(no subject)
So because of my computer situation, I have spent a great portion of the last few weeks writing. This is the only non-gay thing I have written though.
Since I don't know exactly how clear it is in the beginning, this is right after Brock goes all murdery on Molotov's dad. Like, right after. You'll see.
♥
Brock opens his eyes and looks up at the sky before coughing up a mouthful of blood.
"Stand up," Molotov's voice commands distantly.
Brock does not stand, choosing instead to blink at the sky and take a breath. The inhalation makes him grimace; he can hear his ribs cracking when his lungs expand.
"Stand up."
Her voice is becoming less controlled, which makes Brock chuckle, which makes his ribs ache more. He wonders how much longer she'll keep this level of calm.
"I will not tell you again," she calls, audibly attempting to steady herself. "Stand."
A raindrop falls into Brock's right eye. He blinks it away, then rolls onto his side and spits more blood onto the pavement. He glances over at the dead body just inside his line of vision for a moment, then turns himself on his stomach and looks up at her.
Molotov is staring down at him, jaw set. Her arms hang at her side, sword clenched in one hand. Her hair is flat and limp, damp with sweat and blood and dirt and god knows what else. Chest heaving, she bares her teeth at him. The scarlet handprint on her sternum moves up and down as she breathes heavily. The blood does not belong to either of them.
Rain begins to fall more heavily.
Brock rises, stumbling a bit in pain. Molotov raises her sword.
"It doesn't have to be like this," he says.
"It didn't," she answers. "You made it like this."
Brock blinks, then swallows. "Mol."
She shakes her head wildly, eye closed tight. Her hair splatters water around. Some of it drips down, streaking through the blood between her breasts.
He unsheathes his knife. "Mol," he says again.
"No!" she shrieks, enraged. "Do not - do not - just..." Her words are cut off when a sob rips from her.
Brock uses the back of his hand to wipe rain from his eyes. He squints at Molotov. "Baby, if you gotta do this, you might as well do it now."
Sword raised parallel to her cheek, Molotov launches herself at him, boots sending up splashes as she runs through puddles. Brock does not move other than to ready himself for the fight.
When she reaches him, her face is blank. She is entirely silent as she swings her sword. Brock dodges the first swish of the blade by an inch, but the next blow catches him in the shoulder. The cut is shallow, but stings bitterly when raindrops hit it. Molotov's eye narrows.
This is the point at which Brock realises that this is not at all a part of Molotov's endless game of cat and mouse, that this is something very new and different, and that maybe he should be scared. For one split second, Brock wonders if he has made a mistake in killing her father. Then her sword comes at his face and he does not have time for questioning himself.
Brock blocks her blade with his own. The metallic clang of steel hitting steel echoes over and over as their weapons continue to meet, both of them silent except for grunts of effort.
Molotov's strikes connect a few more times, leaving gashes in their wake. The rainfall is now blinding, and the fight is deteriorating because Brock can't see and Molotov is already myopic with rage. She continues swinging regardless, and Brock continues trying to block her. Once he realises that he cannot beat her like this, he kicks her in the ankle and she falls. Brock jumps over her sword when it comes at his calves, and she leaps to her feet, but he catches her when she rushes at him. Hands locked around her upper arms, he holds her in place.
Molotov makes one final struggle against him, but she is out of energy and it is unsuccessful. She goes weak in Brock's hands, her internal fire finally extinguished by the sight of her father lying lifeless on the sidewalk. Brock braces her for a minute, then wipes water from her face. He is not sure whether it is from the clouds or her eye.
He pulls her to him after a few moments. "Come on," he says softly. Molotov does not move or respond, and when he looks down at her, her face is blank again. Brock's hands move to her hips and he leans down to kiss her.
For a few seconds, Brock is under the impression that she will be okay. Then there is a searing pain in his abdomen and he is choking blood into Molotov's mouth, and he can feel her sword slicing through the flesh of his back. He tries to step back, but can't, and when he looks down between them, Brock can see only the hilt of Molotov's sword and her fingers flexing around it. He looks back at her face, coated in his blood. She is still expressionless.
Brock makes a questioning noise that gurgles low in his throat, and she draws her blade from him. Blood sprays out after it, erasing the streaky handprint over her heart and replacing it with a splattered mess that she does not make an effort to wipe away. Brock clutches the open wound and falls to the ground.
Molotov looks down at him for a moment, then rakes a hand through her dripping hair, pushing it away from her face. Brock thinks she is going to kick him in the temple or stomp his eyes out with the spikes in her heels or something of that nature, but she just spits a mouthful of his own blood into his face and walks away. Curled in the fetal position, Brock watches her approach the crumpled form of her father. Molotov bends down and presses her lips to his forehead, then takes his pistol and tucks it into her own holster.
She runs off just before Brock passes out from blood loss, shooting him one last glare over her shoulder as she goes. When he wakes up with Hunter standing over him in the hospital wing, Brock will discover that Molotov's sword entered precisely between his heart and his left lung.
"That's no accident, Samson," Hunter will say later. "No, that little bitch wants you alive for something, boy-o."
