thecapitol | Anger is never without a reason

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The thumbs in his eyes produce a roar of pain and Gannicus jerks his head back. His grip is already loosening as he attempts to twist himself away and out of reach, but everything changes when her knees makes contact with his groin.

Gannicus isn't short on scars, but this is the kind of mind-numbing, overwhelming pain that puts every slice, cut and stab he's ever received in the arena to the shame. This - this is another level of pain. For a moment he's certain he might actually faint.

With a groan of agony he immediately let's go and -- somehow resisting the urge to crash and burn and collapse in an undignified heap on top of her -- manages to roll away. Not once, but twice he rolls, across glass and splintered wood without any thought to the needling pain, until he's sure he must have put at least some distance between them. He hunches over, still on the glass-littered carpet, and cradles his groin with both hands as he attempts to somehow make it to the other side of the sea of pain he's suddenly found himself floundering in.

When he rolls away, Molotov feels like she has the time to maybe be a little leisurely in getting up. So she pushes up and stands slowly, watching him, and wipes the sweat from her face before following him.

It's not like he went all that far, after all.

"Hey," she barks, standing over him and kicking him with the toe of her boot. "You giving up or do I need to kill you?"

He's already in pain and the kick doesn't help matters much. From his position on the floor Gannicus rolls on to his back with a groan to crack an eye up at the redhead towering over him. He's littered in glass and splinters of wood, his lip is split and his hair streams across his face, stuck in places against smears of blood, but he still laughs drunkenly. Whether he's laughing at her or laughing at his own predicament is unclear, but clearly Gannicus feels this is all a bit of a funny joke. Most things in life are.

"That will depend." He grins up at her hazily, eyes half-lidded as he half-smiles, half-winces through the pain. "Do you feel better?"

She stares down at him with mixture of confusion and pity, like maybe she thinks there's actually something wrong with him. He certainly hasn't given her much a reason to think differently so far.

"Even if I did, was it really worth it?" she asks condescendingly, gesturing at his lower half. "You don't even know me. Why do you care how I feel?"

Still laughing - and, yes, coughing a little bit, too - Gannicus gingerly uncups his groin and struggles up to his elbows. He takes a few long seconds to try and gauge whether the pain was bearable enough for him to try and stand, but reluctantly decides against it. He can lie on the floor for a bit longer. It's cool.

He can feel her confusion, her condescension, but he doesn't particularly care. Gannicus has been called a mad fuck by enough people in his life for it to become normality - it barely registers. He smirks back up at her.

"You are not alone in believing victory rightfully yours." The grin fades a little, his expression falls passive and cool. "In these cases, a fight is as good as a drink. I was lacking in drink."

Molotov bends slightly to keep staring down at him, her hands on her hips and her hair falling all around her face. She's not close enough to be grabbed -- she's not dumb -- but she's not far away from him, either. Really, she just doesn't understand, even once he explains himself. They don't even know each other's names, why bother taking such damage just to try and calm her down? He'd seemed to be doing fine for himself.

"You should have gone to the bar. It probably would have been better for you."

"Better for my cock," He agrees bluntly and the slow, wide smirk winds it's way back on to his features. For all his arrogance and madness, Gannicus can at least laugh at his own misfortunes as hard as he laughs at anyone else's.

The way her hair falls about her face reminds him of Saxa, if only Saxa could ever hope to achieve that vibrant shade. It's a thought Gannicus keeps to himself but he's loath to move now for reasons beyond just worrying about the state of his groin. He lounges on the floor surrounded by shards of glass beneath her gaze, still propped on his elbows, as if for all the world he had meant to end up there all along.

"What name do you go by, so that I may better remember the woman I owe so much pain?"

There's a pause, one where she watches him, analyzing every move he makes, looking for what he might do next. It's her nature to never stop, never let her mind relax and flicker out of spy mode, battle mode.

"Molotov," she says finally, extending her hand out to him to help him up, if he's inclined to take it. "Molotov Cocktease."

Cocktease. The name doesn't even produce even the slightest of reactions from Gannicus, who simply grunts a nod of understanding. Her name sounded like that of a whore, perhaps, but some of Gannicus's favourite people in the world were whores. In fact, most of Gannicus's favourite people in the world were whores. And all of them were certainly cockteases.

He takes the offer of a helping hand and slaps a broad, callous hand around her forearm in an effort to pull himself upright. There's a flare of pain from his poor, abused groin but he winces gamely and stiffly straightens up.

"Gannicus, of District Nine." He shakes splinters of wood out of his roughly tousled hair and observes: "You are no stranger to the ways of fighting men."

She's strong, to be so tiny -- she pulls him up without much problem at all. He's big, but nothing compared to the men she's used to, and so she hardly notices his hand on her arm.

"Well, I've been doing it for more than twenty years, so I would hope I am used to it by now," she snorts, brushing her own hair out before sweeping it over one shoulder.

Gannicus isn't tall but he's certainly heavy; it's a credit to her strength that she pulls him up with such ease. He notes it, and files it away for future reference.

Littered with a fine dust of glass, wood shards and carpet fluff Gannicus looks exactly like a man who has lost a fight, but he doesn't particularly care. He's happy to lose a fight to someone who can handle herself, and handle herself while looking that good.

"Twenty years?" He grins, happy to joke now that they have finished their minor brawl. Turning aside, he picks his way towards the door again with bleeding bare feet studded with glass. "Your actions have the experience of one thousand and your face bears the beauty of ten..."

He glances over his shoulder at her and grins lazily, waiting to see how his outrageous line will land.

"Now that you have stopped crying like a child, that is."

Anger is never without a reason

PERFECTION

o7

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