terrie
in
deathmance
Hunting Season, part one
WHY HELLO AGAIN. Here is some gigantic epic thing (just barely clocking in at 42 pages!) that took me around five and a half months to write. It takes place after season two, I guess in winter time. Because it is so freaking huge, I am separating it into three parts; I will post the second part tomorrow and the third the day after.
PLZ ENJOY.
--
HUNTING SEASON
A Venture Bros Story
It is exactly two o’clock in the morning.
Somewhere in the Western United States, there is a barren expanse of undeveloped land. This early, the empty landscape is shrouded in the shadowy blue-black of the surrounding mountains and cliffs. Clusters of trees become ambiguous shapes in the half-light of the stars and quarter moon. In the middle of this wasteland is a heavily fortified compound, adding to the celestial half-light with its harsh fluorescence. The Compound remains heavily lit even at night, to dissuade would-be burglars and also because no-one could ever figure out where the hell all of the circuit breakers were.
In the living quarters of the Compound, all the lights are out. (Except for the night lights dimly offering comfort from the kitchen and bathrooms.) Master bedroom; shared bedroom; bedroom on the lower floor; bedrooms in the East wing. Everything is quiet, save for the ever-present hum of machinery and fluorescent bulbs from elsewhere in the Compound.
Something stirs atop one of the surrounding cliffs. It is a figure dressed all in black, observing the Compound unnoticed from the outcropping, and, moments later, from outside the security gates. It breaches these gates, bypassing the alarms with an expert’s flair. Cloaked in shadow, the figure makes its way around the perimeter of the Compound, skirting the tripwires with such ease that one could suspect the figure had prior knowledge as to the Compound’s layout, if there were anyone around to watch.
The figure jimmies open a window and slips through it, landing on its feet in a partially subterranean bedroom. The room, like the others in the living quarters, is dark; the figure moves easily in the blackness, seeking out the adjacent hallway.
It is halfway across the room when a foot lands squarely in its back, sending it sprawling across the floor.
The foot belongs to a leg, which is attached to a torso, which has another leg, two arms, a head, and all the other things you would expect a body to have. This particular body also has an angry-looking expression on its face.
“Nice night for a stroll,” says Brock Samson, legs wide in a fighting stance.
The figure quickly gets to its feet and reaches for the pistol at its hip.
Brock is quicker: he closes the distance between them, grabs the figure’s wrist, and wrenches the gun away. “Not a good ide -- ow,” says Brock, getting clocked in the jaw.
The figure quickly does a back handspring, executing a perfect landing. It immediately throws several shuriken at Brock’s head, which he ducks. He is not so lucky at ducking the stiletto heel that comes flying at his face moments later. This foot also belongs to a leg, which is attached to a torso, which has another leg, two arms, a head, and all the other things you would expect a body to have. Unlike Brock, however, the figure is wearing a mask.
Brock is knocked backwards. The figure looms over him and prepares to stomp on his face. Just as the foot closes in, Brock grabs it and swiftly chops at the intruder’s other ankle with his hand. Its balance ruined, the figure collapses, landing in an unceremonious heap over Brock. Taking advantage of its apparently stunned state, Brock rips the mask off. Red hair spills out.
“Mol, what the hell?” he says, not very surprised. He falls backwards to lie prone again, expression sour.
Molotov sniffs indignantly and repositions herself so she is sitting just above his hips, her feet planted on the ground on either side of his head. “Your security system is faulty.”
“You don’t count,” says Brock. “What do you want?”
“Mm, many things,” says Molotov. She leans forward, pressing herself against his torso, fingers seeking out his hair. Her feet remain where they were. Brock is once again reminded of how flexible she is.
He scowls. “You didn’t come halfway around the world just to flirt.”
“This is not flirting.”
“Whatever. What do you want?”
“Oh, are you annoyed?” sneers Molotov, eyebrow arching. “Did I awake you from your geriatric coma?”
Brock rolls his eyes and sits up. Molotov remains planted astride his hips, refusing to move. “Yeah, I’m annoyed. Don’t change the subject,” he says. His eyes narrow. “What do you want?”
Molotov returns the dangerous look for a few beats. Then: “I need your help, Samson.”
To say Brock is surprised would be a gross understatement. Only his eyebrows indicate his shock; they lift straight up. “You need my help,” he echoes.
“Da,” she says simply.
“On what?”
She shrugs and wriggles her way off him to stand. “I cannot tell you unless you accept.”
“Of course,” he says dryly. “What if I don’t?”
“You will,” she replies, very confident.
Brock finds her confidence highly irritating. “Uh-huh. Why?”
Molotov shrugs again and turns to inspect his room. She’s been here before and although she never told him this, he knows it in his heart. Eventually she makes her way to a shelf and lifts a porcelain figurine of a cat. It was a gift from a girl Brock met in Hawaii. He thinks it’s hideous.
Molotov must agree because she hurls it at his head.
He manages to duck in time, but the figurine hits the wall and shatters loudly. Brock stares at the woman, agape. “What the hell!”
She regards him passively, lightly tossing another meaningless trinket up and down. “Do you accept?”
He stands up, palms spread wide. “You’re gonna trash my stuff until I do?”
Molotov responds by throwing two more objects at him. He catches one; the other shatters against the back wall. Without giving him time to regain his composure, she launches several more. He manages to catch the rest, ending in a somersault. Jaw set, he slowly raises himself to his feet. He then promptly drops everything he’s carrying. They hit the ground noisily, some shattering, others bouncing and rolling away.
Molotov regards him coolly. The shelf is now empty. She turns and, in lieu of anything else to throw at him, begins attempting to pry the shelf off the wall.
Brock is about to stop her when his communicator watch chirps. “Yeah?”
“Brock, what the hell is going on down there? Are you having a party or something? You do know I have to get up like super-early, right?” It is Dr Venture on the other end, looking extremely unhappy.
Brock notes that it’s a quarter past two in the morning. He would not be happy either. “Nothing; no; yes,” says Brock, unable to keep an eyeroll in check.
“Don’t you sass me,” says Venture. “And what do you mean, ‘nothing’, there’s totally noises coming from your level. It sounds like someone’s trying to juggle plates. And ... doing it badly.”
“I got it under control,” says Brock. He glances over at Molotov. “Hang on.” He switches off the communicator, ducking just as the mercenary heaves a 3/4" solid pine wall-mounted shelf at his head. It hits the wall behind him. Plaster falls from the ceiling; Brock dusts it off his shoulders.
“So,” says Molotov.
“I don’t get how this is supposed to --” Brock’s watch chirps again. “Yeah, Doc.”
“What -- you -- ‘yeah, Doc’?! What the hell was that?!”
Molotov begins to lights a cigarette. “I said it’s under control,” says Brock to Venture. “Hey. Hey. You can’t smoke in here.” Molotov rolls her eye but complies.
