Moving.

19Mar08

Brock was relatively sure he was gaping. His mouth was wide open and he could not stop staring. Vaguely aware that maybe he should stop, Brock looked around. Movers and a moving truck. Sofa being carried in the front door. Woman giving directions to the men carrying boxes and furniture.

Okay, so where there hell was Molotov and who were these people?

A man approached Brock. He was small and non-threatening, and, far from being concerned about the fact that a massive blond man with a knife on his hip was parked in front of the house, was smiling pleasantly. “Hey neighbour!” he called. “I’m Jim, and that’s Suzy, and we’re new. Great to met you!”

Brock nodded absently, not altogether capable of stringing together words.

“Yeah, we got a great deal on this place. Woman who sold it said it needed to go fast, wouldn’t tell us why, but that’s fine, we –”

“What woman?” Brock interrupted, though he knew exactly what the answer would be.

“Redhead with an eyepatch, real pretty,” Jim responded. “Russian, I think. She had a weird name though, I think it was –”

“Molotov Cocktease,” Brock sighed, interrupting again. He put a hand to his forehead and sighed again.

“Yeah, how’d you know? She the realtor for this community?” Jim asked, referring to the subdivision that Molotov had hated but not cared enough about to move out of, since the house had been practically free once she’d killed the developer.

“Not exactly,” Brock said. He was turning to get back in the Charger and leave when Jim called out again.

“What house do you live in, neighbour?”

Brock turned and looked at the house. “Um… I don’t really know anymore,” he answered, leaving before Jim could talk some more.

–

Pulling into a parking lot three miles away, Brock killed the engine and called Molotov’s cell phone on his watch. He was not sure she would answer, since she was clearly angry with him, but he didn’t know where to go and he really wanted to change his shirt.

The line rang six times, and Brock was about to hang up when she answered. “Well hello, my Samson. Are you done playing house with your idiots?” she said.

Brock stared at the static on his watch face. “What the hell did you do, Mol?”

“I decided that it was time for a change,” she answered simply. There was a clattering in the background.

“What’s that?” he asked her, squinting.

“I am putting away the cutlery,” she answered snidely. “Did I need to ask permission?”

“To put away forks? No. To move? Yes.”

“Forgive me, but it was my house. I believe that allows me to do as I please without consulting anyone.”

“Mol.”

“Samson.”

“I… where are you?”

“At my new home,” she replied airily. “It’s very nice.”

Brock bit his lip for a second, furious. “And where is our new home, Mol?”

“My new home is on a small lake. The dog likes it.”

“The dog?”

“Well, I had to find something to fill your place. And it’s so much smarter than you, too.”

Brock’s vision flashed scarlet. “Where are you, Molotov, and don’t give me any bullshit.”

She snorted. “Or what? You’ll find me?”

“I’m fucking serious, Mol.”

“That’s nice,” she said. “Keep speaking to me like that and I will cancel your credit card.” Then there was a click and the line disconnected.

Brock groaned loudly and let his head fall against the steering wheel with a thud. He sat there for a moment, trying to figure everything out. Molotov was pissed because he left to help the Ventures for a week. In that week, she had sold the house and moved to a new one on some unnamed lake, and adopted a dog. She had taken all his clothes and stuff, and was refusing to tell him where she was, and she was threatening to cut him off financially, which was not good news if Brock decided he wanted to eat more than like, six bucks worth of food.

For a full five minutes, Brock had to sit and take deep breaths to stop himself from getting out and killing the first person to walk by. He looked up and sat still for a minute, then called Dr. Venture on the two-way.

“Doc,” he said when the call was answered. “I’m coming back.”

Dr. Venture looked at him quizzically. “I thought you said that your little psychopath was going to get her panties in a knot if you stayed any longer.”

“I might have overestimated her patience,” Brock answered, turning the ignition. “I’m not gonna be there long, I just need a place to do a little research.”

“Why can’t you do that at your place?”

“Because… It’s a long story, Doc, just don’t ask. And hey.”

“What?”

“Do you still have that shirt that I found in that box that time?”

“… Yes. I can’t wear it now, it’s huge.”

