Suite without asking and goes to knock on her door, ignoring the people in the living room as if they were nothing more than ugly furniture.
"Molotov, dear." He raps on the door with his knuckles. "You'll find I ate fewer chocolates in your absence than you did in mine."
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There is a moment where she is disoriented, sitting up with shock and looking around. There's no one here, no threat. Same bedroom. Same portrait of herself above the bed, same framed pictures of herself from various photoshoots hanging on the walls.
Molotov gets up and walks to the dressing table. There's the same chair, the same silver hairbrush and comb, bottles of perfume, sitting where they always do. The same candid shot of herself and Tom, taken the day of their magazine spread, the one where they're both smiling and looking at each other.
She peers into the mirror, running her fingers along her face and neck, then lifts her shirt to examine her middle, where the skin is as smooth and perfect as it was the day she was brought here, with no sign of the horrific wound that probably should have killed her instead of the explosion. In fact, the only indication that she's died at all are the dozens of vases around the room, most holding red roses, or else white chrysanthemums. The bottles of wine and boxes of chocolates have been carefully stacked by the Avoxes, each with a properly marked card so that she might know who sent them.
With a start, she remembers what woke her in the first place, and she rushes to the door to yank it open. "Hi," she murmurs, then grabs Tom's face to kiss him.
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"I knew I had nothing to fear, but it's good to see you alive and well." He runs a hand over her face, over her hair, the neck that was severed, and closes the door behind him. "I hope the rest of the Arena without me wasn't too strenuous."
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And to suddenly not have Tom at her side, after so many inseparable weeks, it was like losing an arm.
"I was dying of infection and starving." She's still smiling up at him, moving her hands to his waist and running them up his chest to drape over his shoulders. "So no, it was totally fine. At least until the part where the Gamemakers played their nasty little trick. What happened, exactly?"
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"There was an explosion. I suppose if I had been there, it would have been karmic justice for the food court. But alas, it was you."
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There's another pause, another kiss, and her nails trail over the skin she's exposing on his chest. "You brought me flowers?"
ugh i am the slowest i'm sorry
"Red gloriosas," he whispers.
beats you with a stick
"I should have known. You're always perfect."
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She inhales and then exhales, looking down at his chest and forcing her face to stay placid instead of showing her irritation. "If I wanted them, you'd know it." She says it calmly, but it's clear he's treading a thin line.
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lol you should update the content warnings for this log
NO people should be surprised and caught off-guard
Re: NO people should be surprised and caught off-guard
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