Demons, live on

[molotov]

Who| Molotov and open, prompts for Clemmy-clem and Tom
What| Moping and trying to pull her shit back together
Where| The bar / D6 / D10
When| Between the Arena's end and the Crowning
Warnings/Notes| Nothing special?

I. She absolutely does not make it a habit to hang around the lobby bar. Molotov generally takes her drinks in privacy, in VIP rooms or in the Capitol's fanciest restaurants, where she can't be bothered by looky-loos and the paparazzi. And besides, she can only drink her own endorsed vodka in public, which can get a little boring when you have to always look happy drinking it.

But sometimes, a woman really just needs a giant glass of vodka on the rocks accompanied by the endless drone of the lobby and its activity.

She's drinking and chainsmoking and watching some insipid Capitol soap opera (since it's about three in the afternoon), but then one of Brock's beer commercials comes on and she turns her head away.


II. Molotov has always been shit at apologies. She doesn't give them, she rarely accepts them, and she hates the concept of them. But she hates guilt gnawing at her more, and while she doesn't take Arena kills very seriously, snapping Clementine's neck had managed to touch some small place inside of Molotov that she'd thought was long dead, withered by almost three decades of militaristic bloodshed.

It didn't take much to get an Avox to let her into Clementine's room during the day, while the girl was gone. It was easy to set up the gifts, to have everything laid out perfectly and beautifully. She sets the soft pink stuffed bunnies just so, as if they've been waiting for their friend to return. The handmade dress is fussed with until it hangs the way Molotov likes it on its dress form. A miniature china tea set already arranged for a tea party.

It's a precious little tableau, and Molotov leaves it that way, going to sit on the sofa in the common area and read a magazine. The only sign of who it's all from is a small notecard propped against the seat obviously meant for Clementine, as the other is occupied by the largest bunny.

The note bears a tiny, embossed version of Molotov's logo, the same one slapped on her endorsements and magazine spreads.

I'm sorry.

- Molotov


III. She's been staying with Tom more and more since coming back, since losing her fight against some kind of horrible snake beast man that she still hasn't identified, that still haunts her in nightmares that leave her soaked in sweat and waking in terror. She saw the Cornucopia trap for what it was, and was ripped to shreds for it, for trying to dodge until the others had torn each other apart enough for her to sweep in.

She can't spend time on Six, not with Clementine. Brock's failure to return haunts the rest of the Center, where she could tell time by his presence in the gym or at the bar with groupies, or when he left each week to go to the zoo, hoping she'd follow even when she never did.

It makes a knot in her stomach, that maybe they could have finally be friends and he was taken away before she could extend herself that far.

Only Tom's bed is a safe zone, at least when she's awake, and with so much focus on Tony, she's left free and she finds herself inclined to spend as much time as possible there, even when she has to stay alone.

He likes his holographic wall set to the beach, and she can't stand her preferred blizzard anymore, so in the evenings, she stretches out in the sheets and watches the same thunderstorm every night until she falls asleep.

Comments

[voiceinthephone]

"You don't have to justify yourself to me. I'm a Tribute too and I'll eventually have to make the choice as well," Phillip said without any emotions towards Molotov's explanation. As much as it disgusted the man, it was a reality he had to face now.

"And I used to know someone who wouldn't be so merciful. I'm just glad he left." Or else Gray would have to toss District unity aside for another one.

[molotov]

"I just don't need your shit right now." She looks annoyed and tired, more than anything else, and she's talking less to the man in front of her than just because it needs to come out. "You think we aren't tired of all this 'baby murderer' bullshit? You think we like killing children? Tom didn't know the food court would have mostly children at that time. He put the bomb in place days before, and he set it off from a distance. The girl surprised him and attacked him, he had to shoot her. Clementine was going to have a long, painful death if I didn't put her down. These rumors, all these holier-than-thou assholes talking about us like they've never done wrong."

She takes another drag and stabs her cigarette out viciously.

"Tom has a daughter, for god's sake. I'm so sick of all these people trying to put everyone in a tiny box, good or bad, black or white. Such garbage."

[voiceinthephone]

Molotov's rant rattled Phillip as it should have, knocking out the perception that every villain was like the serial killer back home. More so the fact that, as despicable as Black Tom was, he had someone to care for, a child of his own. That alone was terrifying to think about. He remained quiet and let the super spy have her rant before he stated, without a stutter, "I meant Dandy. Though in restrospect, he wasn't as competent a serial killer as he claimed he was."

Wherever that man was, Gray hoped he was suffering. Because the world never dealt with absolutes and eleven dead child plus countless guards would make the accusation moot. "I'd be a hypocrite if I judge you." What a funny word.

[molotov]

"Dandy was an idiot. I doubt he could kill a cockroach, let alone a human being. Didn't he die in the bloodbath? Weakling."

She flicks a lighter and holds it to the end of a new cigarette, sucking in until the cherry stays red on its own. As a sort of afterthought, she offers him a cigarette as well, out of a fancy gold cigarette case -- they're custom made, black paper with a red stripe and a small white skull that sits just below her lips. They're unfiltered and somehow smell more like cinnamon than tobacco.

"What, are you a kiddy killer at home?"

[voiceinthephone]

"Yeah, I watched him die, bleeding out and claiming he was," he answered, gently turning down the cigarette, "he was a serial killer, a destiny to be a god. Some god he was."