“‘Can’t smoke in’ -- you totally are having a party, I knew it!” says Venture. He is fumbling for his glasses and his dressing gown. “I’m so freaking coming down there.”
“No -- Doc, seriously --”
“Seriously nothing!” says Venture. “I have a right to know what’s going on in my own house. Especially if you’re going to be all super liar-face about it.”
“I’m not --” The communicator watch chirps and Brock switches over to the other line. “Yeah.”
“Hey Brock?” Now Hank is on the communicator, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Did something happen?”
“No ... go back to sleep, Hank.”
Dean leans over and peers into Hank’s communicator screen as well. “We heard stuff breaking.”
“And Pop yelling like a grumpy old man,” says Hank.
“Which happens a lot anyway,” added Dean.
Brock sighs loudly and glares over at Molotov. “This is what you wanted to happen?”
She smiles, very pleased.
Brock turns back to the watchface. “Look, just stay put.” He switches back to Venture.
“-- and another thing, you -- wait a second, did you just put me on hold?”
“No,” says Brock flippantly.
“God, did somebody inject you with a sassback virus or something?” Venture is glaring so hard that he’s squinting. “What the hell is going on?”
Brock looks up at the ceiling. “Molotov got past our security, broke in, and I guess has a business proposition for me and is tearing apart my room until I agree to go with her, even though she won’t tell me what I’m agreeing to.”
Venture is silent for a few seconds. “Can you explain that maybe in a way that isn’t retarded?”
Brock sighs, suddenly obtaining a headache. “I’ll meet you in the hangar in like a minute.” He disconnects.
“The hangar?” repeats Molotov incredulously.
Brock looks over at her. “Yeah, we -- I thought I told you not to smoke in here.”
She ignores this and continues to smoke. “I was not aware the great Brock Samson needed the permission of a tiny failure-man to do anything.” Brock throws on a shirt and locates his boots before heading out the door. “Do you need to get an extension on your curfew?” she says flatly, following him. He glares at her over his shoulder but says nothing, leading her through the corridors to the hangar.
Dr Venture shows up a few seconds after they do. (The boys show up shortly thereafter, but are quickly shooed away by angry looks from their father.)
“So, what, you need him for some little project or something? Took on too many murders for you to handle?” says Venture, arms folded across his thin chest.
Molotov glares at him stonily. “Would you like me to add you to that list?”
“Mol,” says Brock, frowning. “Knock it off.”
“Samson,” says Molotov, turning to him and completely ignoring Dr Venture, “come with me to Siberia.”
“I can’t le --”
“He can’t leave,” says Venture loudly.
“Samson,” she repeats, moving closer and again ignoring Dr Venture. Her voice lowers almost imperceptibly. “You are the only one I trust to accompany me.”
Brock has no words for this; he studies her for a moment, trying to figure out if she --
“Yeah, well, that’s extra great but he’s my bodyguard, not your personal little playmate,” says Venture irritably. “So why don’t you just pack up your travelling kill-circus and deathshow --”
“I will pay you,” says Molotov.
Brock is interrupted before he even gets out a word. “HE’LL DO IT,” blurts Venture.
Again Brock has no words, only capable of throwing a look of disbelief at Venture. Molotov pats him on the arm condescendingly. “You see, you can come out and play past your bedtime if only you ask.”
“What?” says Venture, looking between them.
“Doc, I can’t just leave you guys,” says Brock. “I mean, you kinda ... you know, almost die. A lot.”
“Oh, please,” says Venture, “I was not-dying well before you started skulking around. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“Now that Monarch’s off your ass,” says Brock flatly.
“Well that -- no, that is not what I meant.” Venture is not very good at lying this early in the morning. He looks disgruntled for a moment, pauses, then leans in and adds in sotto voice, “Plus we need the money.”
“I still don’t like it,” says Brock. “You do kinda piss people off easily.”
Venture scoffs. “Brock, seriously, we’ll be fine. You worry like, way too much; you’re going to get an ulcer. How long could this possibly take anyway?”
“A few days at most,” says Molotov. “I know where the target is right now, in fact.”
“There, you see?” says Venture, looking at Brock over the top of his glasses.
Brock turns to Molotov. “Who’s the target?”
“Ah, I cannot tell you now,” says Molotov, glancing overtly at Venture and his sons. “He shall be relatively easy to dispatch, however.”
Brock is still sceptical. “You’re sure it’ll only take a few days?”
“Da, I am sure.”
Venture makes an exasperated noise. “Look, think of it as a vacation if it helps you feel better. I bet you people love traipsing through snow looking for guys to kill anyway.”
Brock regards him evenly, pointedly ignoring that remark. “You know if something happens to you when I’m in Russia, I won’t make it back in time to save you.”
“Would you stop worrying! Nothing will happen,” says Venture. He jerks his thumb vaguely over his shoulder. “Besides, we’ve got Orpheus and his little backup singers to help out. They save the world from horrible evil like every other week or something, I guess.”
Brock studies Venture for a moment before conceding with a shrug. “Fine.”
“Excellent,” says Venture. He turns to Molotov and rubs his palms together. “So, how much are we talking here? I mean, Brock’s skills are pretty high in demand, so --”
“I am aware of his skills, thank you,” snaps Molotov. “We will discuss payment after the task is complete. I will wire you twelve thousand upfront once we reach Russia.”
“That’s not ... roubles, is it?” says Venture. His hands drop to his sides.
Molotov just stares at him. “Nyet.”
“Oh! Well, supergood, in that case. Uh, when are you two heading out?”
“As soon as possible,” says Molotov. She glances over at Brock. “I trust you have not forgotten how to properly prepare for a mission?”
Brock snorts. “Let me go change and I’ll be prepared.” He turns around and heads back to his room. The Venture twins accost him on the way.
“You’re leaving us?” says Dean, voice rising slightly in pitch. He is always much more panicky than his brother.
“Can I come with?” says Hank, always much less realistic than his brother.
“It’s just for a few days,” says Brock as they follow him. “I don’t really want to, but your dad says we need the money.” He studies the cracked wall in his room and decides they might. He closes the door and the twins wait in the hall.
“C’mon, I can like disarm traps and sneak around and stuff. I’m totally invaluable,” says Hank earnestly through the door.
“No, you can’t,” says Dean.
“What? I so can,” says Hank. “I’ve been practicing.”
“No, you haven’t,” says Dean, arching an eyebrow.
“Aw, what do you know? Like I spend all my time with you anyway.”
“Yeah, you do,” says Dean.
Having changed into jeans, Brock emerges from his room; coat slung over one shoulder and duffel bag over the other. “Sorry, Hank. I need you to stay here and hold down the fort.”
“Aww, I never get to have any fun,” says Hank, kicking at the ground dejectedly.
“We just found an hourglass that turns people into monkeys when we were in Morocco like a week ago,” says Dean, squinting.
“Yeah,” says Hank, “but that was lame.”
