MQ: When Blood Runs Cold

[Molotov]

The fire never made it to the wall. Molotov didn’t even unfold his hand as he caused the fire ball to crash into the snow, extinguishing itself seconds later. “You’re not the only person who doesn’t need torches,” the mutant replied scornfully. He eyed Chris down, wanting to make sure that the chef knew that he had finally crossed the line that the mutant wasn’t willing to let him cross. He had allowed the torture, but only because it had escalated so strangely and so quickly that the mutant hadn’t been able to prevent any of Chris’ heinous acts until they were too late. Now he wasn’t going to tolerate any more.

“This thing, whatever it is, your little tortured schizophrenic phase, it ends bloody now,” Molotov began. “We’re not going to call anyone else on their shit now, we’re going to bloody just go and take care of you. Have you looked around here for a single sodding second? The farm here, what do you think your good friends bloody used it for? Same damn thing you’re doing right now. I saw in that place, and there was blood, even the blood of children. They were torturing in there... you stupid wanker.”

Molotov looked at the poor farmer, and as the two of their eyes met, the mutant could tell that the situation was as he had guessed. A slight shudder escaped from his body, he hadn’t expected Chris to be as far gone as he was. There was something different about the chef, something that wasn’t completely natural. Molotov had seen the ways in which people fell, but he had never seen someone fall as dramatically or as hard as the chef who now stood in front of him.

Knowing full well that Chris was past the point where just pointing out the man’s stupidity wouldn’t be enough to stop him from committing more of it, Molotov began to remind Chris of the kind of person that the chef was only yesterday. “You could go around acting like a ponce here if you really wanted,” Molotov said. “Lord knows your bloody Malachi did, but trust me, you’re going to be bloody doing all the same damn things if you let yourself. If you want to take the high road and call others a monster, shouldn’t you at least remember the things that don’t make you one yourself?”

He pulled the last sandwich out of his pocket. It had been a bit flattened by the awkward way that the mutant had fallen asleep the previous night, but it was still quite visibly a sandwich. The mutant made sure Chris could see it wasn’t a weapon he was reaching for as quickly as he could, and then he practically shoved it into Chris’ face. “You let me at this yesterday, because I was sodding hungry,” Molotov said. “You’re the actual kind of bloody person who gives people what they need sometimes. Know how sodding rare that is. Don’t turn into another kind of bastard Chris… you’re just going to let them win. Chris, Malachi destroyed a lot of lives, don’t let him destroy yours.”

Molotov sighed after he spoke. He couldn’t really say much more. Every last word he said he meant sincerely, but he was afraid of the way that they touched his own heart. He regretted not believing the things he was saying now when they could have helped him come to his senses so many years ago in Corone.

“Look,” Molotov concluded. “I know what it’s like to see an injustice that has consumed everything around you, and the indignation it creates that makes you want to, come hell or high water, destroy every last bloody thing in your path, just to create some justice in a fucked up situation. Trust be though, you don’t bloody get it it… you just really don’t.”

[Christoph]

Chris gave a frustrated and annoyed sigh, leering at John. “You’re a pathetic fool and you don’t know what’s at stake, here,” he growled, starting toward the house to set it aflame from up close. The cloaked man stepped in his path, a few feet in front of the structure. “We don’t have an option, here. This is our last chance to catch up to Malachi, and I am going to find out which way he went by any means necessary. Now get out of my way.” Fire flared in the chef’s eyes, but John was as defiant as ever.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he replied sternly, narrowing his eyes. Chris had had enough. He went for his sword, but John reacted right away, grabbing the chef by the neck and slamming him against the wall of the house.

Dropping his sword and letting his well honed combat reflexes kick in, Chris responded in kind and shoved his hand right into his assailant’s throat. He didn’t stop there, however. With a menacing grin, he began channeling fire out of his palm, singing the flesh on the man’s neck. Shockingly, John didn’t loosen his grip; he didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, the cloaked man’s hand became bitterly cold, painfully leaching the heat from Christopher’s face and chest.

The pyromancer reacted instantly, forcing the hand from his rapidly freezing neck and driving his skull right into John’s nose. In the mere second that the holier-than-thou bastard stumbled back, Chris had muttered the two-word incantation of his strength charm and was already bull rushing him. The charging tackle hit John right at the waist. The momentum combined with the chef’s sudden boost in strength brought his foe to the ground swiftly.

Once the two landed in the disturbed snow, the brawl intensified. Knees and elbows grabbled with each other, fists flew, and heads smashed together as the two struggled for dominance. John knew what he was doing, obviously a veteran of countless scraps just as the chef was. He was able to immobilize Chris’s legs right away. He responded by squirming free of the hold and ramming his elbow repeatedly into his opponent’s throat.

