(no subject)
lololol anger-fueled deathmance. Set maybe six months after Paris.
It was just after zero hours. The silence of the air in downtown Sofia was breaking, jarred from peace by the alarms in the Presidential Building sounding. There were a few bursts of sound as bullets went flying, and soon after, the pistol that fired the bullets crashed through a window and landed on the street.
As the fire on the roof began blazing, right on cue, Molotov was tumbling down a flight of stairs in a dimly-lit concrete stairwell. She landed on her feet and grinned darkly up at the man who'd thrown her. Blood was flowing from her bottom lip, and her cheeks were already showing the first bruises.
"Surely that is not the best you can do, Samson," she called up to him jovially.
Brock sent his knife sailing towards her. She dodged it, but in the time she took to move, he was already down the stairs, pinning her to the wall by her wrists. He planned on answering her, but lost his train of thought when she let out a wicked laugh. Her legs were wound around him, ankles locked together at the base of his spine.
"Oh, my little Samson," Molotov said softly. "You never learn."
Using only the sheer strength in her thighs, she thrust his upper body up and forward. His head slammed into the concrete wall. She wriggled out of his shock-loosened grasp and ran upstairs, toward the flaming roof.
He took the bait, just like he always did.
Molotov was waiting for him in front of the flames. There were sirens on the ground.
"I always overestimate your intelligence, Samson," she yelled over the sirens' scream and the roar of the fire. He still had no answer.
He tackled her. She did not resist, and he kept her held fast against the gravel for a few seconds; he was trying to decide whether to stab her in the face or remove her top. She made the decision for him.
It was only a few minutes, and the first few precious seconds were filled with the bitterly metallic taste of blood, but he didn't care, and he could feel her nails on his scalp, and she was pressed so close to him that when she coiled her muscles to kick him off, he knew it was coming.
They both rose silently. She walked toward him, grabbed his face and kissed him, biting his lip until the whole of his chin and neck was claret red with blood. When she pulled away, something in his head keened and he held her wrist tightly, but she shook her head and he let go.
Revealing a grappling hook, Molotov went flying from building to building until he couldn't see her anymore, and his own mumblings of "Wait" were all that were left.
Seconds later, OSI agents were pouring onto the roof, and hoses were sending water up, and Brock was damp and disgruntled.
"Samson! Where is she?!" Hunter growled, stalking towards Brock.
"She got away." Brock turned, done with the conversation. He descended the stairs, Hunter hot on his heels.
"Don't worry about it, boychik." Hunter handed Brock a handkerchief. "Looks like she got you pretty good. Have Medical take a look at that." Hunter turned back to the roof. Brock continued to the street by himself.
On the pavement below, he looked at the coarse white cotton, now stained scarlet in the center. He tucked it in his pocket and lit up a cigarette.
It was just after zero hours. The silence of the air in downtown Sofia was breaking, jarred from peace by the alarms in the Presidential Building sounding. There were a few bursts of sound as bullets went flying, and soon after, the pistol that fired the bullets crashed through a window and landed on the street.
As the fire on the roof began blazing, right on cue, Molotov was tumbling down a flight of stairs in a dimly-lit concrete stairwell. She landed on her feet and grinned darkly up at the man who'd thrown her. Blood was flowing from her bottom lip, and her cheeks were already showing the first bruises.
"Surely that is not the best you can do, Samson," she called up to him jovially.
Brock sent his knife sailing towards her. She dodged it, but in the time she took to move, he was already down the stairs, pinning her to the wall by her wrists. He planned on answering her, but lost his train of thought when she let out a wicked laugh. Her legs were wound around him, ankles locked together at the base of his spine.
"Oh, my little Samson," Molotov said softly. "You never learn."
Using only the sheer strength in her thighs, she thrust his upper body up and forward. His head slammed into the concrete wall. She wriggled out of his shock-loosened grasp and ran upstairs, toward the flaming roof.
He took the bait, just like he always did.
Molotov was waiting for him in front of the flames. There were sirens on the ground.
"I always overestimate your intelligence, Samson," she yelled over the sirens' scream and the roar of the fire. He still had no answer.
He tackled her. She did not resist, and he kept her held fast against the gravel for a few seconds; he was trying to decide whether to stab her in the face or remove her top. She made the decision for him.
It was only a few minutes, and the first few precious seconds were filled with the bitterly metallic taste of blood, but he didn't care, and he could feel her nails on his scalp, and she was pressed so close to him that when she coiled her muscles to kick him off, he knew it was coming.
They both rose silently. She walked toward him, grabbed his face and kissed him, biting his lip until the whole of his chin and neck was claret red with blood. When she pulled away, something in his head keened and he held her wrist tightly, but she shook her head and he let go.
Revealing a grappling hook, Molotov went flying from building to building until he couldn't see her anymore, and his own mumblings of "Wait" were all that were left.
Seconds later, OSI agents were pouring onto the roof, and hoses were sending water up, and Brock was damp and disgruntled.
"Samson! Where is she?!" Hunter growled, stalking towards Brock.
"She got away." Brock turned, done with the conversation. He descended the stairs, Hunter hot on his heels.
"Don't worry about it, boychik." Hunter handed Brock a handkerchief. "Looks like she got you pretty good. Have Medical take a look at that." Hunter turned back to the roof. Brock continued to the street by himself.
On the pavement below, he looked at the coarse white cotton, now stained scarlet in the center. He tucked it in his pocket and lit up a cigarette.