Hunting Season, part two

[terrie]

Previously: Part One.

--

Sunlight filters through the window, waking Brock up. He’s disoriented for a few seconds, still suffering slightly from jetlag as well as from moving non-stop since he and Molotov left the Compound.

Molotov is presently sitting near the East window, looking outside and sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. When she notices he’s awake, she crosses the room and holds out the cup to him. “We must move,” she says.

“Where we headed?” he asks, taking the plastic lid off the cup to drink. He squints after a sip. “Is there liquor in this?”

“Da,” says Molotov. “How else do you drink coffee?”

Brock cannot think of a way to rebuke this, so he just shrugs and resumes drinking.

“Germany,” says Molotov, stepping back to grab her kit bag. She’s already put the sniper rifle away. Brock wonders how long she had been awake before he got up. “The target is headed toward Siberia from France, so we will take the same route.”

Brock collects his shirt and jacket, throwing them on. “Cool. Let’s get back to your car then.”

“Nyet, Samson, we are not taking my car.” Molotov moves to the door and kicks it open.

“We’re not?”

“We are taking the train,” she says.

Brock follows her out into the corridor. “All my stuff is in your trunk though ...”

Molotov kicks open the door to the stairwell. Brock is beginning to suspect she just likes doing that. She pauses in the doorway, reaches into a side pocket on the kit bag, and hands him her toothbrush.

Brock glares at the back of her head all the way down the six flights.

--

The Gare du Nord rail station is just as Brock remembered it: very big, very pretty, and very crowded. He’s pretty sure he gets groped at least three times as he and Molotov manoeuvre the station to find the ticket counter. He is about to go threaten a small group of Teddy boys who had been ogling Molotov for the better part of a half hour when she motions for him to come over.

“Ah bon,” says the man behind the bullet-proof glass, “votre mari, n’est pas?”

Brock doesn’t respond to being called Molotov’s husband. Molotov smiles over her shoulder at him in an overly saccharine way before returning her attention to the man behind the counter.

He doesn’t notice the wordless exchange. “D’accord, deux billets. Il coute 548 euros; le train s’arretera à Cologne et vous transférez à Berlin.”

“Merci,” says Molotov, trading money for two tickets. She had somehow gotten first class seats without making a reservation. Brock decides not to ask. She turns and heads toward the international railway platforms. Brock follows.

“‘Votre mari’,” he repeats flatly as soon as they are out of earshot.

“Well, if I called you ‘mon chien,’ he would probably be suspicious,” says Molotov. “Besides, I do not think pets are allowed on this train.”

Brock just grinds his teeth and follows her to the proper platform. There is a small group of people huddled together puffing away at cigarettes and the odd cigar. Brock cocks an eyebrow at Molotov. “Don’t tell me.”

“Da,” says Molotov, pulling her cigarettes and lighter out of her kit bag, “it is non-smoking.”

They smoke fifteen cigarettes between them; Molotov snatches Brock’s eighth out of his mouth when she runs out. The automated voice from the train tells them they have thirty seconds before the doors close, so they get aboard.

The corridors on the train are excruciatingly narrow. Brock does not like taking train rides for this very reason. Molotov either does not notice his annoyance or does not care; she takes her time finding their assigned compartment. Once they get inside, Molotov throws her kit bag to the floor and flops down on the bench-style seating, taking up the entire thing with her legs outstretched. Brock glowers and very pointedly shoves her legs off the bench to make room for himself. Once he sits, she immediately swings them back up into his lap.

Brock rolls his eyes. “So Berlin?”

“Da, Berlin.”

“Lemme guess, target’s headed there?”

“Oh, nyet,” says Molotov. “First he is going to Cologne.”

“And then Berlin.”

“And then Berlin.”

“Uh-huh,” says Brock, glancing out the window. The train begins to move.

Molotov pushes herself up onto her elbows to look at him. “Are you becoming suspicious, Samson?”