Christopher’s strength charm made its impact quickly, giving him a significant upper hand after the first few seconds. After grappling in the snow for several moments, he had John pinned to the ground. Not even truly aware of his actions anymore, he smashed his fist into the man’s face over and over, hearing bones fracture and crack with each impact. He snarled maliciously, determined to cause as much damage as he possibly could.

[Molotov]

Molotov’s head was swimming in pain for a moment, but only a moment. A little blood ran down his face as he cringed, clutching his wounded face in pain. The blow would have been staggering enough to have knocked most unconscious, and if Chris had been a bit less emotional, the chef might have been able to land a more damaging blow to the temple.

Now, the mutant’s body was healing itself, even as Molotov covered his face to shield himself from future blows. He managed to breathe out a stream of cold air straight at Chris’ face, too shocked by the sudden burst in Chris’ strength to be able to do much more than that. Still, that was just enough. The ice caused Chris to clutch his face, and that loosened Chris’s grip just enough for Molotov to toss the suddenly muscular chef off of him.

As he picked himself off, Molotov was all but healed. Quickly, he snapped his nose back into place, and spit out a bit of blood that had spilled out of already healed abscesses. He couldn’t help but smirk a little, Chris’ sudden bursts of strength had come as a considerable shock to him, but the mutant figured that his healing powers would likely have the same effect on the Chef.

The situation had taken a turn for the worse quickly and, despite how obvious it should have been, unexpectedly for the mutant. He didn’t have much time to think, as Chris had turned the battle into one where survival was at stake. Aware that his sudden healing might buy him at most a few seconds to regain his composure, the mutant immediately sprung back into a fighting stance, hoping that there might be a way that Chris might somehow come to his senses.

“This isn’t how this was supposed to bloody end…” Molotov thought regretfully. “Stupid fucking wanker of a sod, all he had to do was just bloody walk away, instead though, he wants to impress the greatest minger I’ve seen on the entire planet. Hope Chris bloody likes the taste of bloody string when he goes in for a kiss…”

Still, the mutant wasn’t willing to give up on Chris. There was too much at stake, Molotov believed, more than anything else, that there would be some redemptive power for him in saving the young Chef. Chris was still falling, but Molotov hoped that somehow he’d be able to stop a complete descent, even against the odds. In an action that begged more of hope than of strategy, Molotov formed a large ice cube and sent it hurling straight at the Chris’ temple.

The mutant cringed the moment after he’d created the attack. It might have knocked Chris out, but a sharp projectile aimed at the throat would have been far more effective. It would have ended the life of the chef, who between pulling ice off his face and picking himself up, would have been mostly unable to defend it. Now, Molotov knew that if his attack missed only by the slightest, all it would do is bruise the fallen chef, letting Chris get back up to his feet and gather his sword.

As the projectile sped towards its target, Molotov cursed himself for his cheap sentimentality.

[Witchblade]

Things really did degenerate in this little group of hers rather quickly.

Chris seemed to be falling faster than a boulder down a hill at a ninety degree angle. The human was quickly becoming something she could barely recognize from the man she had originally met. Oddly enough, she didn’t know which one she liked better, the compassionate and caring Christoph, or the morally skewed one. His actions upon the human did bring a slight smile to her face, one that tugged at the corner of her sewn lips. The blood that was in the air now was old, and masked, frozen in the snow and she was waiting for the human to unleash a new barrage of it that would stain the ground red once more.

He never got the chance to. His little ball of hell fire and fury—green of all things, she swore it had been blue when they’d been fighting—was extinguished long before it could reach the brittle and worn word of the house. Extinguished by none other than John, or whatever the hell he wanted Christoph and her to think his name was. Idiot was what it should have said, her telepathy had made it easy for her to discover his true name right from the beginning of all of this, and the supposed one he went by. Not that it even mattered, because she didn’t even recognize it as anything special. Though from some of the memories that constantly danced through his head as he argued with Chris, the man was no Letho Ravenheart or Damon Kaosi, so she saw no reason for him to argue the human down and away from his little torture scene. Still, it was an amusing scene to watch.

Crossing her arms just under her chest, the Halfling watched as the two humans began to roll around in the snow, each one fighting for dominance over the other in a fury of fists, feet and legs. Chris easily got it and began beating his fists into the face of Molotov and the sick sound of bones breaking filled the air, but oddly enough she couldn’t really smell the blood from the mutant. He was healing himself and at an incredibly fast rate, much faster than her own healing skills.

