Entry tags:
☠ 063
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.]
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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.]
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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.]
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[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.]
[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.]

Room 413
Wait.
WHAT?
Now she's rushing too the door, opening it swiftly, about to ragequit the castle if it's fucking with her.]
Mol-?
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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.]
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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?]
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Yeah, I was too late to really do anything useful.
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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?]
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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?
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Aye, pirate. No relation to that Swallow fellow. [Fortunately...?]
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She laughs a little, humorlessly.]
It was a joke. How long have you been here?
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Room 510
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 :( ]
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I'm sorry, Ezio, I am so sorry. I should never have been mad, I love you, I'm sorry...
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Non preoccuparti, andrà tutto bene. It is alright, it is alright. Sono qui per te.
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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...
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cabin
Beer still in hand, sloshing everywhere, Brock bolts for the bedroom and hangs in the door.]
Hey -- hey, calm down --
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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.]
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Still, Brock stays in the door, hanging onto the frame like he's trying to block her from bolting.]
Mol?
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Haha, no, she's not thinking about that. She is wondering what the fuck that smell is, though.]
Brock?
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i'm really angry you used that many question marks
i will use as many question marks as i want??????????
screw you????????????
no???????????????????????????????????????
wow??????????????????????????
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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.]
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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.
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The first six are the worst. It's downhill from there assuming you don't fly off the handle like I did.
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[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.]
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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.
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When she sees who it is, she visibly relaxes.]
Oh. Cassandra. Thank you.
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Can't sleep again?
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