☠ 063

[molotov]

In the cabin
[When Molotov wakes, it's with a gasp, and then a scream. She's surrounded, there's white tangled all around her, and she doesn't know where she is or where she was.

Death was like an unending nightmare, and Molotov doesn't intend to go through it again.

She thrashes, falls off the bed and then manages to find her way out of the sheet before looking around with horror. She can tell she's still covered in blood and filth, and even though she knows her surroundings to be the cabin, she's terrified, ready to fight.]

--

Room 510
[Some time later, after explanations and showers and Brock, Molotov stands outside Ezio's room, hesitating. She looks and feels frail, lacks her normal fanfare and panache. She's not even wearing her normally flashy clothes -- the oversized sweater and yoga pants she's wearing seem to engulf her, her hair still damp and draped over one shoulder.

She doesn't even know if Ezio's home. There's a good chance he's out elsewhere, that he's written her off. What kind of bitch gets killed while still angry at her best friend?

Molotov inhales deeply, and then knocks.]

--

Room 413
[It takes Molotov a good half hour to make herself head back down the fourth floor hallway. She can't help it, and her cowardice disgusts her, but she just woke up from being dead. She's only been alive again for a few hours.

There's much less hesitation when she reaches Vriska's door, probably because there's always a very good chance that she won't be in the castle. She spends so much time at the outposts...

Knock knock.]

--

[Molotov can't sleep anymore, can't lie in bed. She's been dead, she wants her eye open as long as it can be. So she's at the Death Match, which is the only place she can think that she wants to be, because she wants to be drunk. She wants to slam back vodka and whiskey and not think.

She wonders when this part wears off.]

Comments

Room 413

[thiefoflight]

[Admittedly, not a lot of people visit her. So, from her bed, Vriska's using her vision eightfold to see though her door, and...

Wait.

WHAT?

Now she's rushing too the door, opening it swiftly, about to ragequit the castle if it's fucking with her.]

Mol-?

[molotov]

[Molotov's smile is maybe a bit weak when Vriska opens the door, like she's embarrassed.]

Hello, Vriska.

[She's clean now, of course, all the blood and mess scraped from her hair and skin, but she's scarred -- one hand has puckered, raised skin from where she touched the spore chunk, and there are two matching acid burns on her back, one barely visible above the neck of her sweater. Everything else is either covered or internal, so she looks good enough for someone who just woke up from the dead.]

[thiefoflight]

[She herself probably looked like shit when she died. She could barely walk. Look how Molotov managed.]

I... Hey. Guessing you're okay now, or whatever? [What is being direct when you're trying to pinpoint which emotion you should be feeling?]

[molotov]

Okay. Alive. Same thing, I suppose. How are you? Brock told me... everything...

[thiefoflight]

Fine now, I guess! [She's folding her arms, biting her lip and trying to find the best way to find her words.]

Yeah, I was too late to really do anything useful.

[unmanned]

[James drinks more than he'd admit to. It's to be expected of his sort, but one at would think he were making up for Kenway's inability to hold his liquor with how many bottles he downed. Especially at night, when sleep was difficult to find.

It leads him to the Death Match.

He quietly slips into a seat near one of the other souls in the bar. It's not as charming as the Old Avery, but it'll do. He offers the redhead a nod. At least he won't be drinking alone.

Death fucks you up, doesn't it?]

[molotov]

[That's okay, Molotov drinks more than she should too. Always has, although now she sort of thinks she deserves to do it.

It's with only a glance that she acknowledges the man, undoubtedly someone who showed up while she was down for the count. She knocks back another whiskey before speaking, her voice a little hoarse and scratchy as she adjusts to the spore scars in her throat.]

Let me guess. Pirate? Captain Jim Swallow?

[unmanned]

[The name gets a rise out of one of his eyebrows, but otherwise he's a little impressed. It's sad how many people don't call pirate when that's clearly what he is.]

Aye, pirate. No relation to that Swallow fellow. [Fortunately...?]

[molotov]

[It's the headscarf. Molotov figured he's either a pirate or Steven Tyler, and the lips just aren't right for the latter.

She laughs a little, humorlessly.]

It was a joke. How long have you been here?

Room 510

[assassino]

[Ezio isn't expecting company, so he's a little sluggish to realize the knock he'd heard was his door. Then, however, he's peeling himself from his book and getting to the door with all his usual curiosity. Ezio always liked guests.

And then he opens the door and sees who it is, and his heart sinks a little out of compassion. She looks miserable and he feels miserable for her.

Wordlessly he opens his arms to invite her into a hug. Come here, dolcezza :( ]

[molotov]

[Molotov practically leaps into his arms -- if she'd been further back, she probably would have taken a running start. She doesn't have any tears to cry (hell, she doesn't have a lot of raw emotion at all right now, everything feels a little dull and foreign), but she buries her face in the crook of his neck and mumbles apology after apology just the same.]