Sighing, Witch began walking towards the farmer, still cowering on the ground and watching the battle wide-eyed and fearful, like a doe before the wolves closed in.

“P-Please, I can’t tell you where he went!”

The man was pleading with her as if she actually gave a fucking rat’s ass about him or his family. They could all burn and the only thing that would bother her would be the stench their rancid bodies left in the air.

Instead of staying still, the human began to crawl away from her, through the soft snow and closer towards his house. Sighing, she quickly caught up to him, kicked him hard into the side and sent him rolling onto his back.

“Please don’t run, it really gets on my nerves.”

Placing her boot on the centre of the man’s chest, she exerted just enough pressure upon it to make things uncomfortable for him. Turning her head back to the battle, she cut off her telepathic link with Molotov so that only Christoph could hear her.

“Chris, you want me to set the house on fire now? Chris? Chris, stop fighting Molotov for one second and answer me.” He didn’t appear to be paying attention to her. “I’m going to set the house on fire now... I’m gonna do it...”

Raising one of her hands, the Halfling snapped her fingers and watched as a blue sphere of fire formed just above her gloved palm. Hearing the human at her feet begin to protest once more, she applied more pressure to his chest and heard the strangled gasp as he wisely stopped talking. With a quick flick of her wrist, she sent the sphere flying towards the house and watched as it impacted upon the wall. The flames burst forth in a shower of blue and as they began to catch upon the dry wood, they slowly began to return to the normal red that fire should be.

Laughing softly, she looked down at the farmer once more. “Now, about that information.”

One should never send in a boy to do a woman’s job. Tilting her head to the side slightly, Witchblade closed her eyes and forced her way into the mind of the human. She could have done it nicely, she could have made it seamless and rather uninteresting for the man, but where would the fun in that be? She deliberately tore into his mind and relished the way his body tensed beneath her boot, struggling to get out from under her. No doubt he was clutching the sides of his head as she continued to dig through images and memories like a hot knife through flesh. Her much stronger will easily overcoming his as he could do nothing but whimper in pain.

[Christoph]

Chris spun in the air and instinctively leapt back after hitting the trampled snow. The icy projectile flew by, barely missing his head. Apparently, Molotov had been hiding more from them than his name. The pyromancer knew that his attacker would likely continue the volley and he found himself wishing that he hadn’t dropped his sword. No sooner had this desire entered his mind as he scrambled and crawled blindly through the snow than did his hand suddenly grasp the hilt of his prized blade, even though he hadn’t dropped it anywhere near where he’d landed. He wasn’t about to ask questions, though.

Springing to his feet with his sword in hand, the chef expertly parried the incoming volley of magically formed ice as though they were flying beer mugs in a tavern. He darted forward through the slush, brandishing his weapon. The Prevalida blade flashed with a blue shimmer but was stopped with the sound of metal sinking into wood as Molotov parried with a black wooden nightstick. The cloaked man sneered. Chris snarled. Where did that come from?

The sword had taken a sizable bite out of the wooden club and the chef was keen to press the advantage, slashing at Molotov again and again, forcing his opponent back as he tried desperately to defend himself with the inferior weapon. Wooden shavings and chips flew off and helped the dirt and blood decorate the snow. It only took a couple of seconds before the wooden club was cut into useless pieces. Chris grinned in triumph, but his foe wasn’t done yet. The man narrowed his eyes and formed a chest-sized sphere of orange fire between his hands and flung it forward. The chef sidestepped swiftly and batted the flame back with his sword as though it were a ball. Without a second thought, he followed up with his own green fireball.

To his surprise, Molotov caught both his own deflected attack and Christopher’s blast and tried to throw the combined inferno back. It stopped midair, suspended directly between the two as they focused their wills against each other for control of the unnatural flame that they shared. For several moments they struggled, and no matter how hard he tried, Chris continued to lose ground as the swirling blaze inched closer and closer. Finally, with fiery tongues licking his face, he forced the spell around him, where it exploded in a shower of dirt and steam. Directly behind its impact point was the house, all but completely consumed in a roaring fire.

“Witchblade!” he roared. “What the hell did you do?”

[Molotov]

“She bloody did what you wanted me to do,” Molotov replied snidely. “Don’t bloody act like you didn’t want her to.” He was utterly flabbergasted with the woman’s depravity. While the mutant had done a number of callous, and even downright cruel things in his life, he had never seen someone who had taken such an arrogantly perverse joy to it. People like Molotov and Chris killed because they felt weak, but someone like this Witchblade killed because she wanted to feel superior.