“Yeah, I need to borrow that.”

–

Four hours later, Brock was sitting at the kitchen table of the Venture Compound with every single map of Colorado he could find spread out in front of him. Several of the maps had lakes circled in red marker (Crayola, as Brock was unable to locate any Sharpies), but none of the circles were particularly helpful, as he had no other clues to go on.

Utterly regretting never putting a tracer on his wife, Brock sighed for what was surely the umpteenth time that day. Dr. Venture passed by and looked at the maps.

“Still nothing?”

“No.”

“… Did you try just calling her again?”

Brock looked at the doctor for a minute. “… No, I didn’t.”

Dr. Venture turned away and opened the refrigerator. “Well, maybe you should try that,” he said, taking out a can of soda. “And since you’re here, can you make dinner or something? I’m getting kind of hungry,” he added, leaving the kitchen. Brock glared for a minute, then stood up and filled a pot with water for spaghetti.

While he waited for the water to boil, he tried Molotov again, since he did not have any other options. She did not pick up the first three times he tried, but on the fourth attempt, she picked up immediately. “Stop calling,” she snapped.

“If I were at home, I wouldn’t have to call,” he growled. “Where are you?”

“On the porch,” she said. “I do not know why you are so upset, you made your choice.”

“I… You… Supervillians, Mol! They can’t really defend themselves from guys with guns and lasers!”

“That is not my concern,” she sniffed haughtily. “And it shouldn’t be yours.”

“They’re my family.”

“Nyet, they are dependent buffoons, and since you appear to enjoy their charms more than you enjoy mine, you are free to stay with them.” The line went dead again, and it was all Brock could do not to submerge his head in the now-boiling pot. Instead, he dumped a handful of pasta in the water and went back to the maps.

At midnight, Brock fell asleep on top of the folded-up Greater Denver Metro Area. He dreamed that Molotov was drowning in her stupid lake and that her stupid dog was drowning with her, and he smiled in his sleep.

–

Brock woke up the next morning with a crick in his neck and bad attitude. While making breakfast, he decided to call in a favour from an old friend, a reconnaissance expert he’d been stationed with in Pailin, and by ten, he had a list of four lakehouses sold in the past two weeks. He plotted the search trip on a map, making the route circular so that if he didn’t find her in any of the houses, he’d be close enough to the Compound to avoid renting a motel room.

At eleven-thirty, Brock headed to the hangar to leave. All three Ventures seemed particularly unhappy to see him go, albeit all three had different reasons.

“But if you go, who’s going to protect us? Every time you leave, we get attacked!”

“Aw, why can’t I go with you? I bet I could help you so much! I’m probably invaluable at tracking people!”

“Honestly Brock, that woman has made it perfectly clear she doesn’t want you around, and I can never get the windows as clean as you can.”

Brock spun around, fifty feet from the Charger, and spread his arms. All of the Ventures stopped in their tracks. “Dean,” Brock started. “Dr. O is right next door, and if he can’t handle it, I’ll come back. Hank, I’m just knocking on doors, it’s not something you’d be interested in. Doc, I told you, don’t use paper towels on glass, use a cotton cloth and wipe in straight lines. Now, I’m going.” Brock had been hoping this would have the effect of making them calm down.

It did not. It only made them clamour more and louder. Brock rolled his eyes and turned back around, then proceeded to get in his car and leave.  Within the following twenty minutes, he received eighteen separate calls from the Ventures, all overlapping, and all believing their calls were the most important. After finally convincing Hank not to make HELPeR hold bricks while he tried to punch them in two, Brock turned his comm-watch off and headed for the first house on the list.

–

This was it. It had to be, she wasn’t at any of the other three houses, and Brock wasn’t sure what he’d do if she wasn’t here. He drove down a dirt path that came off the main road, through a wooded area. Even though it was nearly two in the morning, Brock could see the lights in the house shining like a beacon at end of the path.

When he reached the house, he immediately noticed that the house was directly on the lakefront, and a red Viper was parked near the shore. Entirely relieved, Brock exited the Charger and approached the front porch. The front door was open, though the screen door was closed and locked; light and music poured onto wood through the mesh. Brock crept up the front steps and pressed himself into a dark corner, then kicked the screen door open.