“I’ve been suspicious,” says Brock. “Look, if this takes longer than a few days, I’m just gonna go back to the Ventures on my own.”

Molotov scoffs and lies back down. “Of course you will.” She folds her hands behind her head and looks at the ceiling.

“I’m not kidding,” growls Brock. “I can’t spend all my time on some wild goose chase with you.”

Molotov is now glaring death at the ceiling. “Da,” she says acidly, “I am aware that you need to go back to your little charges.”

Brock sets his jaw and shoves her legs down again. She sits up sharply. “They’re my family, Mol.”

“Da, I know,” says Molotov. “You know, I had a family once as well, Samson.”

“And I had a partner,” he snaps.

“And I had two eyes.”

He glares at her but says nothing.

She stares back for a few moments, then snorts loudly and stands up. “I am going to see if the bar is open yet.” And then she leaves.

Brock sighs and lets his head fall back against the headrest a little too hard. This will really be a fun trip; he can already tell. Waiting for their respective nicotine fits to kick in will be like an exciting adventure.

He looks at his watch. It’s just after two in the morning back home; Brock has been out of touch with the Ventures for almost a day. He feels a little guilty about it, and makes a mental note to call them on the two-way once it’s a more reasonable hour at the Compound. In the meantime, though, he has absolutely nothing to do. Maybe Molotov had the right idea in getting drunk; that was really the only way to make five hour train rides bearable anyway.

He manoeuvres the narrow corridors on the lurching train, finding the bar carriage with relative ease. It is open, and there are already a handful of jittery-looking people nursing Bloody Marys or Cosmopolitans. Molotov isn’t among them.

Brock sits down at the bar. The bartender, a young man with a shock of red hair, glances at him in a disinterested way. “Que prenez-vous?”

“Donne-moi un bière,” says Brock.

The bartender looks at him for a long second, then hands over a beer. “Vous etes américain?”

“Yeah,” says Brock.

“Your French is good,” says the bartender in heavily accented English. “Where did you learn?”

Brock pauses with the bottle halfway to his lips. “Two years in high school,” he says flatly, turning around to indicate the conversation is over.

Upon further inspection of the car, Brock notes that the handful of people have been added to by two attractive girls, one blonde and the other a redhead, both with an enthusiasm for eyeliner. They’re chatting quietly to each other and, unlike the other frazzled-looking people in the car, appear to be drinking just for the sake of drinking. The blonde notices Brock looking at them and nudges her friend; the redhead shakes her too-long fringe out of her eyes and smiles at him.

Molotov is standing right next to him when he turns around again. Brock isn’t really surprised. She takes the bottle from him and sets it back on the bar, blatantly ignores the bartender’s confused stare and the girls’ reproachful looks, then turns and leaves. Brock follows.

She doesn’t stop moving until they are back in their cabin, whereupon she whirls around, hands on her hips, and just stares at him. He closes the door behind him and stares back. Neither says anything. The train continues gliding over the rails; Brock can see scenery speeding by through the half-shut curtains draped over the cabin’s window.

Finally Brock gets tired of doing this -- whatever it is -- and sighs loudly. “What the hell is it?”

Molotov huffs and goes to sit down near the window, staring angrily outside.

Brock just stands there and watches her for awhile. She’s pissed about something but he has no idea what it could be since he didn’t even do anything. Jealousy was one thing, but irrational anger over just making eye contact with another woman was a bit confusing. And he didn’t even get to drink his beer.

Well, whatever.

He sits down as well on the other end of the bench, leaving a void between himself and Molotov. She doesn’t react. He didn’t expect her to. He looks up at the ceiling, fully prepared to spend the next four and a half hours being bored out of his mind.

After roughly a minute, Molotov swings her legs into his lap again. Brock looks over at her; her arms are folded, her eye is closed, and she’s still frowning angrily. Watching her carefully, he rests one hand on her calf and slides the other up her inner leg. He reaches her upper thigh before moving back down to her knee. The muscles in her calf tighten; her toes are curling inside her boots. Brock grins and continues to drag his hand up and down her thigh. Eventually she stops frowning.

