(no subject)
Activity, you guyyyyyyyyyyyyyys.
Also, this is kind of violent, potentially moreso than other things I have written, or in any case, Molotov actually gets hurt. I don't know anymore.
[ What? He does, really.'>--
Midnight in Madrid. Brock leans against a marble column outside of the villa and smokes, reflecting on how much he dislikes these formal science galas that Doc drags him to. One hand in his pocket, Brock watches a couple walk by, then kicks a pebble and listens to the noise coming from inside. A woman is speaking lowly and snickering on the balcony atop the portico.
At a quarter past, he turns and re-enters the building. It is largely empty by this point, seeing as how the party patrons had been mostly scientists and other people largely uninterested in extended social events with colleagues. Brock can hear his footsteps echoing in the hall, and he sighs, hoping that Doc is done hitting on whatever innocent waitress happened to be serving the stuffed mushrooms.
Twenty feet from the ballroom entranceway, Brock hears the woman from before. Her heels click on the floor, and he looks down the hall for her, squinting in the dark. She is just a silhouette in this light, sashaying toward him. Her laughter reverberates softly, and everything in Brock tenses because he would know that laugh anywhere.
Brock's fists clench at his sides, and he angles his head inquisitively before calling out. "Molotov?" It is not really a question, because he knows that it is her, more than he knows that he is himself, but the inflection comes from habit.
There is only dark laughter in response, and she keeps walking toward him.
Anxiety welling up inside him, Brock's nails dig into his palms. "Molotov, I know it's you." He bites his lip.
In the time it takes Brock to blink once, Molotov is in front of him, smiling. "I know you know," she tells him genially, then jabs a sai into the notch above his sternum. He yelps and she removes it.
He makes a grab for her, but she dodges and spins out of reach. Brock realises why he did not notice her before -- her hair is pulled up, and part of it has been draped over her eyepatch for the express purpose of hiding it.
Well, that and the fact that he would have been too distracted by the skintight dress to notice who was wearing it anyway.
Molotov comes to a stop, prepared for a fight. She is grinning widely, and Brock wipes the blood pooling on his collarbone away. The white shirt he is wearing is, by this point, a lost cause.
"Why'd you come?" he asks, face grim. "Did you miss me or something?"
Her smile does not fade. "A girl cannot get lonely?"
"I don't know how much I can do about the lonely part. You're the one with the key."
She raises her eyebrow, then her face crosses seamlessly into a mock-pout. "Then lonely I shall stay, I suppose." She catapults herself into a handspring, flipping across the floor to kick Brock in the face. He catches one of her ankles, but Molotov twists from his grip, the heel of her other shoe jamming into the corner of his eye. He swears loudly and instinctively shuts his eye, covering it with his palm while she stands, fists clenched.
Uncovering his eye, Brock squints at her through the haze of blood now coating his line of vision. He slides into his own fighting stance, and beckons her silently. Molotov smirks, then shakes her head the tiniest bit. "Ladies first, Samson."
This is the last thing Brock wants to hear, because he is having trouble seeing and is still bleeding from the chest, but he charges at her anyway. When he is close enough, she springs into the air, over him, and onto the back of a chair. Taking a half-second to regain her balance, she twirls to face Brock, then leaps at him, knocking him backward to the floor. His head slams on marble, and Molotov bounces up. He hears her heels clicking as she scampers out of his reach.
When he stands up, she is sitting on a high side-table, legs crossed, waiting for him. He growls angrily, glaring at her. She smiles in return. Brock blinks, aware that it will not make the bloody fog in his eye go away, and then Molotov plants one hand on the table and leans over enough to distract him from the red in his vision.
"Samson," she purrs. "Must we go this slow? I am in the mood for something so much harder."
Brock has to take a breath and hold it for a minute, eyes closed, before he can look at her again. One of her shoes is dangling from her toes, her cleavage is starting to spill over the top of her dress from the way she is twisted, and her hair is mussed from being flipped upside-down. His brain starts to cloud up.
"I don't wanna play any of your games, Mol," he says, just loud enough for her to hear. He is not really in a condition to fight her right now, between his eye and his chest and his brain.
Molotov shifts on the table, then slowly licks her lips. "I already won the game, Samson. It is time for my prize."
He needs no other prodding. Closing the space between them, he grabs her by the face and kisses her roughly, pushing her backwards into the wall. She makes a pleased sound low in her throat, then grasps the back of Brock's head with one hand, fingers tangling in his hair. The other hand wrenches his bow-tie off and throws it behind him, then flies down, unfastening the top few buttons on its way. He pushes her wrist away when she runs a finger under his cummerbund, then there is a click and flurry of motion, and Brock opens his eyes.
Legs still wrapped around him, Molotov has the silencer of a pistol rammed against Brock's hyoid. She pulls her mouth away, but tightens her legs around his thighs. "Game over," she says softly, cocking the gun. He swallows and looks down at her coolly. Smiling again, she kisses him once more, cruelly, then draws back and raises her eyebrow. "Any last words, Brock?"
