thearena | You be the prey and I'll be the predator

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.

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Molotov darts away when he releases her, pressing herself to the wall and rubbing her neck before wrapping her arms around her waist. The struggle has made her body ache, the sore and rotting skin around her wound throbbing endlessly in protest of so much movement.

"Oh fuck you," she mumbles. "You shouldn't have grabbed me like that."

"I didn't know it was you," he grunts, shaking his arm and splattering blood everywhere. It's not that bad; there's just a lot of blood along the surface. Once he shakes it off, it should stop looking so gnarly. "I guess you don't have any water on you..."

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?"

She curls in on herself defensively, turning away from him.

"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.

"Don't be stupid," he says irritably, glancing back and forth down both sides of the corridor. They probably shouldn't be out in the open like this, especially if she's injured. There was a door back the other way, so he turns and starts heading in the direction he came. "Come on."

"No!" she snaps, clearly not willing to follow him. Does he think she's absolutely stupid? Because she's not! She's not about to willingly walk toward her own death.

Brock rolls his eyes, turning around with his hands on his hips. "You're still being stupid. You're gonna get killed limping around out here."

He motions toward the room he's standing next to with both arms. "Come. On."

"Why, so you can kill me yourself?"

She glares, like she's got him all figured out.

Brock squints a little, not really sure what kind of game she's playing. If she's doing this for the cameras or something, he doesn't really get what her angle is, what she's trying to prove or fabricate. And if she isn't, then, well... he has no idea what she's doing. She knows he doesn't kill women.

"Uh, why would I need you in a room to do that? Just get in the -- we're sitting ducks out here, come on."

Brock, does she really look like she's super lucid right now? No, she's very feverish and maybe you should think about that.

"Because you're bad at what you do!" she snaps, then darts into the room and tries to force the door closed behind her before he can follow, although it's really to no avail. So instead she starts to hit his chest and shoulders with her fists, though she doesn't really have the strength left to do much besides maybe piss him off.

Wow, delirium is no excuse for that kind of rudeness, madam! You don't insult a guy's life work like that.

Also, yes, that's not very effective, and Brock is even more certain that making her get out of the corridor was a good idea. At least she's not stabbing him. Brock drops his screwdriver and scissor half to the ground so he can wrestle her off him, groping for her shoulders with intent to hold her at arm's length. "Would you stop -- I just wanna see how bad it is, jesus!"

"No!" She nearly shouts it, trying weakly to push him away. "Don't touch me, you can't take care of it! Tom was taking care of me, and then he died and now there's no first aid kits left, so there's nothing you can do!"

"Yeah, well, good fuckin' job he did, right?" Brock mutters under his breath with a little more venom than is probably appropriate, considering the situation. At the time, he actually felt a sick little thrill to see that Tom ate it so early, because that meant he couldn't win, and if anyone deserved to have to go through this shit over and over, it was him. He'd been equal parts relieved and annoyed that he hadn't been the one to do it, but in the end, it was probably for the best that he wasn't. It probably would have been embarrassing.

Now, though, he has Molotov to deal with, and she's not making it easy. And she's being loud! So loud.

Brock takes a breath and lowers his voice, hoping she'll follow suit. "You're just gonna hurt yourself more. Stop," he says quietly, finally letting her go but staying between her and the door so she can't bolt. It would be insulting to see Molotov Cocktease gunned down in the midst of infectious delirium, which is surely what is going to happen if she stumbles out there again. The ease with which he subdued her upset him.

"Look, we can figure something out."

Molotov's heart is pounding too loudly in her ears to hear his snarking, and it's probably good, because she would have lost her mind. Regardless of what Brock thought about it, Tom had been caring for her since they managed to get into the spaceport, keeping her safe and cleaning her wound. She would have died within hours if not for him.

She runs to the other end of the room, trying to stay away from him. In her fever-addled brain, Brock wants to kill her, everyone wants to kill her, they know she can outlast them all. She brandishes her knife, sweating and panting, obviously sick and getting worse from being all worked up.

The point is, Tom got killed. You can't protect a person when you are dead. Ergo, he sucks.

Brock just sort of stands by the door, rubbing at his cheek and frowning. He is used to Molotov acting crazy and irrational, that is pretty much her modus operandi, but this is a little outrageous. He could put her in a chokehold and get her all ragdoll, but in this weird paranoid state she's in, she'd probably struggle too hard and accidentally kill herself.