“C’mon,” says Brock, heading back toward the hangar. “You can say goodbye to me and Molotov.” He also wanted to make sure Molotov hadn’t gutted Dr Venture yet.
Back in the hangar, the good doctor somehow managed to keep his intestines intact. The awkward stretch of silence since Brock left with the boys in tow, however, was almost unbearable. “So,” Venture fumbles, “Sibera, huh?”
“Da,” says Molotov, lighting another cigarette.
Venture waits. She does not elaborate. He fidgets. “How, uh, dangerous is this going to be?”
Molotov snorts. “You would die.” Brock and the boys enter the hangar at that point; she turns to address them. Venture puts his hand on her shoulder.
“Listen,” he says lowly, “just make sure he comes back, alright?”
She looks at him for a moment. “I promise he will return in one piece.” Another moment passes. “You may remove your hand now.” He hastily releases her.
“Alright,” says Brock. “Heading out now?”
“Da,” says Molotov. “I have my car parked above the valley. We will have to climb.” She turns to go without waiting for an answer.
“Goodbye, Miss Cocktease!” says Hank, a little too loudly.
“Wait, wait,” says Venture as Brock turns to follow her. “You’re letting a woman drive you?”
Brock glares. Venture shuts up.
“Later, Doc. You boys be good; listen to your dad,” says Brock. “I’ll keep in touch on the two-way.” He has to jog a bit to catch up with Molotov.
“Okay, just like -- remember to send over the twelve large, alright?” calls Dr Venture. Molotov waves dismissively over her shoulder.
“You’re not gonna send it, are you?” says Brock as soon as they are out of earshot.
“Nyet.”
--
They scale the cliff face without incident. Brock pauses for a moment on the precipice, having only seen the Compound from this angle when he was in the X-1. It’s really bright. Molotov’s Viper is waiting, safe from thieves because who would be out looking to steal cars in a desolate area at three in the morning anyway? Brock shoulders his duffel bag. “Pop the trunk.”
Molotov looks at him as if she just noticed what he was carrying. “What are you bringing?”
Brock looks at her as if she has lost her mind. “Why, what are you packing?”
She leans into the Viper and produces, simply, a tooth brush. He throws her a dark look. Satisfied her point has been made, she concedes and opens the trunk; he tosses the bag inside.
The 2006 Dodge Viper has an eight-point-three litre V10 SFI engine. It can reach speeds up to two hundred twenty miles per hour. When Molotov drives, the needle sits consistently at the top of the speedometer.
They have been driving for roughly half an hour in dead silence. “Where are we going, exactly?” says Brock.
“Siberia,” says Molotov dryly.
Brock has to literally bite his tongue. “Yeah. Okay. I mean, right now.”
“My aeroplane.”
“Beriev?”
“Tupolev.”
“Oh.”
They lapse into another stretch of silence. Brock attempts watching the scenery, but the combination of the speed of the Viper as well as the darkness of the surrounding expanse of open terrain makes it a futile effort. He eventually pulls on his jacket. Molotov lights another cigarette at some point.
“Mol,” he says at length.
“Samson?”
“Did you mean what you said back there?” He glances over at her.
She keeps her eye on the road. “About what?”
“About trusting me.”
“We’ve reached my aeroplane,” replies Molotov.
Molotov decelerates and parks alongside the airliner. It is waiting somewhat obtusely in the middle of the highway, but then again Molotov was never really good at being subtle. Brock thinks it’s a Tu-204, but it has been quite awhile since he’s last studied Russian aircraft. She leans back and looks at him. “You have not forgotten how to operate an aeroplane that is not powered by ‘super-science’, have you?”
Brock squints. He can’t tell if she’s being facetious. “Nah.”
“Good.” She turns and deftly handsprings out of the car. Brock opens his door.
Molotov has him help in loading the Viper inside the Tupolev. It’s not exactly a Tu-204, since the passenger compartments are completely gutted. This is a cargo plane. At the moment, there are only a few crates that Molotov insists are empty; apparently she had cleared out her schedule to focus solely on whatever this mystery assignment is.
They are silent as the Tupolev taxis, takes off, and maintains flight. It’s not really an oppressive silence; they are so instinctively comfortable with each other that the lack of conversation is not awkward in the least. Molotov focusses on piloting and Brock on co-piloting, though occasionally he sneaks a look at the angles of her wrists when he’s pretending to be watching the controls.
“So who’s the target?” asks Brock after several hours. They are somewhere over the Atlantic.
Molotov shrugs. “I would prefer not to say.”
Brock stops pretending to watch the controls to stare at her. “What?”
“You don’t need to know who it is.”
“Did you just make this whole thing up to have me to yourself?”
Molotov finally looks over at him, expression deadpan. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Brock rolls his eyes and looks back to the controls. Molotov does the same. “Why can’t you tell me, then?”
“I could tell you, I just do not care to,” says Molotov airily.
“Real cute,” grumbles Brock. “Is it someone I know?”
“Perhaps,” says Molotov. “It is a man with extensive military training.”
“That narrows it down,” says Brock dryly. “Why’s he got the hit on him?”
“I cannot tell you that,” she says. “Client confidentiality.”
“Of course.”
“I will say, however, that we are not the only ones after him.” She banks to the left and Brock hits a few switches to adjust.
“Lucky guy,” he says.
“You could say that.”
When they finally land, it is not in Siberia. It isn’t even in Russia. The signs all say Roissy-CDG. As they taxi, Brock glances at her. “We’re in Paris?”
“Alert as always,” she replies.
“But not Siberia,” he says.
“Nyet, unless they have moved the CDG to Russia when I was away.”
He stares at her in silence, jaw set, until she turns to look at him.
“And da, there really is a mission that I need your help with.” Her eyebrow arches. “You’re very paranoid, Samson; has anyone ever told you this?”
“It’s come up before, yeah,” says Brock flatly. “Why are we in Paris? Or can you not tell me that either.”
“Because the target is here,” she says matter-of-factly. “Now come, we must prepare.” She gets up and moves to the cargo hold. He follows her to the Viper.
“For what?”
She pauses in loading a sniper rifle into the trunk to glance back at him. “A stakeout.”
--
Molotov parks the Viper in a parking garage, where she speaks briefly in patois with a seedy-looking attendant. Brock stands off to the side, smoking, and the attendant keeps glancing at him nervously. Molotov grabs a black kit bag with red trim from the trunk of the Viper, and they head out to the streets.
It’s nearly midnight and Paris is deserted. Molotov’s heels click on the sidewalk and Brock’s boots make lovely clunking noises. He doesn’t ask where they’re going since he’s sure Molotov will just give him yet another vague answer; her secrecy strikes him as highly suspicious, but then again maybe he really is just paranoid.
They continue down the street without saying a word for what Brock estimates is at least six miles. Somewhere nearby, a clock chimes one o’clock. At a corner, Molotov abruptly turns to kick open the door to a dilapidated building. She goes inside. Brock follows. The door swings shut behind them.
