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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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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
no subject
"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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.