Anger is never without a reason

[molotov]

Who| Molotov and... well, you can stop by if you hear the commotion. D6 should look out.
What| Death lets out the crazy that she usually keeps locked up.
Where| D6
When| Week 5, Day 3
Warnings/Notes| Death description, rage, angry Russian

When Molotov went out, it was with a strange, non-violent blaze of glory.

Before anyone knew the water was poisoned, she drank an entire liter of it and went about her day. Within an hour, she was high out of her mind, feeling wonderful and seeing things that of course weren't there -- vehicles and planes and people. And when the apparitions beckoned her to the edge of the cliff, she didn't think twice about following their siren call.

Over the balcony, and with a leap.

She landed on a jagged-ended pole, one that was ostensibly there to support decorations around the now-burnt out husk of the skating rink. The force of her jump impaled her on the pole, through the chest, her body sliding a good two feet down it before squelching to a stop. Blood dripped down to the where the ice was still freezing back over, the cameras focusing first on the bloom of red in the water, then on her peaceful smile as she died in ecstasy, still riding the high of the poison.

Molotov isn't high at all when she wakes with a gasp.

It takes her a moment to process what's happened, why she's suddenly back in her room instead of in the arena. Why she's dressed and clean and not mildly malnourished from only weeks of mall food.

And then the chair flies through the window, falling the six stories to the street and breaking on impact. Molotov doesn't have very much expendable furniture in her room to destroy, and so she heads into the common area with a shriek of rage, to begin letting out her fury on the lavish decorations therein.

I should have won. It's screamed, along with other, more unintelligible pieces of her mind, as everything becomes shredded and broken and smashed. A large potted plant is on fire, although Molotov doesn't remember lighting up. There are holes in the ceiling.

Comments

[hit_girl_mindy]

"You missed the riot already."

This was from the doorway. You just happened to capture the attention of someone who, while certainly not happy to see you, understood enough that holding a grudge was pretty stupid. After all, hadn't SHE killed to get to mentor status to begin with? This was way more fun. None of that prim and proper stuff from Azula, this woman was unpredictable. That at least made her interesting. Hell, she thought the eye at least was something she obtained during the games, like he. Turns out that wasn't the case.

"Not that it should matter to me, but you keep carrying on, they're gonna ice you, tazer style. Seen it happen before.

[molotov]

Nope, that eye is a real battle injury, permanently gone. The people in the Capitol had offered many times to replace it, but Molotov wasn't into the thought of that.

"You think I'm afraid of a taser?" She spins to face a fucking little girl, one she only vaguely remembers killing, and glares at her. "Let them come. Let them learn who should be named Victor."

[hit_girl_mindy]

"I'd be more afraid of the torture or possible avoxing after," Mindy pointed out. "You can't ever tell what these people are going to pull out of their ass, you know. Anyway, why do you care about being victor? Last I checked, you got a kick out of killing the shit out of people."

Hell, even she should have asked herself that question a few arenas ago. Being a victor hardly seemed special, and considering what you had to do, Molotov might be lacking at the job.

[molotov]

"They don't care about broken shit, they care about treasonous sentiment," she spits, pointing at Mindy's brand. "They'll just replace all this tacky garbage with new tacky garbage, and I don't care about the government except for the fact that they aren't putting a fucking crown on my head."

She kicks away a broken lightbulb, which shatters on impact. "I care about being the best, and I am."

[hit_girl_mindy]

"They care about you being quiet and controlling yourself," Mindy said. "You can;t just up and do what you want. I can't even have a decent fucking fight with somebody without their goddamn stooges coming in and splitting everyone apart. Trust me, they will find a way to not mind their own business."

A crown? Seriously? "And you're going to prove that by killing people who are in the same situation? I mean, I get it, I did fucking win myself, but let's say you do win. Then what do you do?"

[molotov]

Molotov's patience is wearing thin here, and it shows in her clenched fist, white knuckles, gritted teeth.

"What do you care, exactly? If you are so worried, leave. Run like the little girl you are, because if and when they come, they will take you down too, just for being in the way, won't they? So go."

[hit_girl_mindy]

"I'm bored." Mindy said. "and couldn't you come up with something more than reminding me I'm a little girl? Yeah, I'm a little girl, but I've won before, and you can see by my face, I've ran into the Capitol before too."

She shrugged. "Also, you killed me, so I got curious. What's your name anyway?"

[reallynow]

Stephen calling in a favor isn't surprising in itself, but calling in a favor regarding one of his tributes is a big damn shock. It doesn't take Jolie long to clue into the fact that it might be regarding Molotov and she isn't proven wrong as she the screams start to penetrate the floors.