They climb up six flights of stairs, Molotov in the lead. Brock tries not to stare at her ass. He is unsuccessful.
On the fifth floor, Molotov turns out of the dirty, lightless stairwell into an equally dirty and lightless hallway. A solitary bare bulb hangs from the ceiling in the middle of the hall. Brock knows this because he walks right into it. He reaches up to turn on the light; it pops loudly, sending sparks everywhere and briefly illuminating the hallway to allow for a glimpse of the peeling, hideous wallpaper. At the end of the corridor there is a door that once displayed three brass numbers. Now it is room Five Blank space Upside-down seven. Molotov opens the door and they go inside.
Moonlight spills through the East window, but otherwise the room is dark. Like the rest of the building, it’s dirty and looks as if it’s been abandoned for years. There are a few rotting pieces of furniture and the floorboards are scuffed and warped. Molotov heads toward the window, shrugging the kit bag off her shoulder. A cloud of dust rises when it hits the floor. Brock watches from the doorway as she crouches down to remove the sniper rifle, attaching the telescopic sight with an efficient speed. She hooks a chair sitting on cracked wheels with her foot and pulls it over, crossing her legs when she sits down.
Brock just stands there.
Eventually Molotov notices him. She points at the window facing North before returning her attention to her own window, using the rifle’s sight as a makeshift telescope. He looks at her for a moment, then closes the door out of habit and moves to the second window. If he squints, he can make out the Eiffel Tower, illuminated by bright lights and illegal to photograph. At some point it begins to snow.
He has no idea what he is looking for. He waits approximately an hour and fifteen minutes and still has no idea what he is looking for. He is tired, jetlagged, and really wants a cigarette.
“Well, this was worth my time,” he says.
Molotov looks at him with utter disdain. “Have you ever even been on a stakeout before, Samson?”
“Yeah, but usually I kinda know what I’m waiting for,” he shoots back.
“For the target,” she says, tone of voice very clearly illustrating the assertion that he is incredibly simple. Her head inclines toward the rifle she is holding, then toward the window.
“Yeah. It’d help if you told me who the target is.”
“Why don’t you make yourself useful and go take a nap or something?” She waves dismissively at what once was a bed, pushed up against the South wall.
“How’s that useful?” says Brock.
“Because then you won’t be whining,” sneers Molotov, looking back out her window.
Brock scowls at the back of her head until he doesn’t feel like punching her in the mouth anymore.
The bed is not very inviting; its mattress is bare and dust covers it instead of even a motheaten sheet. Brock has slept on much worse things however, and he is tired, still with no idea what the hell he’s doing in Paris.
The springs groan and creak when he finally, reluctantly, does lie down. He half-expects the thing to just collapse under his weight at any second. It doesn’t.
“This isn’t ‘cause you told me to,” says Brock.
“Of course not.”
He closes his eyes.
It was Brock’s first time in East Berlin. His German sucked and his partner still wouldn’t let him smoke anywhere nearby. Exiled to the roof, he was about to light his second cigarette when he saw something red and black in his peripheral vision. Glass shattered. He looked over the edge of the roof just in time to see someone with red boots enter the building through a window. Brock dropped his cigarette and ran down the six flights to the room in which he and his partner had been waiting for some Lithuanian delegate to appear across the street.
The door had been locked so Brock threw it off its hinges with his shoulder. He landed on one knee, crouched, with a pistol’s silencer pressed coldly into the centre of his forehead. There were red boots in front of him. The broken window was to his left. His partner’s body was to his right, blood and brain pooling on the floor, a whole section of his skull missing.
“You are too loud, Samson,” said the woman.
Brock wakes up suddenly; there is a dangerous weight next to him and he immediately reaches for his knife. Red boots and a black catsuit. Dirty apartment. Moonlight.
Then he remembers where he is and sinks back down into the dust, scowling.
Molotov is sitting on the edge of the mattress, regarding him impassively. “If you insist upon having nightmares, try not to make so much noise.”
Brock just glares wordlessly.
Molotov looks away, disinterested.
It’s still nighttime, so he hadn’t been asleep for very long. The rifle is propped up against the chair at the East window, moonlight reflecting off it subtly. Brock really doesn’t want to think about windows and firearms and Molotov right now, but he has very little say in the matter.
The weight on the mattress shifts; Molotov moves closer to him. “What were you dreaming about?”
“Another stakeout,” he says tersely. “I need a cigarette.”
She shrugs and hands him the pack she had been holding. “The lighter is in the bag.”
Brock swings his legs over the other edge of the bed. “Uh, gonna go outside, actually, so ...” He is about to stand when the weight on the mattress shifts again and Molotov’s arms slide around his waist, hands clasping over his belt buckle.
“Stay,” she says. Her cheek rests against his shoulderblade.
He really, really does not want to think about her right now. “Mol ...”
Her fingers tilt and begin to untuck the front of his shirt. “Stay.”
Brock gives his consent by turning around and pinning her to the bed by the wrists, mouth pressing fervently against her neck. Apparently he has no choice but to think about her. He hates her right now, and hates himself for wanting nothing more than to slit her throat. But both his heart and Hunter make it so he can’t, so he substitutes his teeth for a knife.
Molotov makes pleased noises underneath him, arching up and looping her legs around his waist. Eventually he’s too distracted to keep hating her and releases her wrists to take off his shirt. She immediately flips him onto his back, straddling him; Brock grabs her head and brings her face down to kiss her roughly, though he has to let her go to seize her hips when she starts swirling them involuntarily.
“Can you not do that,” he says, expression pained.
“Oh. Sorry.” She allows herself to look sheepish for a second, and then attacks his throat.
Brock stares at the ceiling and tries to think of something other than fucking her while she sucks on his Adam’s apple. This is even more difficult to do when her mouth starts moving. She kisses along his midline from hyoid to sternum to solar plexus to abdomen to just above his pelvis. Her fingers hook under his waistband and she undoes his belt buckle.
And then she stops.
Molotov abruptly pops her head back up, kisses him fleetingly, and then rolls over with her back to him.
She always stops.
Brock is still staring at the ceiling. “Damn it.”
After convincing himself not to just stab himself in the heart right there, he sits up to search for the cigarette pack, finding it on the floor. He gets up to retrieve the lighter in Molotov’s kit bag, avoiding looking at her until he’s given himself enough time to clear his thoughts.
When he turns back, she’s propped up on her elbow, watching him. He feels a little bit like a praying mantis about to have his head eaten, so he leans against the window frame and watches her too. “How come you’re not on lookout anymore?” he says, breathing smoke.
Molotov shrugs. “He will not appear on the street tonight.”
Brock glances out the window, moving aside the motheaten curtains. “Yeah?”
“Da,” she says. There is a pause. “Come here.”
He releases the curtains and looks at her incredulously. “What?”