He’s still grinning when she abruptly sits up and crawls over to straddle his lap. She grabs his face and kisses him forcefully; he clutches at her hips and kisses her back with just as much force, then breaks away.

“So what was that about?” he says.

Molotov blinks. “Are you stupid?”

Brock rolls his eyes. “No, I mean before that.”

She sighs dismissively and leans in to press her mouth against the angle of his jaw. Brock’s eyes roll back for a few moments but he quickly regains his composure, pushing her back to look her in the eye.

“Seriously. Mol.”

Molotov closes her eye halfway and lets her forehead rest against his. “No more talking,” she breathes, closing the distance to kiss him again.

Maybe the next four hours would actually be bearable after all.

--

Immediately after Brock and Molotov get off the train, they smoke exactly three cigarettes apiece.

Cologne is just as Brock remembers it. A lot of cathedrals everywhere. They need to wait roughly an hour until their train to Berlin is set to leave, so Brock decides to contact the Venture Compound whilst Molotov hunts down a cigarette vendor. He leans against a pillar in the train station, watching commuters pass by as he waits for the connection to go through.

Dean picks up. “Venture residence. Dean speaking -- oh, hey Brock!”

“Hey,” says Brock. “How’s it going over there?”

“Oh, it’s fine. We had pizza yesterday.”

“Yeah, you’re probably gonna have pizza until I get back.”

“That’s okay; I like pizza.”

Brock grins a little. “Yeah. Hey, is your dad around?”

“I think he’s in the lab,” says Dean. “I’ll get him for you. Did you want Hank?”

“Sure,” says Brock. The screen gives way to static; Hank appears a second later.

“Did you kill anyone yet?” blurts Hank.

“Uh, no,” says Brock, “not yet.”

“Oh.” Hank is disappointed. He pauses. “How’s, um, Miss Cocktease?”

“She’s good,” says Brock. “She’s getting cigarettes now.”

“Oh,” says Hank. “Can you ... tell her I said hi?”

“Sure.”

“Tell her ‘Hank says hi.’”

“Okay.”

“Because I’m Hank.”

“Yeah.”

“And I say hi.”

“I know.”

“To her.”

“I got it, Hank,” says Brock.

“Hey, if you kill any ninjas or anything, can you bring me back a ninja sword?”

“I don’t think we’re gonna see any ninjas,” says Brock, sighing. His watch chirps. “Hey look, that’s your dad. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” He switches over.

Dr Venture appears onscreen, looking unhappy. “Brock. How are you? Where is the money?”

“We’re not in Siberia yet,” says Brock.

“What -- where the hell are you then?”

“Germany,” says Brock.

“Oh my God. That little -- look, I don’t like convenient little wordplay loopholes, okay? If she’s going to keep you for however the hell how long she’s keeping you, she’d better send compensation. Like lickety-split. Because pizza does not pay for itself.”

Brock rolls his eyes. “I’ll talk to her. She says we’re headed to Siberia soon, so as soon as we’re there I’ll make sure she wires the money.”

“Well, good,” says Venture. “I just hope she isn’t all, ‘oh there are no Western Unions in Siberia,’ blah blah blah.”

Brock actually does not think there are, but does not say so. “I’ll talk to her.”

“You’d better,” says Venture. “Do you know when you’re coming back? I think a light bulb went out somewhere.”

“Nah,” says Brock. “But if it takes too long, I’ll just head back anyway.”

“Without any payment,” says Venture, disgruntled. “Fine, fine. That’s fine. Waste of my time is what this is.”

Brock glances up and sees Molotov approaching from across the station. “Look, I gotta go. I’ll check in with you later, okay?”

“Whatever,” says Venture. “Just make sure she sends the freaking money.”

Brock disconnects.

When Molotov reaches him, she thrusts a pack of Dunhills toward his chest. “Keeping in touch with your little charges, I assume?”