"Nothing you don't already know," he answers calmly, watching her. She nods slightly, and presses her finger down on the trigger at the same time he pitches himself to the side. Molotov roars, infuriated, and Brock howls in pain, the bullet having caught him in the shoulder. He falls to the ground, and she leaps from the table, aiming to shoot him again. He grabs her ankle and throws her across the room; she slams into a column, the impact knocking the gun from her hand. It slides across the marble to rest under a chair.
Forcing himself to stand, Brock staggers up, clutching his shoulder wound. Molotov springs up and barrels into him, ramming him against the wall. His breath gone, he leaves himself open to several of her punches; once he catches it, he releases his shoulder and seizes one of her fists, then squeezes until he hears crunching noises and she screeches in pain. Glaring, he releases her.
She takes a step backward, staring at her crushed hand, then looks angrily at him and swears loudly in Russian. Brock puts his hand back on his shoulder and raises his eyebrow at her. "That's not a very nice thing to call me, Mol."
Molotov is about to attack him again when the foyer they are in lights up with blue and red and the sound of sirens. She scowls at Brock, then grabs her gun from under the chair and hastily retreats. He has no doubt that she will easily escape the police. Glancing at the squad cars outside, he takes a breath and passes out on the floor.
When he wakes up, Dr. Venture is looking at him irritably. "Well, it's about damn time," he informs Brock. "I have been waiting for hours, if you were that tired, you could have just said something."
Brock looks around; police are still swarming the area, and shaky-looking scientists are giving accounts of what they heard to detectives. Sitting up, Brock clutches at his shoulder and grimaces, then stands and flashes his licence at the nearest cop. He turns to leave and Dr. Venture follows him.
"So what happened?"
"Nothing."
"What are you talking about, something clearly happened to you."
"Did you get that waitress to give you her number?"
"What -- OH! No, she was a total bitch, I mean, come on. I tell her that I'll freaking pay for the check her boss was gonna take from her for talking to me for so long, and she was all, 'No English, no English'! I mean, what the hell, way to lead me on, lady..."
Brock stops listening, satisfied that Doc is totally distracted. They reach the car, and Brock opens his door, Dr. Venture still blathering on grouchily. Looking down at his seat, Brock notices something shiny on the leather. He reaches in and grabs it, holding it close to his uninjured eye.
A bullet casing. He has never met anyone near as overly dramatic as Molotov.
Brock rolls his eyes, then tosses the momento over his shoulder and gets in the car.
Also, this is kind of violent, potentially moreso than other things I have written, or in any case, Molotov actually gets hurt. I don't know anymore.
[ What? He does, really.'>--
Midnight in Madrid. Brock leans against a marble column outside of the villa and smokes, reflecting on how much he dislikes these formal science galas that Doc drags him to. One hand in his pocket, Brock watches a couple walk by, then kicks a pebble and listens to the noise coming from inside. A woman is speaking lowly and snickering on the balcony atop the portico.
At a quarter past, he turns and re-enters the building. It is largely empty by this point, seeing as how the party patrons had been mostly scientists and other people largely uninterested in extended social events with colleagues. Brock can hear his footsteps echoing in the hall, and he sighs, hoping that Doc is done hitting on whatever innocent waitress happened to be serving the stuffed mushrooms.
Twenty feet from the ballroom entranceway, Brock hears the woman from before. Her heels click on the floor, and he looks down the hall for her, squinting in the dark. She is just a silhouette in this light, sashaying toward him. Her laughter reverberates softly, and everything in Brock tenses because he would know that laugh anywhere.
Brock's fists clench at his sides, and he angles his head inquisitively before calling out. "Molotov?" It is not really a question, because he knows that it is her, more than he knows that he is himself, but the inflection comes from habit.
There is only dark laughter in response, and she keeps walking toward him.
Anxiety welling up inside him, Brock's nails dig into his palms. "Molotov, I know it's you." He bites his lip.
In the time it takes Brock to blink once, Molotov is in front of him, smiling. "I know you know," she tells him genially, then jabs a sai into the notch above his sternum. He yelps and she removes it.
He makes a grab for her, but she dodges and spins out of reach. Brock realises why he did not notice her before -- her hair is pulled up, and part of it has been draped over her eyepatch for the express purpose of hiding it.
Well, that and the fact that he would have been too distracted by the skintight dress to notice who was wearing it anyway.
Molotov comes to a stop, prepared for a fight. She is grinning widely, and Brock wipes the blood pooling on his collarbone away. The white shirt he is wearing is, by this point, a lost cause.
"Why'd you come?" he asks, face grim. "Did you miss me or something?"
Her smile does not fade. "A girl cannot get lonely?"
"I don't know how much I can do about the lonely part. You're the one with the key."