Molotov is still steadily watching at him, hand resting on her hip. “Brock.” Again, as in the hangar, her voice softens almost imperceptibly. “Come here.”
He puts his cigarette out against the wall and goes to her.
--
Next: Part Two.
PLZ ENJOY.
--
HUNTING SEASON
A Venture Bros Story
It is exactly two o’clock in the morning.
Somewhere in the Western United States, there is a barren expanse of undeveloped land. This early, the empty landscape is shrouded in the shadowy blue-black of the surrounding mountains and cliffs. Clusters of trees become ambiguous shapes in the half-light of the stars and quarter moon. In the middle of this wasteland is a heavily fortified compound, adding to the celestial half-light with its harsh fluorescence. The Compound remains heavily lit even at night, to dissuade would-be burglars and also because no-one could ever figure out where the hell all of the circuit breakers were.
In the living quarters of the Compound, all the lights are out. (Except for the night lights dimly offering comfort from the kitchen and bathrooms.) Master bedroom; shared bedroom; bedroom on the lower floor; bedrooms in the East wing. Everything is quiet, save for the ever-present hum of machinery and fluorescent bulbs from elsewhere in the Compound.
Something stirs atop one of the surrounding cliffs. It is a figure dressed all in black, observing the Compound unnoticed from the outcropping, and, moments later, from outside the security gates. It breaches these gates, bypassing the alarms with an expert’s flair. Cloaked in shadow, the figure makes its way around the perimeter of the Compound, skirting the tripwires with such ease that one could suspect the figure had prior knowledge as to the Compound’s layout, if there were anyone around to watch.
The figure jimmies open a window and slips through it, landing on its feet in a partially subterranean bedroom. The room, like the others in the living quarters, is dark; the figure moves easily in the blackness, seeking out the adjacent hallway.
It is halfway across the room when a foot lands squarely in its back, sending it sprawling across the floor.
The foot belongs to a leg, which is attached to a torso, which has another leg, two arms, a head, and all the other things you would expect a body to have. This particular body also has an angry-looking expression on its face.
“Nice night for a stroll,” says Brock Samson, legs wide in a fighting stance.
The figure quickly gets to its feet and reaches for the pistol at its hip.
Brock is quicker: he closes the distance between them, grabs the figure’s wrist, and wrenches the gun away. “Not a good ide -- ow,” says Brock, getting clocked in the jaw.
The figure quickly does a back handspring, executing a perfect landing. It immediately throws several shuriken at Brock’s head, which he ducks. He is not so lucky at ducking the stiletto heel that comes flying at his face moments later. This foot also belongs to a leg, which is attached to a torso, which has another leg, two arms, a head, and all the other things you would expect a body to have. Unlike Brock, however, the figure is wearing a mask.
Brock is knocked backwards. The figure looms over him and prepares to stomp on his face. Just as the foot closes in, Brock grabs it and swiftly chops at the intruder’s other ankle with his hand. Its balance ruined, the figure collapses, landing in an unceremonious heap over Brock. Taking advantage of its apparently stunned state, Brock rips the mask off. Red hair spills out.
“Mol, what the hell?” he says, not very surprised. He falls backwards to lie prone again, expression sour.
Molotov sniffs indignantly and repositions herself so she is sitting just above his hips, her feet planted on the ground on either side of his head. “Your security system is faulty.”
“You don’t count,” says Brock. “What do you want?”
“Mm, many things,” says Molotov. She leans forward, pressing herself against his torso, fingers seeking out his hair. Her feet remain where they were. Brock is once again reminded of how flexible she is.
He scowls. “You didn’t come halfway around the world just to flirt.”
“This is not flirting.”
“Whatever. What do you want?”
“Oh, are you annoyed?” sneers Molotov, eyebrow arching. “Did I awake you from your geriatric coma?”
Brock rolls his eyes and sits up. Molotov remains planted astride his hips, refusing to move. “Yeah, I’m annoyed. Don’t change the subject,” he says. His eyes narrow. “What do you want?”
Molotov returns the dangerous look for a few beats. Then: “I need your help, Samson.”
To say Brock is surprised would be a gross understatement. Only his eyebrows indicate his shock; they lift straight up. “You need my help,” he echoes.
“Da,” she says simply.
“On what?”
She shrugs and wriggles her way off him to stand. “I cannot tell you unless you accept.”
“Of course,” he says dryly. “What if I don’t?”
“You will,” she replies, very confident.
Brock finds her confidence highly irritating. “Uh-huh. Why?”
Molotov shrugs again and turns to inspect his room. She’s been here before and although she never told him this, he knows it in his heart. Eventually she makes her way to a shelf and lifts a porcelain figurine of a cat. It was a gift from a girl Brock met in Hawaii. He thinks it’s hideous.
Molotov must agree because she hurls it at his head.
He manages to duck in time, but the figurine hits the wall and shatters loudly. Brock stares at the woman, agape. “What the hell!”
She regards him passively, lightly tossing another meaningless trinket up and down. “Do you accept?”
He stands up, palms spread wide. “You’re gonna trash my stuff until I do?”
Molotov responds by throwing two more objects at him. He catches one; the other shatters against the back wall. Without giving him time to regain his composure, she launches several more. He manages to catch the rest, ending in a somersault. Jaw set, he slowly raises himself to his feet. He then promptly drops everything he’s carrying. They hit the ground noisily, some shattering, others bouncing and rolling away.
Molotov regards him coolly. The shelf is now empty. She turns and, in lieu of anything else to throw at him, begins attempting to pry the shelf off the wall.
Brock is about to stop her when his communicator watch chirps. “Yeah?”
“Brock, what the hell is going on down there? Are you having a party or something? You do know I have to get up like super-early, right?” It is Dr Venture on the other end, looking extremely unhappy.
Brock notes that it’s a quarter past two in the morning. He would not be happy either. “Nothing; no; yes,” says Brock, unable to keep an eyeroll in check.
“Don’t you sass me,” says Venture. “And what do you mean, ‘nothing’, there’s totally noises coming from your level. It sounds like someone’s trying to juggle plates. And ... doing it badly.”
“I got it under control,” says Brock. He glances over at Molotov. “Hang on.” He switches off the communicator, ducking just as the mercenary heaves a 3/4" solid pine wall-mounted shelf at his head. It hits the wall behind him. Plaster falls from the ceiling; Brock dusts it off his shoulders.
“So,” says Molotov.
“I don’t get how this is supposed to --” Brock’s watch chirps again. “Yeah, Doc.”
“What -- you -- ‘yeah, Doc’?! What the hell was that?!”
Molotov begins to lights a cigarette. “I said it’s under control,” says Brock to Venture. “Hey. Hey. You can’t smoke in here.” Molotov rolls her eye but complies.
“‘Can’t smoke in’ -- you totally are having a party, I knew it!” says Venture. He is fumbling for his glasses and his dressing gown. “I’m so freaking coming down there.”