Now, as much as the former chef might hem and haw, Molotov knew it would be up to him to save the people inside. Unaware of Witchblade’s location or her actions, Molotov’s gaze was now fixed on the fire. He could hear screams inside, and nervous, panicked instructions issued by a mother. Sighing, the mutant told Chris of his intentions, practically daring both his traveling partners to stop him. “I’m going in there to save those poor sods,” he said. “Bloody fuck if I care what this person tells me about your sodding Malachi, but since you’re going to be out here playing sociopath, answer this question for me Chris. Are you actively trying to disgrace the memory of your mother, or did she raise you to be this much of a ponce?”

The mutant hadn’t meant for Chris to really answer, he just wanted the question to be hurtful enough that he’d be able to get into the house without Chis interfering. He didn’t care what Witchblade did, and in truth, he hoped she tried to stop him. It would have given him an excuse to plant a bullet right between her two wicked eyes. Immediately, he began to temper the flames rolling through the house, doing everything he could to cool the temperature inside.

Already, the mutant could hear the screams emanating from inside the house. He busted his way in, practically ramming through the burnt door with his fireproof cloak before spying a group of children and their mother huddling up together in the centre of the room. There were flames all around them, and had it not been for the mutant’s skills, he would have never been able to reach them. Now, as he stood with them, he realized the utter despair of his dilemma. There were too many people for him to usher out at once, and Molotov doubted that he’d be able to make a second trip through. Even though he had reached all the people in need, if he wanted to save them he was going to have to choose.

As Molotov looked into the face of the mother, he could tell that she knew the grim realities of the situation just as well. The mutant desperately tried to think if there was some way his powers could save them, he might be able to hold the flames at bay indefinitely, but that would only have been if neither Chris nor Witchblade interfered, an event he was almost certain would happen if he only gave it time. He was willing to fight both of them, and he even fancied his chances, but he couldn’t do it while protecting a family from the flames.

“What do you want?” he asked the mother, knowing that there was no way he’d be able to choose between her children by himself. “What should I do?”

[Christoph]

“What? No, I…” Chris stammered, coming up short for words as Molotov sprinted inside, the burning doorway collapsing immediately after him. What could he say? What would his mother have said? How could he possibly use her name to rationalize what was occurring? He hadn’t wanted it to go this way; it had just been to scare the farmer into talking. He forced himself to believe that. The cook couldn’t deny, however, that he was at least partially responsible for it all happening. Of course, his new choice in companions was a troublesome factor in its own right. He glared at Witchblade, who was standing with her foot on the farmer's chest. She shrugged as though it were nothing.

Don’t look at me like that,” she said, her ethereal voice echoing in his skull. “What does it look like I did? I got information. They went south.” Chris had stopped listening, though.

“No! I didn’t want it like this!” he shouted, smacking his forehead with his palm. “I was handling it, and now the whole damned thing is out of control.” She seemed rather apathetic. The chef growled. “And now we’ve got to get in there and save his family!”

Chris darted to the rapidly burning structure. He could hear a woman and children moaning and sobbing within, along with heavy footsteps through the crackling inferno. Molotov was inside, but with all the obvious exits blocked, it wouldn’t be easy for him to get out, let alone with the family. He rammed against the wall next to blocked window with little effect.

“Shit!” he cursed. Fate was mocking him; even as the walls fed the raging inferno within, they were too sturdy for him to break. “Witchblade! Help me! We need to find a way inside.”

[Witchblade]

The Halfling sighed as she watched the human pace around the house, desperately trying to find a way in. He’d wanted the place burning to the ground; he’d wanted those inside to suffer, to die because they couldn’t give him what he wanted. She had sensed that from him, felt it emanating from him like the stench that constantly flowed from his very skin. But now he was changing his tune and dancing around like a little mocking bird, only he was mocking himself. Could he not make up his mind? Or was he just so confused about the whole thing he no longer knew what he was doing and what course he should follow? It was annoying to say the least and slightly frustrating, but still she had done the job he had not been able to.

Removing her boot from the chest of the human, she walked towards the house. The heat from the flames felt good against her skin, especially her face, cooled from the ever present Salvarian winds. She could not smell any burning flesh from within so she knew that the fire had not yet consumed a life and the steady sound of multiple heartbeats only served to further confirm this. They were fluttering around through the crackling and splintering of wood, but for some reason the fire was being held at bay, as if not entirely able to consume the house. She had a good idea who was doing this, though she really didn’t care anymore.

“First you want them dead and willing to stain your own hands in their blood and now when someone has shown that they have the strength and fortitude to do this, you shy away as if unable to witness their loss of life.”