She raises her eyebrow, then her face crosses seamlessly into a mock-pout. "Then lonely I shall stay, I suppose." She catapults herself into a handspring, flipping across the floor to kick Brock in the face. He catches one of her ankles, but Molotov twists from his grip, the heel of her other shoe jamming into the corner of his eye. He swears loudly and instinctively shuts his eye, covering it with his palm while she stands, fists clenched.
Uncovering his eye, Brock squints at her through the haze of blood now coating his line of vision. He slides into his own fighting stance, and beckons her silently. Molotov smirks, then shakes her head the tiniest bit. "Ladies first, Samson."
This is the last thing Brock wants to hear, because he is having trouble seeing and is still bleeding from the chest, but he charges at her anyway. When he is close enough, she springs into the air, over him, and onto the back of a chair. Taking a half-second to regain her balance, she twirls to face Brock, then leaps at him, knocking him backward to the floor. His head slams on marble, and Molotov bounces up. He hears her heels clicking as she scampers out of his reach.
When he stands up, she is sitting on a high side-table, legs crossed, waiting for him. He growls angrily, glaring at her. She smiles in return. Brock blinks, aware that it will not make the bloody fog in his eye go away, and then Molotov plants one hand on the table and leans over enough to distract him from the red in his vision.
"Samson," she purrs. "Must we go this slow? I am in the mood for something so much harder."
Brock has to take a breath and hold it for a minute, eyes closed, before he can look at her again. One of her shoes is dangling from her toes, her cleavage is starting to spill over the top of her dress from the way she is twisted, and her hair is mussed from being flipped upside-down. His brain starts to cloud up.
"I don't wanna play any of your games, Mol," he says, just loud enough for her to hear. He is not really in a condition to fight her right now, between his eye and his chest and his brain.
Molotov shifts on the table, then slowly licks her lips. "I already won the game, Samson. It is time for my prize."
He needs no other prodding. Closing the space between them, he grabs her by the face and kisses her roughly, pushing her backwards into the wall. She makes a pleased sound low in her throat, then grasps the back of Brock's head with one hand, fingers tangling in his hair. The other hand wrenches his bow-tie off and throws it behind him, then flies down, unfastening the top few buttons on its way. He pushes her wrist away when she runs a finger under his cummerbund, then there is a click and flurry of motion, and Brock opens his eyes.
Legs still wrapped around him, Molotov has the silencer of a pistol rammed against Brock's hyoid. She pulls her mouth away, but tightens her legs around his thighs. "Game over," she says softly, cocking the gun. He swallows and looks down at her coolly. Smiling again, she kisses him once more, cruelly, then draws back and raises her eyebrow. "Any last words, Brock?"
"Nothing you don't already know," he answers calmly, watching her. She nods slightly, and presses her finger down on the trigger at the same time he pitches himself to the side. Molotov roars, infuriated, and Brock howls in pain, the bullet having caught him in the shoulder. He falls to the ground, and she leaps from the table, aiming to shoot him again. He grabs her ankle and throws her across the room; she slams into a column, the impact knocking the gun from her hand. It slides across the marble to rest under a chair.
Forcing himself to stand, Brock staggers up, clutching his shoulder wound. Molotov springs up and barrels into him, ramming him against the wall. His breath gone, he leaves himself open to several of her punches; once he catches it, he releases his shoulder and seizes one of her fists, then squeezes until he hears crunching noises and she screeches in pain. Glaring, he releases her.
She takes a step backward, staring at her crushed hand, then looks angrily at him and swears loudly in Russian. Brock puts his hand back on his shoulder and raises his eyebrow at her. "That's not a very nice thing to call me, Mol."
Molotov is about to attack him again when the foyer they are in lights up with blue and red and the sound of sirens. She scowls at Brock, then grabs her gun from under the chair and hastily retreats. He has no doubt that she will easily escape the police. Glancing at the squad cars outside, he takes a breath and passes out on the floor.
When he wakes up, Dr. Venture is looking at him irritably. "Well, it's about damn time," he informs Brock. "I have been waiting for hours, if you were that tired, you could have just said something."
Brock looks around; police are still swarming the area, and shaky-looking scientists are giving accounts of what they heard to detectives. Sitting up, Brock clutches at his shoulder and grimaces, then stands and flashes his licence at the nearest cop. He turns to leave and Dr. Venture follows him.
"So what happened?"
"Nothing."
"What are you talking about, something clearly happened to you."
"Did you get that waitress to give you her number?"
"What -- OH! No, she was a total bitch, I mean, come on. I tell her that I'll freaking pay for the check her boss was gonna take from her for talking to me for so long, and she was all, 'No English, no English'! I mean, what the hell, way to lead me on, lady..."
Brock stops listening, satisfied that Doc is totally distracted. They reach the car, and Brock opens his door, Dr. Venture still blathering on grouchily. Looking down at his seat, Brock notices something shiny on the leather. He reaches in and grabs it, holding it close to his uninjured eye.
A bullet casing. He has never met anyone near as overly dramatic as Molotov.
Brock rolls his eyes, then tosses the momento over his shoulder and gets in the car.