“No -- Doc, seriously --”
“Seriously nothing!” says Venture. “I have a right to know what’s going on in my own house. Especially if you’re going to be all super liar-face about it.”
“I’m not --” The communicator watch chirps and Brock switches over to the other line. “Yeah.”
“Hey Brock?” Now Hank is on the communicator, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Did something happen?”
“No ... go back to sleep, Hank.”
Dean leans over and peers into Hank’s communicator screen as well. “We heard stuff breaking.”
“And Pop yelling like a grumpy old man,” says Hank.
“Which happens a lot anyway,” added Dean.
Brock sighs loudly and glares over at Molotov. “This is what you wanted to happen?”
She smiles, very pleased.
Brock turns back to the watchface. “Look, just stay put.” He switches back to Venture.
“-- and another thing, you -- wait a second, did you just put me on hold?”
“No,” says Brock flippantly.
“God, did somebody inject you with a sassback virus or something?” Venture is glaring so hard that he’s squinting. “What the hell is going on?”
Brock looks up at the ceiling. “Molotov got past our security, broke in, and I guess has a business proposition for me and is tearing apart my room until I agree to go with her, even though she won’t tell me what I’m agreeing to.”
Venture is silent for a few seconds. “Can you explain that maybe in a way that isn’t retarded?”
Brock sighs, suddenly obtaining a headache. “I’ll meet you in the hangar in like a minute.” He disconnects.
“The hangar?” repeats Molotov incredulously.
Brock looks over at her. “Yeah, we -- I thought I told you not to smoke in here.”
She ignores this and continues to smoke. “I was not aware the great Brock Samson needed the permission of a tiny failure-man to do anything.” Brock throws on a shirt and locates his boots before heading out the door. “Do you need to get an extension on your curfew?” she says flatly, following him. He glares at her over his shoulder but says nothing, leading her through the corridors to the hangar.
Dr Venture shows up a few seconds after they do. (The boys show up shortly thereafter, but are quickly shooed away by angry looks from their father.)
“So, what, you need him for some little project or something? Took on too many murders for you to handle?” says Venture, arms folded across his thin chest.
Molotov glares at him stonily. “Would you like me to add you to that list?”
“Mol,” says Brock, frowning. “Knock it off.”
“Samson,” says Molotov, turning to him and completely ignoring Dr Venture, “come with me to Siberia.”
“I can’t le --”
“He can’t leave,” says Venture loudly.
“Samson,” she repeats, moving closer and again ignoring Dr Venture. Her voice lowers almost imperceptibly. “You are the only one I trust to accompany me.”
Brock has no words for this; he studies her for a moment, trying to figure out if she --
“Yeah, well, that’s extra great but he’s my bodyguard, not your personal little playmate,” says Venture irritably. “So why don’t you just pack up your travelling kill-circus and deathshow --”
“I will pay you,” says Molotov.
Brock is interrupted before he even gets out a word. “HE’LL DO IT,” blurts Venture.
Again Brock has no words, only capable of throwing a look of disbelief at Venture. Molotov pats him on the arm condescendingly. “You see, you can come out and play past your bedtime if only you ask.”
“What?” says Venture, looking between them.
“Doc, I can’t just leave you guys,” says Brock. “I mean, you kinda ... you know, almost die. A lot.”
“Oh, please,” says Venture, “I was not-dying well before you started skulking around. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“Now that Monarch’s off your ass,” says Brock flatly.
“Well that -- no, that is not what I meant.” Venture is not very good at lying this early in the morning. He looks disgruntled for a moment, pauses, then leans in and adds in sotto voice, “Plus we need the money.”
“I still don’t like it,” says Brock. “You do kinda piss people off easily.”
Venture scoffs. “Brock, seriously, we’ll be fine. You worry like, way too much; you’re going to get an ulcer. How long could this possibly take anyway?”
“A few days at most,” says Molotov. “I know where the target is right now, in fact.”
“There, you see?” says Venture, looking at Brock over the top of his glasses.
Brock turns to Molotov. “Who’s the target?”
“Ah, I cannot tell you now,” says Molotov, glancing overtly at Venture and his sons. “He shall be relatively easy to dispatch, however.”
Brock is still sceptical. “You’re sure it’ll only take a few days?”
“Da, I am sure.”
Venture makes an exasperated noise. “Look, think of it as a vacation if it helps you feel better. I bet you people love traipsing through snow looking for guys to kill anyway.”
Brock regards him evenly, pointedly ignoring that remark. “You know if something happens to you when I’m in Russia, I won’t make it back in time to save you.”
“Would you stop worrying! Nothing will happen,” says Venture. He jerks his thumb vaguely over his shoulder. “Besides, we’ve got Orpheus and his little backup singers to help out. They save the world from horrible evil like every other week or something, I guess.”
Brock studies Venture for a moment before conceding with a shrug. “Fine.”
“Excellent,” says Venture. He turns to Molotov and rubs his palms together. “So, how much are we talking here? I mean, Brock’s skills are pretty high in demand, so --”
“I am aware of his skills, thank you,” snaps Molotov. “We will discuss payment after the task is complete. I will wire you twelve thousand upfront once we reach Russia.”
“That’s not ... roubles, is it?” says Venture. His hands drop to his sides.
Molotov just stares at him. “Nyet.”
“Oh! Well, supergood, in that case. Uh, when are you two heading out?”
“As soon as possible,” says Molotov. She glances over at Brock. “I trust you have not forgotten how to properly prepare for a mission?”
Brock snorts. “Let me go change and I’ll be prepared.” He turns around and heads back to his room. The Venture twins accost him on the way.
“You’re leaving us?” says Dean, voice rising slightly in pitch. He is always much more panicky than his brother.
“Can I come with?” says Hank, always much less realistic than his brother.
“It’s just for a few days,” says Brock as they follow him. “I don’t really want to, but your dad says we need the money.” He studies the cracked wall in his room and decides they might. He closes the door and the twins wait in the hall.
“C’mon, I can like disarm traps and sneak around and stuff. I’m totally invaluable,” says Hank earnestly through the door.
“No, you can’t,” says Dean.
“What? I so can,” says Hank. “I’ve been practicing.”
“No, you haven’t,” says Dean, arching an eyebrow.
“Aw, what do you know? Like I spend all my time with you anyway.”
“Yeah, you do,” says Dean.
Having changed into jeans, Brock emerges from his room; coat slung over one shoulder and duffel bag over the other. “Sorry, Hank. I need you to stay here and hold down the fort.”
“Aww, I never get to have any fun,” says Hank, kicking at the ground dejectedly.
“We just found an hourglass that turns people into monkeys when we were in Morocco like a week ago,” says Dean, squinting.
“Yeah,” says Hank, “but that was lame.”
“C’mon,” says Brock, heading back toward the hangar. “You can say goodbye to me and Molotov.” He also wanted to make sure Molotov hadn’t gutted Dr Venture yet.