“Yeah.” Brock takes the pack and squints, inspecting it. He glances up with a slight grin. “Hank says hi.”

Molotov rolls her eye heavenward. “Oh, bozhe moy. That boy is ...” She shakes her head and stuffs several more packs into her kit bag. “Come, Samson. Our train departs soon.”

The train to Berlin is bigger than the train to Cologne. Apparently it is of the more modern sort. There are no private cabins; the cars are all rows of forward-facing, red seats with plush cushions. The corridors, however, are still narrow as hell.

Molotov leads the way to the first class car, where there are already people claiming their seats. Most of them are businessmen but there are several families as well, chatting excitedly in German or French.

It takes Molotov a few minutes to locate their assigned seats; Brock is mildly displeased that they are not to be seated together, but does not say so. He takes the seat next to the aisle, the other seats in his row being as of yet empty. Molotov is in the row ahead of him near the window. He watches the back of her head.

Shortly after the train starts moving, Molotov abruptly stands and moves out to the aisle. Brock looks at her questioningly but only receives a fleeting glance before she strolls down the aisle into the next car, kit bag slung over her shoulder. He hesitates for a second, then gets up and follows.

Molotov’s destination is apparently the dining car. They have a meal in complete silence. She pays.

When they return to their car, Brock notices absently that the other seats in his row had filled. He is not incredibly surprised by this. He is, however, a bit taken aback when one of his new fellow passengers touches him on the knee.

“Euh, salut?”

Brock looks over. It’s the blonde girl from the bar on the train to Cologne. The redhead is seated next to her, peering over the blonde’s shoulder. Both are smiling expectantly.

“Ouais, vous rappelez-vous nous? Ou parlez-vous allemand? Euh, sprechen ... euh ... Sie Deutsch?”

Brock squints. “Non, je parle francais. Je me rappelle.”

The redhead speaks up, leaning across the blonde to look at Brock more easily. “Nous nous demandions si vous vouliez --”

Brock sees Molotov shoot up out of her seat in his peripheral vision. “Une seconde,” he says to the redhead. Both girls seem quite put off as he stands and follows Molotov out of the car, but he doesn’t really care.

Molotov continues walking through the cars until they reach one that is virtually empty. There is a couple dressed all in black talking quietly, but Molotov shoots them a glare and they quickly depart.

Brock tilts his head. “What now?”

Molotov moves to the emergency exit and wrenches the door open. An alarm blares loudly. “Now, we disembark,” she says above the noise, then turns and jumps out into the snow.

Brock’s hesitation is due more to annoyance than surprise or fear. He follows her anyway.

--

They are still walking when the sun goes down.

“This is stupid,” says Brock, hands in his jacket pockets. He really wishes he brought a hat.

“Da, you have said this several times,” says Molotov acidly. She stops walking and shoves the kit bag toward him. “Hold this.” As he does so, she removes a long black coat with red lining.

“Hey, I remember that,” says Brock as she slips it on. “You sewed up the hole.”

“Da,” says Molotov simply, zipping up the kit bag and reclaiming it. She turns on her heel and continues following the train tracks through the snow. Brock trails closely behind.

As the sun sinks lower, Brock becomes progressively colder and more irritated. Eventually he becomes irritated enough to close the short distance between them. He is entirely prepared to kick her square in the middle of the back when she abruptly turns and points through the trees.

“Here is our destination.”

Brock turns and looks as well. “It’s just a shack.” It is just a shack.

Molotov says nothing, only shoots him a glare before heading down the gently sloping hill. Brock sighs and follows her. For once, Molotov does not kick open the door, instead opening it with what Brock would perceive as a gentle touch if he did not know better. She was in actuality checking for booby-traps. The inside of the shack is somehow even colder than the outside, with dust and turned-over furniture making up the entirety of the décor.

“Impressive,” says Brock flatly.