With him gone, Phil breathed just a little easier that those he cared about wouldn't be smothered or something. But the mere accusation of being a child killer, of being in that same cesspool as Dandy and the murderer bristled Gray slightly,

"No, but I was stupid enough to let one run around my restaurant. And got mauled for my troubles but that's neither here or there. I just meant that I can't judge you with the, uh, same moral compass as a super hero would."

[molotov]

"Like I said, he was an idiot. Delusional and stupid."

Breathing out smoke, Molotov pauses to down another tumbler of vodka, setting the glass back down with a quiet clunk before she looks at him. She's squinting, like she's sizing him up.

"You own a restaurant?"

[voiceinthephone]

"Dunno if I should count myself lucky he's been sent home," Phillip Gray was nothing to behold, a lean frame of a man held up with a lot of guilt and maybe some alcohol but above all, resolution and atonement. The fact that he lasted three weeks in his first Arena was a testament to his stubborn refusal to give up on making amends with his past inaction. But being in Panem seemed to bring back some purpose and it showed with the way she met Molotov's eyes.

"I ran a family restaurant, dayshift manager before adding on night shift guard. Let's just say I have a screwed-up sleep schedule. I don't think your past profession needs any introduction."

As if a spy of Molotov's caliber needed that formality.

[molotov]

"If it did, I'd say you were deaf and blind. And illiterate."

Molotov plays the publicity game to its fullest, plasters herself on every billboard and ad campaign that will have her, and they all love to talk about her background, how dangerous she is, how experienced.

She's grown to hate the words 'femme fatale'.

"A family restaurant? Like, oh, what is that called... like Chuck E. Cheese, where the children run wild? I killed someone in one of those. There weren't any children, it was a franchise owned by a cartel, they met there after closing."

Pausing, she eats a pretzel from a bowl on the counter.

"Not only did I make three-hundred grand that night, I also played skee-ball and got a giant slinky and one of those huge lollipops."

[voiceinthephone]

"Exactly like that, only..." more nightmare inducing? "the animatronics had freer reign over the stage and such. Used to be fun, and all but then there was the Bite of '87 plus," Phillip paused his ramble to think if he should be so open to someone as skilled as Molotov, "Plus some very unfortunate incidents with some of the children there. I kinda messed up on my job."

Understatement of the century. His eyebrows shoot up at the story, and he added with a chuckle, "Heh, well, as long as children aren't hurt or killed, enjoy your skeeball. Most of them are rigged though..." Well he did repair those machines when he could. "Kudos."

[molotov]

"Your robots bit people?" Molotov looks absolutely confused. "Why is that a thing someone would program them to do, in a children's play place? Was your restaurant owned by a very small-minded supervillain?"

Because it does seem like something one of those spandex-clad morons would do, get a robot to bite a kid for no discernible reason.

She snorts and shrugs. "Eh, rigged, not rigged. It doesn't make a difference when you can just take what you want off the prize wall. I thought there would be better things, though, so that was a little disappointing. Not a single lava lamp."

[voiceinthephone]

"They weren't programmed to do that, of course," Phil immediately clarified, though he completely understood why Molotov, "But he was that criminally irresponsible. "And it was a guard that got bit, not a kid." And although Jeremy Fitzgerald was only there for six nights, Gray missed him dearly. "The point stands: Fazbear's CEO was an idiot and I was a bigger idiot for letting him convince me to keep quiet."

He does smirk through rubbing his forehead at that last part about the lava lamp, "Those are still a thing, huh? Guess the future still has some of that LSD leftover from the seventies."

[molotov]

"So your morals can be bought for what I'm assuming is a very small number."

She does not look disapproving at all, except for perhaps how little Phillip was willing to sell out for. A security guard's salary? Ridiculous, truly shameful.

"No one takes LSD anymore, but we didn't have lava lamps where I grew up. I always sort of wanted one. I mean, I could buy one, but there's not much fun in that."

[voiceinthephone]

Phil sighed out at the look, "It's more complicated than that Miss Cocktease. I vowed to keep quiet so..." how to not sound like a raving lunatic is easier said than done, "So evidence wouldn't be destroyed and I could...well, a misguided attempt at exacting justice."

And beat the son of a bitch with a wrench but Molotov doesn't need to know that.

"I'll be surprised if you don't say you grew up in the Soviet Union. Cocktease though?"

[molotov]

"Which all sounds like you failed, which is of course terribly sad." She also does not look sad, although that could just be that she's pretty drunk. "But you said the robots only bit a guard."

She lights another cigarette and blows a heart-shaped smoke ring to amuse herself.

"It isn't spelled that way in Russian, but yes, some words in different languages sound alike." She frowns a little with realization, though. "Wait, Soviet Union? When are you from? Even people who account for my age usually say Russia."

[voiceinthephone]

"I'm from 1993, but the last time I checked the news was in 1991...maybe 1992, thanks to basically staying up all night and sleeping all day," Phil shrugged and made an approval of that smoke ring. Yes, focus on the fact that Gorbachev was exiting when he was still alive, pay no attention to the gory details.

"Well should I leave you be? I wouldn't want to impose on you. You've got enough on your plate."

[molotov]

Molotov snorts and stabs out her cigarette, smirking at the ashtray rather than Phillip himself. "Ah, the worst years ever," she mutters, then waves her hand at him vaguely, as if to just wave him away.

"Fine. I'll see you around the Suite, I'm sure."