Back in the hangar, the good doctor somehow managed to keep his intestines intact. The awkward stretch of silence since Brock left with the boys in tow, however, was almost unbearable. “So,” Venture fumbles, “Sibera, huh?”
“Da,” says Molotov, lighting another cigarette.
Venture waits. She does not elaborate. He fidgets. “How, uh, dangerous is this going to be?”
Molotov snorts. “You would die.” Brock and the boys enter the hangar at that point; she turns to address them. Venture puts his hand on her shoulder.
“Listen,” he says lowly, “just make sure he comes back, alright?”
She looks at him for a moment. “I promise he will return in one piece.” Another moment passes. “You may remove your hand now.” He hastily releases her.
“Alright,” says Brock. “Heading out now?”
“Da,” says Molotov. “I have my car parked above the valley. We will have to climb.” She turns to go without waiting for an answer.
“Goodbye, Miss Cocktease!” says Hank, a little too loudly.
“Wait, wait,” says Venture as Brock turns to follow her. “You’re letting a woman drive you?”
Brock glares. Venture shuts up.
“Later, Doc. You boys be good; listen to your dad,” says Brock. “I’ll keep in touch on the two-way.” He has to jog a bit to catch up with Molotov.
“Okay, just like -- remember to send over the twelve large, alright?” calls Dr Venture. Molotov waves dismissively over her shoulder.
“You’re not gonna send it, are you?” says Brock as soon as they are out of earshot.
“Nyet.”
--
They scale the cliff face without incident. Brock pauses for a moment on the precipice, having only seen the Compound from this angle when he was in the X-1. It’s really bright. Molotov’s Viper is waiting, safe from thieves because who would be out looking to steal cars in a desolate area at three in the morning anyway? Brock shoulders his duffel bag. “Pop the trunk.”
Molotov looks at him as if she just noticed what he was carrying. “What are you bringing?”
Brock looks at her as if she has lost her mind. “Why, what are you packing?”
She leans into the Viper and produces, simply, a tooth brush. He throws her a dark look. Satisfied her point has been made, she concedes and opens the trunk; he tosses the bag inside.
The 2006 Dodge Viper has an eight-point-three litre V10 SFI engine. It can reach speeds up to two hundred twenty miles per hour. When Molotov drives, the needle sits consistently at the top of the speedometer.
They have been driving for roughly half an hour in dead silence. “Where are we going, exactly?” says Brock.
“Siberia,” says Molotov dryly.
Brock has to literally bite his tongue. “Yeah. Okay. I mean, right now.”
“My aeroplane.”
“Beriev?”
“Tupolev.”
“Oh.”
They lapse into another stretch of silence. Brock attempts watching the scenery, but the combination of the speed of the Viper as well as the darkness of the surrounding expanse of open terrain makes it a futile effort. He eventually pulls on his jacket. Molotov lights another cigarette at some point.
“Mol,” he says at length.
“Samson?”
“Did you mean what you said back there?” He glances over at her.
She keeps her eye on the road. “About what?”
“About trusting me.”
“We’ve reached my aeroplane,” replies Molotov.
Molotov decelerates and parks alongside the airliner. It is waiting somewhat obtusely in the middle of the highway, but then again Molotov was never really good at being subtle. Brock thinks it’s a Tu-204, but it has been quite awhile since he’s last studied Russian aircraft. She leans back and looks at him. “You have not forgotten how to operate an aeroplane that is not powered by ‘super-science’, have you?”
Brock squints. He can’t tell if she’s being facetious. “Nah.”
“Good.” She turns and deftly handsprings out of the car. Brock opens his door.
Molotov has him help in loading the Viper inside the Tupolev. It’s not exactly a Tu-204, since the passenger compartments are completely gutted. This is a cargo plane. At the moment, there are only a few crates that Molotov insists are empty; apparently she had cleared out her schedule to focus solely on whatever this mystery assignment is.
They are silent as the Tupolev taxis, takes off, and maintains flight. It’s not really an oppressive silence; they are so instinctively comfortable with each other that the lack of conversation is not awkward in the least. Molotov focusses on piloting and Brock on co-piloting, though occasionally he sneaks a look at the angles of her wrists when he’s pretending to be watching the controls.
“So who’s the target?” asks Brock after several hours. They are somewhere over the Atlantic.
Molotov shrugs. “I would prefer not to say.”
Brock stops pretending to watch the controls to stare at her. “What?”
“You don’t need to know who it is.”
“Did you just make this whole thing up to have me to yourself?”
Molotov finally looks over at him, expression deadpan. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Brock rolls his eyes and looks back to the controls. Molotov does the same. “Why can’t you tell me, then?”
“I could tell you, I just do not care to,” says Molotov airily.
“Real cute,” grumbles Brock. “Is it someone I know?”
“Perhaps,” says Molotov. “It is a man with extensive military training.”
“That narrows it down,” says Brock dryly. “Why’s he got the hit on him?”
“I cannot tell you that,” she says. “Client confidentiality.”
“Of course.”
“I will say, however, that we are not the only ones after him.” She banks to the left and Brock hits a few switches to adjust.
“Lucky guy,” he says.
“You could say that.”
When they finally land, it is not in Siberia. It isn’t even in Russia. The signs all say Roissy-CDG. As they taxi, Brock glances at her. “We’re in Paris?”
“Alert as always,” she replies.
“But not Siberia,” he says.
“Nyet, unless they have moved the CDG to Russia when I was away.”
He stares at her in silence, jaw set, until she turns to look at him.
“And da, there really is a mission that I need your help with.” Her eyebrow arches. “You’re very paranoid, Samson; has anyone ever told you this?”
“It’s come up before, yeah,” says Brock flatly. “Why are we in Paris? Or can you not tell me that either.”
“Because the target is here,” she says matter-of-factly. “Now come, we must prepare.” She gets up and moves to the cargo hold. He follows her to the Viper.
“For what?”
She pauses in loading a sniper rifle into the trunk to glance back at him. “A stakeout.”
--
Molotov parks the Viper in a parking garage, where she speaks briefly in patois with a seedy-looking attendant. Brock stands off to the side, smoking, and the attendant keeps glancing at him nervously. Molotov grabs a black kit bag with red trim from the trunk of the Viper, and they head out to the streets.
It’s nearly midnight and Paris is deserted. Molotov’s heels click on the sidewalk and Brock’s boots make lovely clunking noises. He doesn’t ask where they’re going since he’s sure Molotov will just give him yet another vague answer; her secrecy strikes him as highly suspicious, but then again maybe he really is just paranoid.
They continue down the street without saying a word for what Brock estimates is at least six miles. Somewhere nearby, a clock chimes one o’clock. At a corner, Molotov abruptly turns to kick open the door to a dilapidated building. She goes inside. Brock follows. The door swings shut behind them.
They climb up six flights of stairs, Molotov in the lead. Brock tries not to stare at her ass. He is unsuccessful.