Booze. She needs booze. Jolie taps into her best cabinet for this, slipping a few choice bottles into a classy bag before she makes her way down to the sixth floor for some less than professional pacification. She needs to inhale through her nose before she dares approach the door, but when she does she makes sure not to look the slightest bit intimidated by the show.

"You got five seconds until I start throwing shoes, girl." She calls out in her effortlessly loud, bitch-listen-to-me tone. "And these are designer so don't push me, kay-kay?"

[molotov]

Jolie's voice gives her pause, and Molotov turns slowly, still holding a vase that she'd been ready to throw at Stephen's door.

Stephen's door is pretty beat up, maybe she's got a bit of a grudge there.

"Don't fuck with me, Jolie," she says, voice sounding maybe a little shaky to have to deal with this in front of someone she actually likes. "I should still be in there and we both know it. This is bullshit, I was going to win! I deserve to win, and I deserve to fuck this place up instead of getting my crown!"

[reallynow]

"I'm not fucking with you." Jolie responds quickly, but without snapping, she's just stating a fact. She'll step closer now that she's pretty sure the vase isn't going for her, giving Molotov a sympathetic look.

"Of course you deserve it, but there's about fifty other fuckers out here and in there who think they do too." She doesn't want to nag, but facts are facts. "But whether you think you deserve it or not, your ass is going to get sedated if you don't calm the fuck down."

[molotov]

"I just..." There's a smash as the vase hits the floor, although it's more just from the way Molotov flings her arm than from any premeditated motion. "No one works as hard as I do! I played this fucking game, I did everything I was supposed to, and I was going to win!"

She looks at Stephen's battered door for a moment, then glances back at Jolie. Her voice is softer when she speaks now. "I'm not going back and doing it again."

[reallynow]

Jolie flinches just a little when the vase smashes, even if she's growing confident she won't get hurt. It wouldn't be the first time a tribute has lashed out and she can't help feeling a little helpless. She can't tell her it'll be better next time, that'd be condemning her back to the shitty place.

With a hopeful look, she raises her arms and beckons for Molotov to come in closer for a hug, though she'll understand if she says no. "I know." Her voice softens as well, watching Molotov carefully. "You deserve way fucking better than what you got, I know you do."

[molotov]

There's a look in her eye like maybe Molotov wants to fall into Jolie's arms, just wants to be held and comforted and assured that it will be all right. But Molotov doesn't know how to do that, has never had that in her whole life -- she was trained to fight and destroy and war against anything that stands in her way, ever since she was old enough to walk. She has no idea how to let someone take care of her.

She just hesitates, violently raking her fingers through her hair instead, looking for all the world like she has no idea what she wants to do or say next. "It's everywhere," she mumbles. "They keep showing it, like there aren't other people still there to watch." There's a gesture towards the smashed remains of the television. Perhaps that's why she started there.

[gladiayyygirl]

"You should have won?"

A loud voice cuts through the commotion, echoing the screamed words in a cool, amused tone. Shirtless, shoeless, and standing tall at the District 6 doorway Gannicus enjoys the sight of the wrecked common room - a reminder of the villas they had razed to the ground, the homes of rich Romans they had destroyed in the slave revolt - and nudges at a near by splinter of wood with a bare toe. He can admire the handiwork, really. It was a good effort.

Still, the idea that Molotov is incensed at her loss is only a source of amusement. He sympathises on one level - he had been a victor of the arena in his own world so many times, and had taken badly to losing in these strange new games. But raging didn't fix that. Working harder fixed that.

"Woman --" Not an insult, merely a substitute for the name he does not know yet, "-- Save yourself for training, and perhaps fortune may improve."

He pauses to shrug one large, tanned shoulder and grins at the destroyed common room.

"Unless wooden furniture is deadly enemy you pray to face in Arena next? If so, you will surely claim title of Victor."

[molotov]

Molotov, quite honestly, does not seem taken aback by this man's shirtlessness. Honestly, it kind of makes her feel a bit homesick -- big burly men incapable of keeping fabric on their chests is pretty par for the course. The lack of shoes is a bit more surprising, and she's fairly sure that he's going to get glass in his feet.

A blown-glass knick-knack is launched at him when she spins, and her fury seems to reach a fever pitch, forcing her voice into a screechy place. "I have trained to kill every day of my life since I was practically a child! I can kill anyone in this city before they can blink -- this was not a test of skill! It was a cheap trick, a fucking stroke of luck for whatever asshole dumped poison in the water, and if you think your own failure to survive is anything like my win being stolen from me, then I have no problem putting you down to never think again!"