Molotov fully ignores him now, moving to the middle of the room and tapping on the ground with her heel. One of the taps sounds suspiciously hollow; Molotov immediately crouches and begins to pull up the floorboards. Brock stands to one side, watching with mild interest. Molotov reveals a trap door with faded and chipped Cyrillic lettering circling the iron ring serving as a handle. Brock can only make out a few letters: “CCCP”.

He quirks his eyebrow at her and she lifts up the trap door. There is a steel rung ladder leading into what appears to be a black abyss underneath the shack. Molotov starts down without hesitation. Brock waits until he hears her drop to the ground in the room below, her heels clicking on what sounds like concrete, before he descends the ladder as well. The rungs are wet with condensation.

There is about a six foot drop from the bottom of the ladder to the floor below. Molotov hits a switch somewhere on the East wall and the room lights up, albeit accompanied by a loud buzzing sound. The room is built out of concrete and steel with ceilings around twenty feet high. Rows of bare bulbs line the steel supports, the majority of which are burnt out or flickering erratically. There are oversized computers lining the walls, straight out of the 1950s, nearly all of the displays cracked or gone entirely. A thick layer of dust covers everything.

While Brock is distracted looking over the subterranean room, Molotov heads through a dimly-lit corridor. Brock waits. When she does not reemerge, he cautiously goes in after her. Through the corridor is a smaller room than the previous, also poorly-lit, with a monorail track leading down a pitch-black tunnel. Brock is reminded vaguely of Brisbyland.

“What is this?” says Brock, peering down the tunnel.

“What the hell do you think it is?” says Molotov. She pulls a lever connected to a computer the size of a refrigerator. “You may want to step back.”

Something made of plastic and metal hurtles down the track. Brock steps back quickly enough to avoid getting his head torn off. The thing comes to a smooth stop in front of the platform. It is teardrop-shaped, with windows on all sides that are either tinted or so coated with filth that Brock cannot see through them.

Brock looks over his shoulder at Molotov. “No way.”

“Your people thought it was just a rumour, I know,” she says. She moves to his side and opens a hatch via a handle he did not see. “Come, Samson.” She climbs inside and Brock follows. The hatch closes behind him with a subtle hissing noise.

The interior is bare. There are only two adjoining seats inside, with what could be considered a dashboard bolted to the front. It’s also very cramped. Molotov does not seem to notice Brock’s discomfort. Brock begins to sense a theme.

There are several buttons and levers on the dashboard, as well as a few flashing lights. Molotov squints for a moment, then leans forward and presses a green button shaped like a star. The vehicle jolts forward and speeds along the track. Molotov settles back calmly into her seat. Brock stares at her.

“Is this ... like, safe? At all?”

Molotov gestures vaguely. “Relatively.”

“When’s the last time this thing was used?”

“I would imagine before the dissolution.”

Brock continues to stare.

Molotov turns to him. “What are you so worried about?”

“I don’t know, maybe exploding.”

She scoffs and turns away. “Perhaps you should have thought of this before you climbed aboard.”

“You didn’t -- never mind,” says Brock, crossing his arms and staring out the front window. He can’t see anything. He sighs. “Where we headed?”

“Magadan.”

“Not Berlin.”

She looks at him flatly. “Would you like me to turn the bullet tram around?”

“Fine, Magadan.”

“Thank you,” she says sarcastically, turning away from him again.

Brock can’t tell how long this will take because he can’t tell how fast they are going. He can, however, tell that it’s becoming progressively colder. He really, really wishes he’d brought a hat.

Molotov folds her arms over her chest. Brock glances over at her. “You cold?”

“Nyet.”

“You sure?”

Moltov snorts. “Perhaps mildly.” She stiffens as he wraps an arm around her shoulders “What are you doing?”

“Conserving body heat. Ninety-eight degrees plus ninety-eight degrees is a hundred ninety-six.”

Molotov scowls but does not pull away. “That is not how it works.”

Brock rolls his eyes and rests his cheek on the top of her head. “Mol.”

“Samson.”

“Shut up.”

--

Next: Part Three.