Then he was knocked backward as a huge black blur attacked him, barking furiously, the deafening noise drowning out everything else. Pinned to the ground with an angry dog’s teeth an inch from his jugular, Brock was faced with several options.

He could kill the dog and get up, but Molotov would probably never fuck him again. He could try to get up without killing the dog, but he might have his trachea torn out. Or he could admit defeat.

Brock weighed these options for a few seconds, then called out at the top of his lungs, “Mol, a little help?” The dog growled viciously.

Her voice was disturbingly close when she answered. “There is no need to yell, Samson, I am right here.” She leaned over and he could see her behind the dog’s head.

“Can you get your goddamned beast off me?”

She snorted loudly. “How long before I am asking you the same thing?”

If the massive dog hadn’t been on top of him, Brock would have beaten Molotov’s face into the wall. “Mol.”

He was relatively sure she rolled her eye, but then she grabbed the dog’s collar. “Beria,” he heard her say sternly. “Proch‘. Eto prekrasno.” The dog climbed off him, but continued growling.

Brock stood and looked at Molotov, leaning in the doorway, fantastically large Chornyi standing next to her. “Beria?” he asked, squinting at the dog.

“Da, that is his name.”

“You know Beria was a rapist?”

“Did you come here just to spew negative propaganda?” She turned and walked into the living room. The dog followed her. Brock did too.

“No, I came because you’re my wife, and you moved.”

“Am I your wife? I ask because you spend more time with your precious doctor than with me. He must give better head than I do,” she said, back to Brock. She snatched a pack of cigarettes off the coffee table and lit one. He reached out and grabbed her hair, then pulled her close. The dog immediately began barking again, but he ignored it and smacked her. “Did I hit a nerve?” she sneered at him.

He popped her again, and she kicked him in the knee with her bare heel. It was at this point that the dog attacked Brock’s leg, sinking its teeth into his thigh. Brock swore loudly and punched it in the head with his free hand. Molotov punched him in the eye in response.

“You do not punch my dog!”

Brock grabbed her by the throat and punched her in the jaw. “Don’t punch me!”

“Fine,” Molotov snarled, then twisted away from his grip and sprang up, kicking him in the face. He caught one of her ankles and she was stuck with her face at his shins. He was going to just haul her away like that, but she stretched out and caught the cord of a lamp, which she pulled down and used to bat at his ankles. The lightbulb shattered and Brock fell backwards. Molotov dropped the lamp as she fell with him, and they landed together in a heap, dog still barking relentlessly.

Sighing, Molotov extracted herself from Brock’s hands, and sat on top of him, facing his feet. She lit another cigarette, her previous one squashed in the fray. After a few seconds, Brock sat up and looked over her shoulder at the wall. He heard her snort.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“The house is nice.”

“You have only seen the living room.”

“I hate your dog.”

“He is trained to attack you.”

“You didn’t have to move.”

“I do as I please.”

“What would please you right now?”

Molotov didn’t answer, just turned around and grabbed Brock by the collar, and pressed her mouth to his. He kissed her back hard, a hand on the back of her head and the other on the small of her back. She began to pull his shirt up, but drew away from his mouth and stared for a moment, hands on the bottom hem.

“Samson?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“… What the hell is on your chest?”

Brock realised that he was currently wearing a shirt that had belonged to Dr. Venture. In the 1970s or 80s. That had a cookie on the front. There was silence as he tried to figure out how to explain this.

“Well?” she asked, looking back up at his face.

“I… needed to change my shirt.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You took all my stuff.”

“So you found a seven-year-old girl to steal clothing from?”

“I… it didn’t belong to a little girl.” Brock rolled his eyes and pulled off the offending garment. “Can we let this go?”

Molotov snatched the shirt from him and tossed it to Beria, who eagerly caught it in his mouth and began to shred it. “Now we can.”

Brock squeezed her waist. and leaned back against the arm of the sofa. “I liked that shirt.”

She smirked and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I know,” she replied, shifting closer to him. “Close the door.”

Brock grinned, reached out and slammed the front door shut.

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