She punches another hole in the wall, almost on pure instinct, her arm shooting out to the side as she screams the last word.

[gladiayyygirl]

The glass ornament is thrown with deadly accuracy, a thing Gannicus can normally appreciate on a good day. Lethal women who can turn anything within grabbing range in to weapons have always occupied a special place in his alcohol-hardened heart. Dodging it feels too much like letting the woman win, however, so he whips out a calloused hand and catches the bauble before it impacts on his face. He turns the glass creation over in one hand. It would have looked prettier in pieces, a thing that could be said about most things in the Capitol.

He tosses it aside, letting it smash on the floor at his feet, and chuckles deeply. The amusement doesn't reach his eyes.

"You claim to stand before me a warrior, yet all that reaches eye is spoiled fucking child crying at being denied mother's tit," He says with a mirthless smirk, gesturing at the mess between them. "I suggest new strategy: train harder. Do not waste errant wrath on furnishing."

[molotov]

There's a moment of pause where Molotov just indignantly stares at him, blinking with her eyebrow knit. Who is this fucking ass, and how dare he speak to her in such a way? Her mouth closes as her gaze hardens, and she hisses out one word.

"Fine."

And then she launches herself across the room at him, all swinging fists and blank fury. She doesn't even want a weapon to beat him with, she wants to crush his face with her bare fist, where her knuckles are already torn and bloody from punching walls and tables.

[gladiayyygirl]

He's had a lifetime of people throwing themselves at him with the intent to kill. If anything, life doesn't feel right unless people are throwing themselves at him with the intent to kill. The fine spat in his direction is enough to produce a second smile - a smile of actual delight, not the fake mirth of his earlier smirk. She barrels towards him at Gannicus takes a step back to plant one firm foot behind him; he likes to fight up close and dirty, and if this woman wants to close the distance between them then he will welcome it with open arms.

Literally.

He extends two hands in her direction - happy to take whatever punches or blows come his way - to try and grab hold of the hair either side of her neck and throw them both to the ground together with the momentum of her impact.

[molotov]

Molotov's howl is one of anger -- she's reached the point of rage where she doesn't really feel all that much. So, while it hurts when he grabs her hair and they fall, she's more concerned with her fist's impact on his jaw, his nose, his eyes. She keeps pulling back and punching, even when she feels the splinters of wood and glass under them.

She kicks at him, trying to distance them, trying to push him away so as to loosen his grip on her. There's only a beat before she starts using her free hand to violently claw at his face and neck and chest; if he wants to pull her hair like they're in a drunken girl fight, then she'll scratch in the same way.

post-jolie

[capitolprivilege]

A few hours after the screams quiet and the cracking stops, Stephen finally shows his face. He shows his face at the front door, not out of his own; he cleared out the moment he heard Molotov was coming back.

He's going to take a moment to look over the carnage and to try to get a read on Molotov. Stephen wants to know what his chances are before he engages.

[molotov]

By this time, Molotov is pretty solidly drunk, sitting alone on what used to be a chair and is now just a pile of stuffing and cloth and wood. So the floor, basically. She looks like maybe she's cried just a little, but now she's sullenly sitting there and drinking from a bottle, staring dully into space.

She hates everything. Everyone. Wishes she never woke up from being dead.

[capitolprivilege]

...it's enough to stir Stephen to pity. Cautious pity, but still pity.

He approaches slowly, crouching down onto the floor in front of her.

"How're you feeling?"

[molotov]

It takes a moment for her eye to actually focus on him, and she squints just a little, blinking away the alcohol's blurriness in her vision.

"Tired," she finally croaks, refusing emotional vulnerability even in a state of physical vulnerability. She's bloody from fighting with Gannicus on the ground, her white skin covered in red scratches and holes where glass and wood now makes its home. "Fucking drunk."

[capitolprivilege]

Stephen takes in her state. He's never had a Tribute take a loss this hard. His feelings about Molotov might be complicated, but it would take a bigger jerk than him to show her anything but kindness right now. His voice is as soft as he can make it.

"No one wins their first Arena," he says. Well, except for Jane Shepard, but that was the first Arena of the Quell, and Molotov didn't need to hear that. "You did an impressive job."

[molotov]

She lets her head fall back to the wall with an alarmingly loud clunk that she doesn't even acknowledge. It's a distinct possibility that she can't really feel pain right now.

"'s wrong," she slurs, looking out towards the city, where the window used to be. "I was... I was gonna win, I was. Coulda fought me fair, like... like it's real. Like this means something." One nasty tear snakes down the side of her nose, and she swipes at it furiously, leaving smears of blood on her face.

"I want to go home."