Feeling her frustrated and anger beginning to rise in the back of her throat like bile, the Halfling did the only thing she could without taking it out on Christoph himself; she took it out on the house. Slipping the rucksack from her shoulders and allowing it to land rather unceremoniously on the soft snow, she then unclasped her cloak and allowed it to flutter to the snow as well, a black blotch upon the pristine white. The chill wind swept across her bare arms and into the deep v of her shirt, eliciting the slightest shiver that raced down her spine and set her nerve endings on fire.

Reaching behind her with one hand, she wrapped her long thin fingers around the handle of The Rot Slayer and then released the clasp with her other. Five hundred pounds of Titanium relieved itself from her back and settled within the hold of her one arm. Bringing the massive sword out in front of her body, she heard a rather loud and audible intake of breath come from the human still cowering behind her. But she paid no mind to him, she had gotten what she’d wanted from his mind and he hadn’t even had to tell her, now had he?

Listening to the sounds of the heartbeats, Witchblade quickly moved towards that section of the house. It was away from the windows, nestle in one of the far corners where the flames were not as thick but she bet the smoke was beginning to fill in. Indeed, a steady, black stream of it was rising towards the grey sky even now. Once she was merely a few feet from the wall, the Halfling braced herself and then brought the sword up over her head, wrapping her other hand upon the handle as well. With the strongest swing she could muster, she brought the gigantic blade down upon the side of the house. The sound of wood splintering and breaking rent the air, louder than any of the sparks and crackles that the fire could have afforded to make. Small pieces of wood went flying in every direction, some scoring her bare skin and black smoke, billowed out temporarily blinding her and choking the air from her lungs. By the time she was done, the Halfling had cleaved a hole roughly five feet in height and three feet wide into the room.

Backing away from the home, she turned and looked to Chris.

“You ask for help, you get it...”

[Molotov]

Molotov wasn’t sure what to make of the sudden changes of heart from Witchblade. If he could have afforded the luxury, he would have ignored her and got the children out by himself. Now, he knew he could get them out. He knelt down so a little girl could climb onto his back, and then grabbed a smaller pair of children in his arms. There was still one more child, and the mother seemed too terrified to do anything other than clutch her last child fearfully.

Her eyes met Molotov’s, begging the mutant not to leave her. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Someone will get you before the fire…”

Chris has come running in before Molotov could burst through the flames. The mutant nodded slightly, acknowledging the chef quickly before moving through the opening that Witchblade had created. Through his mutation, the flames practically parted way in front of him as he rushed to bring the children to safety. The mutant grunted, it was difficult to keep his concentration given the amount of weight he was carrying. The children in his arms squirmed fearfully, whining and screaming as the flames came a bit too close for comfort.

“Bloody shut up,” Molotov said between panting breaths. His language might have not been that appealing, but it had its effect. The kids stopped squirming, more fearful of Molotov’s swearing than they were of the fire around them. “And bloody, just hold on…”

The children complied. Seconds later, Molotov had burst through the flames and out the hole in the house. Despite his vulnerability to Witchblade he staggered down to his feet and collapsed out in the snow. He let go of the children the first moment it was safe, and they chattered fervently about their mother. “Bloody… hell….” Molotov managed, his entire body overcome with exhaustion after having to carry the children. “Give… me… a… sod…ing…min…ute.”

Sweat had caked the mutant’s body, so much so that he gave off steam in the cold weather. The snow, despite the way it practically melted on touch, felt soothing, a welcome momentary relief. “God bless Agarnath the Wise…” Molotov thought, grateful for the dragonwing cloak that had kept the worst of the flames off of him.

[Christoph]

Chris came crashing through the house, finding the frightened mother just as Molotov rushed out with her children. He nodded back as the cloaked man rushed for the hole that Witchblade had made. Without a second though, he scooped up the woman and sprinted for the opening in the wall. Flames licked and lashed at him, but he wasn’t about to stop.

His extensive practice with arcane fire had also made him an expert as warding off the stuff. He made it through with the farmer’s wife without so much as a singed hair, making it out just as the house collapsed. He actually allowed a small, satisfied grin to form on his face as he set her down. That faded quickly, though, as the gravity of the entire event hit him again as the icy wind hit his face.

“Shit… what a mess,” he muttered, slouching next to Molotov to catch his breath as the family rushed over to the farmer. The chef brushed soot and ash off of himself. He fell into the snow and sighed. “Listen… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to go this way.”

He gazed up at Witchblade, who was as emotionless as ever. How does she do it, he wondered? I’m not above intimidation and fear to get things done, but I couldn’t try to kill people and feel nothing. I couldn’t take pleasure from the suffering of others. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to believe that.

“What did you find out,” he asked the wicked woman. “Which way did Malachi and his men go?”