DAY FOUR - THE ESCAPE

[inferis]

[The doors have been blown up, finally opening the link between both ships. The tunnel joining the two remains in tact, but space suits will be required to ferry people across. Unfortunately, the gravity core of the Event Horizon has been activated - and soon a black hole will form in the middle of the ship. Destination: Hell. The non-corrupted residents need to get their corrupted friends off the Event Horizon and onto the Lewis and Clark, and they have fifteen minutes to do it in.

Of course, the corrupted residents want nothing more than to ride the gravity core into hell, and they'll meet any attempt to remove them from the ship with extreme force. And that timer keeps counting down...]

[[OOC: No sections! Feel free to make your own | DAY FOUR OOC POST | PLOT CHAT | PLOT HUB]]

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[molotov]

[Molotov has been running from her hallucinations for days now. Her father told her that she was ruined and disgusting, and the only way to fix it was to bleed herself dry. The Brock in her visions simply didn't want her anymore, except dead and eyeless.

But she can't run anymore. She's been awake for nearing seventy-two hours, and even if she'd slept, she's lost so much blood that she can barely move. Dragging around the now-battered corpse of her friend (something she'd simply felt compelled to do) has sapped the last of her energy.

Besides, she's supposed to die. They all are. The ship said so, the visions said so, everything said so. Why fight anymore?

So Molotov has simply dropped in a hallway, curled in the fetal position, her torn arms wrapped around House's dead neck. She's awake, though, still terrified of what's coming for her.]

[samson]

[Brock has seen a lot of weird, terrible shit in his life. Naked clone boy armies getting lasered to death, the insides of men he'd killed with his bare hands, the myriad deaths the Venture twins had suffered. Burned alive, beaten to death. He'd even broken Molotov's bones a few times before, during younger days, and marveled at the unnatural angles a broken limb could force itself into.

But this is worlds away from all that, and when he finally stumbles upon what he belatedly recognizes as his bloodied wife, he feels sick. At first he thinks she's dead. (Why is she holding onto another dead body?) She's pale enough. The red haze of the temper he's barely managed to keep in check so far starts to creep into the edges of his vision; he's just about ready to sit down with her and wait.

But it takes another second (seconds he doesn't really have to spare, honestly) to realize she's not. He still feels sick, can hear his own blood thrumming in his ears, but he takes a few ginger steps toward her, getting the suit out.]

Hey.

[Words have never been his strong suit.]

[molotov]

[There's silence, her wide, terrified eye searching Brock's face.

She wants to fight. He's going to take the other eye, take it and then kill her. She knows it. But it's been too long, too much energy -- she can't do this anymore.

So Molotov finally just whispers, her voice hoarse and barely there.]

Kill me, then.

[samson]

[He pauses in unfurling the suit, squinting at her a little. God... how was he even going to get this on her?]

See, I kind of had the opposite idea.

[But something is wrong with her. (Apart from the obvious.) The way she's looking at him... he carefully crouches down next to her, holding the suit out but still keeping his distance.]

Baby. We don't have a lot of time. Please.

[molotov]

[Molotov can't help it. She flinches and attempts to recoil (not terribly successfully), and moves House's body so that he's slightly blocking her.]

Just kill. Leave… eye.

[samson]

[Yeah, he's going to get rid of this body as soon as he gets her suited up. That's just plain unsanitary.

Frowning, he lowers the suit a little.] Molotov. Ne boysya. We need to go. I'm not going to hurt you, honey.

[molotov]

[Nooooooo, not her deady bear, she needs him :(

Molotov can't really move, as should be evidenced by the fact that she stares at him dully, waiting for the inevitable death she knows he brings.]

[samson]

[No it's gross and also he's dead, it'll just be dead weight once they get back on the ship. Which she isn't making easy right now. He knows she can't really move that much (he actually thought she was dead, so), but he's kind of reluctant to make the move himself. She's terrified of him; she'll hurt herself if he touches her.

But he doesn't really have a choice. She's not going to do it herself, and then they'll both die.]

Molotov, ne boysya. Ne boysya. Please.

[Doing his best to ignore the state of her body, he tentatively reaches out to start getting her into the suit.]

[molotov]

[Molotov struggles against him for a moment, but she simply doesn't have the strength or energy anymore. She's lost too much blood, too much of her body, too much of her mind.

All she can do is sob, tears running through the filth on her face to sting all the wounds on her cheeks and lips and nose.

He is going to kill her. Put her in this thing, rip out her other eye, kill her. He doesn't love her anymore. He only loves her torture, her pain.

Just like her father, hovering behind Brock, furious and waiting for his turn to destroy her for being so terrible and ruined.]

[samson]

[Brock doesn't really know what else to do, so he keeps repeating that she shouldn't be afraid. Despite the brutality of his life as a spy, the limbs he's cut off and mangled himself, his own intimate knowledge of how skin and sinew looks when stripped bare, this is almost beyond his capabilities to deal with. But -- again -- he doesn't have a choice. He doesn't have the time to dwell on it, to feel anything but adrenaline as he suits her up and prepares to finish the mission.

Once they're on the other side, then he'll deal with it.

For now, he finishes getting her inside the spacesuit, sick about how grateful he is that she's too weak to do much of anything to make it harder.]

Ne boysya. Tebya lyublyu.

[Then he slips the helmet on her.]

[molotov]

[Gasping for air, Molotov just screams and cries, so afraid of what they're going to do to her. First Brock, then her father. Papa, no, please.

She raises one hand to limply, vainly, weakly beat at Brock's chest and face, the wounds on her arms re-opening as she flexes the muscles.]

Why? Please!

[samson]

Molotov, hvatit! Goddammit, there's no time --

[So, whatever. If he brings her back to the other ship and she bleeds out struggling, then maybe the castle will bring her back to life anyway. (Though if Ezio is to be believed, it might not be doing that anymore. But he can't think about that right now --) If he leaves her here, who the hell knows what will happen to her.

He grabs her and hauls her over his shoulder, getting up to leave.]

[molotov]

[As Brock lifts her, Molotov can feel House's body leaving her arms, and she wails, scared for both of them.

Brock is going to kill her, and House won't be able to come back if his body is gone.

Everything is starting to go black, she can barely see anymore. She feels weightless.

Is this dying? Or just passing out?]

[samson]

He's fucking dead! I'm not risking you for a corpse, Molotov. Ne boysya.

[Wail all you want, lady! He is just gonna hoof it back to the other ship.]

[molotov]

[As her consciousness fades out, Molotov gives up, sobbing until all light is gone and she's limp against her husband.

Dead. Everyone is going to die. There's no hope.

Her last thought before the total blackout is that she hopes Hell isn't all fire, like in the religious fairytales.]

[samson]

[Brock is just concerned about getting her back to the other ship in one piece. That's all that matters right now.

When he does make it over, he keeps going, moving as far back into the ship as he can. Whatever he can do to shield her.]