I'm sorry, Ezio, I am so sorry. I should never have been mad, I love you, I'm sorry...

[assassino]

[He wraps his arms around her, one hand to the back of her head to stroke her hair. He shushes her, gently.]

Non preoccuparti, andrà tutto bene. It is alright, it is alright. Sono qui per te.

[molotov]

[She can't stop apologizing. It's like a compulsion. She's lost so many people, she can't bear to lose Ezio too, especially not after all of this.

Not over something so stupid.

She clings to him, hands clenched in the fabric of his shirt.]

Do not be mad at me, pazhalusta, please...

cabin

[samson]

[Brock is in the main room of the cabin, drinking a beer. Which he spills everywhere when he hears the screaming -- of course it figures that the two seconds he leaves her side to take a break, Molotov decides to come back to life. Typical.

Beer still in hand, sloshing everywhere, Brock bolts for the bedroom and hangs in the door.]

Hey -- hey, calm down --

[molotov]

[Molotov is breathing hard when she spins to look at him. It takes a beat for recognition to show in her face, like she's so caught in her own fear that she can't see past it.

It's just lucky there weren't any weapons around.

When her brain catches up with her instincts, Molotov's body slowly relaxes, though she's still panting. She just stares at Brock, like she doesn't know what to do with herself.]

[samson]

[It's not entirely unreasonable that she wouldn't recognize him; he has a beard he's been cultivating for two weeks and looks a bit like he's replaced actual sleep with beer. The whole cabin also smells like mineral spirits -- like somebody dumped a whole bunch of kerosene in there -- so that's probably not helping with the disorientation.

Still, Brock stays in the door, hanging onto the frame like he's trying to block her from bolting.]

Mol?

[molotov]

[It also doesn't help that the last time she saw him bearded, he was squishing her to death with his fat.

Haha, no, she's not thinking about that. She is wondering what the fuck that smell is, though.]

Brock?

[dog_eat_dog]

[As luck would have it, the Death Match is one of Tess's usual haunts, as well. She's down the bar minding her own business when Molotov sulks in, and she ignores her at first –– they don't get along, after all. But still, it's hard to ignore the sweat pants and oversized sweater, and eventually Tess orders a second drink and makes her way down the bar to join Molotov.

She slides the second drink in front of her and then sits down on the next stool.]

You look terrible.

[It's said a little humorously, certainly not maliciously –– after all, Tess looked like a beat-up, scarred mess for her first few weeks, and five months later she's still working on filling out with some much-needed extra muscle and padding. No matter how much time passes, the scars will never fade. Even now, in a t-shirt, there are long scars raked up her left arm and a mass of ugly scar tissue creeps out the neckline of her shirt, crawling along her collarbone. Infection's marks never quite leave you.]

[molotov]

[Molotov, by this point, is on her second drink as well, though she's already nearing the bottom of hers. She'd been too distracted to notice Tess before, but hates to let someone she dislikes see any weakness in her.

She unconsciously switches hands, drawing her scarred one slightly into her sleeve, and finishes off the drink she's working on.]

Yeah, well, this is hour five of being alive, so I think I am entitled to it.

[dog_eat_dog]

[Tess pushes the drink over to Molotov. It was for her, after all.]

The first six are the worst. It's downhill from there assuming you don't fly off the handle like I did.

[molotov]

That is what all this is for.

[Molotov catches the glass and idly stares into it for a moment before knocking it back. She can't quite bring herself to care whether Tess is trying to poison her or something.]

[hellofist]

[Truthfully, Cass doesn't go into the Death Match all that often. She has a low tolerance and she doesn't like the body language of strange men lusting after her, she has more than a few less than pleasant memories of just why sometimes, being a girl sucks.

Plus if she wants to drink she can just wish up champagne or something. Easy.

But as she's passing she spots familiar red hair and stops, backtracks, and then makes a beeline for her.]

Molotov!

[It can be a hazard, a bad thing, the way her body language reading can make her feel connected to someone so fast. She can see through the layers of defenses that they have and straight to the parts that make them good people, the people she wants to have in her life, and she thinks Molotov is someone like that. Someone she would be proud to have as a friend. She wants to hug the other woman, but she doesn't. Maybe soon they'll be to that point, if Molotov even likes hugs.

She just smiles at her, soft and relieved to see her.]

You're back. I'm glad.

[molotov]

[Molotov starts, her drink sloshing a little over the rim. It's more out of general disorientation and paranoia than out of any specific reaction to Cassandra, and she looks over her shoulder with a flash of her eye, ready to fight if she needs to.

When she sees who it is, she visibly relaxes.]

Oh. Cassandra. Thank you.

[hellofist]

[Saying you're welcome seems like a weird way to answer, so Cass just nods and sits beside her, taking in all that body language. Asking how Molotov is would be dumb, so she'll just skip that.]

Can't sleep again?

[molotov]

Anymore. Two weeks is quite enough.