And besides, what was he gonna do, carry her on his back like she's C-3PO? If there are any medical supplies, they're bound to be down below with those aliens -- he's gone back and forth through the science labs enough to know that there's literally nothing useful in there, medical kits or otherwise -- and she might not survive that kind of humidity with how sick she is.

It's frustrating, and the way she's looking at him isn't helping. Brock scrubs at his face. "Would you quit it? I'm not gonna do anything. Look, if you just... hang out here and don't die, I'll head out and see if I can't find something for you..."

"Right, stay here," she mocks him, sneering. "So you can come back and kill me when I fall asleep? I don't think so, Samson!"

She's wild-eyed, truly fearful and lashing out because of it. Her entirely ragged appearance doesn't help with any of this, except to make her look like a legitimately crazy person.

Molotov rushes at him, trying to stab him in the neck, aiming for the big artery there. If she can kill him first, then the story's over.

Well, he wasn't expecting that, of all things.

As he takes a step back to strengthen his balance, stance wide and heavy so she doesn't move him when they connect, Brock absently considers that he really needs to learn to be a better judge of character. When you're so distracted by playing protector that you fail to notice how insane someone is acting, that's a problem.

Brock brings his arm up to block her knife, getting cut on the hand and cheek for his trouble, and arcs his arm away to try and get her to drop it. At the same time, he brings his other hand up to try and hit her in the throat. His screwdriver is on the ground somewhere with one half of a pair of scissors (the other half still tucked in his belt) and he really wishes he'd kept hold of them.

She's not strong enough to fight him.

The knife falls from her hand, and she is diving after it when his hand comes at her throat. She chokes as she falls backward, hitting the floor hard and coughing, and the wound under the bandages reopens, soaking her gauze in blood and pus. On her back, she rolls in pain, clutching at her midsection.

Then there's a loud alarm noise, and a red sign on the wall lights up.

OXYGEN OFF

When Molotov falls, Brock has his hands balled up like he's expecting her to come right back at him. It's different this time: she was literally trying to kill him, and not in the half-assed way he's used to. But she doesn't come at him, she's on the floor, and Brock makes the most guilty face that has ever been seen, because oh. Her stomach wound. Right.

"Hey --" he starts, cautiously taking a step toward her in the stupidest way imaginable (hadn't he just thought about how he needed to be more careful? She's sick and crazy, and he needed to stop being dumb), but then there are klaxons and he looks up sharply. Goddammit.

He's gone through this before, and he doesn't even bother looking back as the airlock over the door slams down from the ceiling. Instead, he ignores it and he ignores Molotov, scrambling around and looking for the oxygen mask that must be in here, upending random storage crates and desks. Or at least he hopes to god it's in here.

Molotov can't move.

She is stranded on her side, immobile from the overwhelming pain, and even when she manages to crack an eye and see the sign, all she can do is drag herself a pace forward and then hold her breath.

It's hopeless. This is what's going to kill her.

There is no more oxygen to breathe, and Molotov summons every ounce of strength she has to hold her breath. She's been trained to hold it for five minutes, although she hasn't kept up so much with that training, so she really has more like three minutes.

Her mental countdown starts.

From Brock's experience with the airlock fuckery, it may be even less time than that. About half the occasions where he got stuck in one of these situations, the power failed, too, leaving him breathless and scrambling for an exit before he literally froze. Once, the gravity gave out at the same time, which was, you know... fun.

Now though, he's not sure if the room is rapidly dropping in temperature or if it's just dread settling in his veins like ice. Whenever this happened, he'd only found one oxygen mask tucked away somewhere between the airlocks. Which was always fine; he'd always been alone when it happened. But this is different.

What's also different is the second klaxon about a minute later, the words illuminating next to the oxygen sign: POWER FAILURE. Brock catches sight of the yellow-and-white oxygen mask with its little attached tank, like SCUBA gear, just as the gravity gives out. He floats up and so does the mask, and it takes a lot of self control not to waste the breath he's holding just swearing in fury as he claws at the empty air. It's still yards away.

Molotov is still counting when she starts floating upward -- she is too sick to feel any difference in the air temperature, and when she reaches out for a support beam to hold, her wound gushes blood into the bandages, almost black from infection, soaking her midsection.

She loses track of everything, watching Brock. She is so far from the oxygen, and in too much pain to let go and cross the room only to have to fight. It's a lost cause, she figures, and all she can do is cling to her perch, so at least she doesn't die while stupidly floating around like a fish in a bowl.

