Missions.

19Mar08

“Mol, this is ridiculous,” Brock groans. He stands and stretches his arms. “He’s not gonna show up tonight. Can’t we just go back to the hotel?”

Molotov glances over her shoulder acidly. “You can go back if you are not going to help. Do not expect me to sleep in the same building as you.” She returns her eye to the telescopic sight of her rifle.

Brock sighs and rolls his eyes before joining her near the South edge of the roof. “Baby, it’s three in the morning.”

“I am quite aware of the time, Samson.” She does not look away from the building across the alley. Brock buries his face in his hand.

They sit in silence for close to an hour. Several times, Brock dozes off, but Molotov, never removing her eye from her rifle, does not hesitate to rouse him by pushing his head violently to the side. Each time she does this, he glares at her until he is too tired to keep his eyes open, and the whole thing starts again.

He has just closed his eyes again when shots ring out and Molotov hisses, “Khui.”

By the time Brock realises what is going on, she has flipped away from the rifle and unsheathed two pistols. As he watches her fire and dodge bullets, he notices that her black catsuit is speckled with blood.

Brock is worried for a second. Then he realises that the blood is his. Molotov is shrieking for him to get down, and why isn’t he firing, and she should shoot him in the face for being such a useless mass of atoms. Brock puts his hand to the hole in his shoulder and presses down.

After a few moments of non-stop firing and bodies falling out of windows across the street, there is silence. Molotov groans, frustrated that she wasted so many bullets on people she wasn’t getting paid to kill. She places her pistols back in their holsters, then crosses the roof to begin dismantling her rifle. As she pulls the front-end pin, her eye shifts to Brock, laying in a pool of blood, eyes closed.

“What are you doing?” she asks, either not noticing or not caring about the gunshot wound.

“I got shot.”

“Da, I can see this. You should learn to duck.”

“I was falling asleep.”

“This is because you have spent so many years playing au pair to morons.” She stands directly over him. He is too drained to do much more than stare hatefully up at her.

Hands on her hips, Molotov looks down at him for a few moments, then rolls her eye as if he has done her some grave disservice by being shot. “You should have told me that you lack the common sense to dodge gunfire. I would have left you at home to keep the house clean.”

Brock sorely wishes he could move his arm. He would break her ankle.

Molotov rolls her eye again, then kneels down next to him. “If you whine while I do this, I will kill you.”

She takes her dagger out and jams the tip into Brock’s wound. He yells and swears loudly, jerking away from her. Molotov stops and sighs, exasperated.

“Shut up. How can I get the bullet out if you insist on acting like a child?”

Brock howls indistinctly, but forces himself to hold still. After a few seconds, she fishes the bullet out. Without speaking, she rips the bottom of his shirt, making a strip long enough to bandage the wound temporarily. Then she stands, picks up her things and heads for the door.

Halfway there, Molotov stops and looks at him. “Are you coming, or do you intend to lay there all day?”

Brock forces himself up and follows her across the city, back to the hotel room.

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