Brock will just turn away and look out the window at the slowly breaking drizzle, wondering what the next move in the game will be.
♥
Since I don't know exactly how clear it is in the beginning, this is right after Brock goes all murdery on Molotov's dad. Like, right after. You'll see.
♥
Brock opens his eyes and looks up at the sky before coughing up a mouthful of blood.
"Stand up," Molotov's voice commands distantly.
Brock does not stand, choosing instead to blink at the sky and take a breath. The inhalation makes him grimace; he can hear his ribs cracking when his lungs expand.
"Stand up."
Her voice is becoming less controlled, which makes Brock chuckle, which makes his ribs ache more. He wonders how much longer she'll keep this level of calm.
"I will not tell you again," she calls, audibly attempting to steady herself. "Stand."
A raindrop falls into Brock's right eye. He blinks it away, then rolls onto his side and spits more blood onto the pavement. He glances over at the dead body just inside his line of vision for a moment, then turns himself on his stomach and looks up at her.
Molotov is staring down at him, jaw set. Her arms hang at her side, sword clenched in one hand. Her hair is flat and limp, damp with sweat and blood and dirt and god knows what else. Chest heaving, she bares her teeth at him. The scarlet handprint on her sternum moves up and down as she breathes heavily. The blood does not belong to either of them.
Rain begins to fall more heavily.
Brock rises, stumbling a bit in pain. Molotov raises her sword.
"It doesn't have to be like this," he says.
"It didn't," she answers. "You made it like this."
Brock blinks, then swallows. "Mol."
She shakes her head wildly, eye closed tight. Her hair splatters water around. Some of it drips down, streaking through the blood between her breasts.
He unsheathes his knife. "Mol," he says again.
"No!" she shrieks, enraged. "Do not - do not - just..." Her words are cut off when a sob rips from her.
Brock uses the back of his hand to wipe rain from his eyes. He squints at Molotov. "Baby, if you gotta do this, you might as well do it now."
Sword raised parallel to her cheek, Molotov launches herself at him, boots sending up splashes as she runs through puddles. Brock does not move other than to ready himself for the fight.
When she reaches him, her face is blank. She is entirely silent as she swings her sword. Brock dodges the first swish of the blade by an inch, but the next blow catches him in the shoulder. The cut is shallow, but stings bitterly when raindrops hit it. Molotov's eye narrows.
This is the point at which Brock realises that this is not at all a part of Molotov's endless game of cat and mouse, that this is something very new and different, and that maybe he should be scared. For one split second, Brock wonders if he has made a mistake in killing her father. Then her sword comes at his face and he does not have time for questioning himself.
Brock blocks her blade with his own. The metallic clang of steel hitting steel echoes over and over as their weapons continue to meet, both of them silent except for grunts of effort.
Molotov's strikes connect a few more times, leaving gashes in their wake. The rainfall is now blinding, and the fight is deteriorating because Brock can't see and Molotov is already myopic with rage. She continues swinging regardless, and Brock continues trying to block her. Once he realises that he cannot beat her like this, he kicks her in the ankle and she falls. Brock jumps over her sword when it comes at his calves, and she leaps to her feet, but he catches her when she rushes at him. Hands locked around her upper arms, he holds her in place.
Molotov makes one final struggle against him, but she is out of energy and it is unsuccessful. She goes weak in Brock's hands, her internal fire finally extinguished by the sight of her father lying lifeless on the sidewalk. Brock braces her for a minute, then wipes water from her face. He is not sure whether it is from the clouds or her eye.
He pulls her to him after a few moments. "Come on," he says softly. Molotov does not move or respond, and when he looks down at her, her face is blank again. Brock's hands move to her hips and he leans down to kiss her.
For a few seconds, Brock is under the impression that she will be okay. Then there is a searing pain in his abdomen and he is choking blood into Molotov's mouth, and he can feel her sword slicing through the flesh of his back. He tries to step back, but can't, and when he looks down between them, Brock can see only the hilt of Molotov's sword and her fingers flexing around it. He looks back at her face, coated in his blood. She is still expressionless.
Brock makes a questioning noise that gurgles low in his throat, and she draws her blade from him. Blood sprays out after it, erasing the streaky handprint over her heart and replacing it with a splattered mess that she does not make an effort to wipe away. Brock clutches the open wound and falls to the ground.
Molotov looks down at him for a moment, then rakes a hand through her dripping hair, pushing it away from her face. Brock thinks she is going to kick him in the temple or stomp his eyes out with the spikes in her heels or something of that nature, but she just spits a mouthful of his own blood into his face and walks away. Curled in the fetal position, Brock watches her approach the crumpled form of her father. Molotov bends down and presses her lips to his forehead, then takes his pistol and tucks it into her own holster.
She runs off just before Brock passes out from blood loss, shooting him one last glare over her shoulder as she goes. When he wakes up with Hunter standing over him in the hospital wing, Brock will discover that Molotov's sword entered precisely between his heart and his left lung.
"That's no accident, Samson," Hunter will say later. "No, that little bitch wants you alive for something, boy-o."
Brock will just turn away and look out the window at the slowly breaking drizzle, wondering what the next move in the game will be.
♥