On the fifth floor, Molotov turns out of the dirty, lightless stairwell into an equally dirty and lightless hallway. A solitary bare bulb hangs from the ceiling in the middle of the hall. Brock knows this because he walks right into it. He reaches up to turn on the light; it pops loudly, sending sparks everywhere and briefly illuminating the hallway to allow for a glimpse of the peeling, hideous wallpaper. At the end of the corridor there is a door that once displayed three brass numbers. Now it is room Five Blank space Upside-down seven. Molotov opens the door and they go inside.
Moonlight spills through the East window, but otherwise the room is dark. Like the rest of the building, it’s dirty and looks as if it’s been abandoned for years. There are a few rotting pieces of furniture and the floorboards are scuffed and warped. Molotov heads toward the window, shrugging the kit bag off her shoulder. A cloud of dust rises when it hits the floor. Brock watches from the doorway as she crouches down to remove the sniper rifle, attaching the telescopic sight with an efficient speed. She hooks a chair sitting on cracked wheels with her foot and pulls it over, crossing her legs when she sits down.
Brock just stands there.
Eventually Molotov notices him. She points at the window facing North before returning her attention to her own window, using the rifle’s sight as a makeshift telescope. He looks at her for a moment, then closes the door out of habit and moves to the second window. If he squints, he can make out the Eiffel Tower, illuminated by bright lights and illegal to photograph. At some point it begins to snow.
He has no idea what he is looking for. He waits approximately an hour and fifteen minutes and still has no idea what he is looking for. He is tired, jetlagged, and really wants a cigarette.
“Well, this was worth my time,” he says.
Molotov looks at him with utter disdain. “Have you ever even been on a stakeout before, Samson?”
“Yeah, but usually I kinda know what I’m waiting for,” he shoots back.
“For the target,” she says, tone of voice very clearly illustrating the assertion that he is incredibly simple. Her head inclines toward the rifle she is holding, then toward the window.
“Yeah. It’d help if you told me who the target is.”
“Why don’t you make yourself useful and go take a nap or something?” She waves dismissively at what once was a bed, pushed up against the South wall.
“How’s that useful?” says Brock.
“Because then you won’t be whining,” sneers Molotov, looking back out her window.
Brock scowls at the back of her head until he doesn’t feel like punching her in the mouth anymore.
The bed is not very inviting; its mattress is bare and dust covers it instead of even a motheaten sheet. Brock has slept on much worse things however, and he is tired, still with no idea what the hell he’s doing in Paris.
The springs groan and creak when he finally, reluctantly, does lie down. He half-expects the thing to just collapse under his weight at any second. It doesn’t.
“This isn’t ‘cause you told me to,” says Brock.
“Of course not.”
He closes his eyes.
It was Brock’s first time in East Berlin. His German sucked and his partner still wouldn’t let him smoke anywhere nearby. Exiled to the roof, he was about to light his second cigarette when he saw something red and black in his peripheral vision. Glass shattered. He looked over the edge of the roof just in time to see someone with red boots enter the building through a window. Brock dropped his cigarette and ran down the six flights to the room in which he and his partner had been waiting for some Lithuanian delegate to appear across the street.
The door had been locked so Brock threw it off its hinges with his shoulder. He landed on one knee, crouched, with a pistol’s silencer pressed coldly into the centre of his forehead. There were red boots in front of him. The broken window was to his left. His partner’s body was to his right, blood and brain pooling on the floor, a whole section of his skull missing.
“You are too loud, Samson,” said the woman.
Brock wakes up suddenly; there is a dangerous weight next to him and he immediately reaches for his knife. Red boots and a black catsuit. Dirty apartment. Moonlight.
Then he remembers where he is and sinks back down into the dust, scowling.
Molotov is sitting on the edge of the mattress, regarding him impassively. “If you insist upon having nightmares, try not to make so much noise.”
Brock just glares wordlessly.
Molotov looks away, disinterested.
It’s still nighttime, so he hadn’t been asleep for very long. The rifle is propped up against the chair at the East window, moonlight reflecting off it subtly. Brock really doesn’t want to think about windows and firearms and Molotov right now, but he has very little say in the matter.
The weight on the mattress shifts; Molotov moves closer to him. “What were you dreaming about?”
“Another stakeout,” he says tersely. “I need a cigarette.”
She shrugs and hands him the pack she had been holding. “The lighter is in the bag.”
Brock swings his legs over the other edge of the bed. “Uh, gonna go outside, actually, so ...” He is about to stand when the weight on the mattress shifts again and Molotov’s arms slide around his waist, hands clasping over his belt buckle.
“Stay,” she says. Her cheek rests against his shoulderblade.
He really, really does not want to think about her right now. “Mol ...”
Her fingers tilt and begin to untuck the front of his shirt. “Stay.”
Brock gives his consent by turning around and pinning her to the bed by the wrists, mouth pressing fervently against her neck. Apparently he has no choice but to think about her. He hates her right now, and hates himself for wanting nothing more than to slit her throat. But both his heart and Hunter make it so he can’t, so he substitutes his teeth for a knife.
Molotov makes pleased noises underneath him, arching up and looping her legs around his waist. Eventually he’s too distracted to keep hating her and releases her wrists to take off his shirt. She immediately flips him onto his back, straddling him; Brock grabs her head and brings her face down to kiss her roughly, though he has to let her go to seize her hips when she starts swirling them involuntarily.
“Can you not do that,” he says, expression pained.
“Oh. Sorry.” She allows herself to look sheepish for a second, and then attacks his throat.
Brock stares at the ceiling and tries to think of something other than fucking her while she sucks on his Adam’s apple. This is even more difficult to do when her mouth starts moving. She kisses along his midline from hyoid to sternum to solar plexus to abdomen to just above his pelvis. Her fingers hook under his waistband and she undoes his belt buckle.
And then she stops.
Molotov abruptly pops her head back up, kisses him fleetingly, and then rolls over with her back to him.
She always stops.
Brock is still staring at the ceiling. “Damn it.”
After convincing himself not to just stab himself in the heart right there, he sits up to search for the cigarette pack, finding it on the floor. He gets up to retrieve the lighter in Molotov’s kit bag, avoiding looking at her until he’s given himself enough time to clear his thoughts.
When he turns back, she’s propped up on her elbow, watching him. He feels a little bit like a praying mantis about to have his head eaten, so he leans against the window frame and watches her too. “How come you’re not on lookout anymore?” he says, breathing smoke.
Molotov shrugs. “He will not appear on the street tonight.”
Brock glances out the window, moving aside the motheaten curtains. “Yeah?”
“Da,” she says. There is a pause. “Come here.”
He releases the curtains and looks at her incredulously. “What?”
Molotov is still steadily watching at him, hand resting on her hip. “Brock.” Again, as in the hangar, her voice softens almost imperceptibly. “Come here.”
He puts his cigarette out against the wall and goes to her.
--
Next: Part Two.