This is bad. Very bad. It's rapidly getting worse, and Brock can feel the big vein in his temple beginning to throb from the internal pressure, the lack of oxygen. His lungs will start to burn soon, and it'll be like his eyes are about to pop out of their sockets, and his body will force him to draw in breath.

But he can't think about that now; he grits his teeth and manages to get close enough to the wall where he can reach out and drag himself painfully slowly along it, toward the oxygen mask, which is caught beneath a floating desk. It takes a few more long, agonizing seconds to fish it out, and then he floats there, half-braced against the slowly-rotating desk, fumbling one-handed with the straps of the mask.

His eyes are bulging and his vision is blurred, but he manages to catch sight of Molotov anyway, dangling there and leaking clouds of black into the air like a squid. And he hesitates. He doubts there's another mask in the room, and even if there were, there's not enough time for him to find it for her -- and she's clearly in no position to find it herself.

Brock's life has always been a series of bad decisions, and this time it's no different as he pushes off from the wall and hurtles toward her.

She's nearly unconscious. All that's keeping her from passing out completely and letting her lungs deflate is pure force of will.

Her eye is closed, so she doesn't see him coming. She is so weak that she couldn't fight him if she wanted to, so it's a good thing that she doesn't care anymore. If she's going to die now, does it really make any difference how it happens? She'd almost prefer if he killed her than just succumbing to a lack of oxygen.

Her skin is blue now, and her blood pressure is frighteningly low -- even in her barely-there mental state, she can tell, by the way her body vibrates with each pained pump of her heart. She manages to open her eye just enough to see Brock flying toward her, and all she does is release the beam that had kept her steady.

The thing about space -- which is what this room effectively is now: freezing, no oxygen, no gravity -- is that momentum is king. There's nothing to slow you down unless you hit something; you'll keep moving at a constant speed either into oblivion or until something gets in your way.

He'd been hoping that he would just pass her by like ships in the night, but instead he collides with her hard, and they start to go spinning. The air Brock had been holding in escapes his lungs with a soundless grunt, which is bad, and he gropes for her with leaden hands to make sure they don't go spinning away from each other. His fingers are too numb to adjust the straps properly, so he just kind of slaps the oxygen mask onto her face, hoping to god she has enough strength to put it on herself, because his reserves are entirely sapped.

Blackness tumbles into the edges of his vision and it's almost like he's passing out; the same feeling of weightlessness and how everything suddenly, rapidly goes numb. But of course he's already weightless in this room, and he couldn't feel Molotov anyway; couldn't tell if she snapped the mask on or drifted away from him. His lungs don't even hurt, he thinks, and then he doesn't think anything at all.

It happens so quickly that Molotov can't process it, not when she's nearly dead anyway.

The movements are smooth enough that it barely registers to her -- one moment, he hits her and her breath is forced out, but then there's something on her face, and the reflexive breathing doesn't hurt, doesn't crush her lungs and kill her. The mask floats off briefly, but she has the one breath, enough to grab it back with numb hands and fingers that feel like concrete.

She can't put the mask on, but she can hold it in place, long enough that she starts to come back around. Her body is aching and radiating hot pain, now that she's got oxygen flowing to her brain, and she can still only barely move, but she holds the mask with one hand and uses the other to swim through the air to Brock. It's slow-going, feels like hours through it probably takes only seconds in reality, but she reaches him.

She reaches him.

They are still floating, so Molotov grabs his shoulder, her arm around his neck, and takes a deep breath off the oxygen tank before pressing the mask back to his mouth, the two of them suspended there like time has stopped. She burns and goes numb again, still bleeding, but she keeps the mask to his face, waiting.

His chest doesn't inflate.

Eye prickling with frustration and pain, Molotov takes the mask back, manages to slip it on this time, and hits Brock in the face, hard enough to wake him. There's no movement, and she hits him again, harder.

His lips have turned blue.

The gravity abruptly turns back on, and they tumble to the ground, along with everything else in the room. Molotov screams in pain as her body crashes against the floor, and she doesn't think to take the mask off as she curls in on herself and bleeds. It takes another moment, the lights flickering back to life, but she crawls the pace or so to where Brock has landed, using him to force herself up, clinging to his chest and trying to make him wake up, pushing the mask back onto his face as she breathes the new air that's come back to the room.

The door opens with no warning, allowing her to leave, not that she can move particularly well.

Molotov lies at Brock's dead side, shaking in severe pain, and waits for whatever comes next. It's forty-five undisturbed minutes before she can crawl from the room.

She leaves the oxygen mask on his face.

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You be the prey and I'll be the predator

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