[Esther hasn't fully recovered from the last flood either, but for different reasons than Bond's. For just a few days she had power, a weight to her authority, a real measure of control, things she's rarely allowed and never able to flaunt. There were those who tried to take it away - she's not forgotten Aeryn's offense - but it had been hers, and she isn't ready to give it up.
She's not ready to give anything up. And although she'll still play it, Bond's glimpsed her trump card.
It's all right, though. She's been watching him too, keeping track of his new habits. His daily visits to the pub, his late nights, a certain sullenness to him; they all indicated a strain on him, a weight he might buckle under. And Esther has always been good at getting men to break.
She steals out of her room late at night with the necessary supplies, hides from anyone still up and wandering the halls, and claims an empty room at the end of Bond's corridor as her murder scene. It's a very simple trap: as bait she sets up the little portable stereo and puts the music on a loop. Then she takes up her weapon (humble, her bathroom nook's towel rod, but still heavy) and her place on the dresser by the door.
For a long time, she sits still in the dark and waits.
Her patience is rewarded with the creak of the door opening, the patter of slightly uneven footsteps, the smell of alcohol and smoke. Her heart beats faster; there is one chance to do this right, or everything fails. As the music swells and Bond steps into the room, no doubt bleary eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness, she jumps at him. The bar arcs out and connects with satisfying force; they both crumple to the ground.
For a moment Esther is frozen from the adrenaline rush, then she's back in action. After making sure Bond is unconscious she pats him down, going through his pockets for anything of use; the lighter he used for the Maledictions is, while expected, a godsend. Then she closes the door and works fast, slicing through the mattress with a piece of broken glass, pulls out the stuffing, scatters it around him. Eventually she pulls the whole mattress on him, ensuring it's still touching the bed frame.
She gathers up her supplies, sets them by the door. Then she upends a bottle of acetone nail polish remover onto the mattress, flicks the lighter on, and touches it to the wet fabric.
The whole thing goes up like a sheet of paper, fire quickly consuming the material and moving onto the frame, the stuffing, Bond's clothes underneath the blaze. Once she's satisfied that the fire will burn hot enough to consume or at least mar him she packs her things back into her bag, tucks the towel rod under her arm, and slips outside. On the off-chance that he wakes up, slipping pennies in the crack between the door and frame ensures it can't just be opened.
Once Esther hits the stairwell she breaks into a run, bounding for the deck. She immediately rushes for the railing, throws the bag and all her murder instruments overboard, and breathes a sigh of relief.
spam; CW: fire from here on out, violence, murder
She's not ready to give anything up. And although she'll still play it, Bond's glimpsed her trump card.
It's all right, though. She's been watching him too, keeping track of his new habits. His daily visits to the pub, his late nights, a certain sullenness to him; they all indicated a strain on him, a weight he might buckle under. And Esther has always been good at getting men to break.
She steals out of her room late at night with the necessary supplies, hides from anyone still up and wandering the halls, and claims an empty room at the end of Bond's corridor as her murder scene. It's a very simple trap: as bait she sets up the little portable stereo and puts the music on a loop. Then she takes up her weapon (humble, her bathroom nook's towel rod, but still heavy) and her place on the dresser by the door.
For a long time, she sits still in the dark and waits.
Her patience is rewarded with the creak of the door opening, the patter of slightly uneven footsteps, the smell of alcohol and smoke. Her heart beats faster; there is one chance to do this right, or everything fails. As the music swells and Bond steps into the room, no doubt bleary eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness, she jumps at him. The bar arcs out and connects with satisfying force; they both crumple to the ground.
For a moment Esther is frozen from the adrenaline rush, then she's back in action. After making sure Bond is unconscious she pats him down, going through his pockets for anything of use; the lighter he used for the Maledictions is, while expected, a godsend. Then she closes the door and works fast, slicing through the mattress with a piece of broken glass, pulls out the stuffing, scatters it around him. Eventually she pulls the whole mattress on him, ensuring it's still touching the bed frame.
She gathers up her supplies, sets them by the door. Then she upends a bottle of acetone nail polish remover onto the mattress, flicks the lighter on, and touches it to the wet fabric.
The whole thing goes up like a sheet of paper, fire quickly consuming the material and moving onto the frame, the stuffing, Bond's clothes underneath the blaze. Once she's satisfied that the fire will burn hot enough to consume or at least mar him she packs her things back into her bag, tucks the towel rod under her arm, and slips outside. On the off-chance that he wakes up, slipping pennies in the crack between the door and frame ensures it can't just be opened.
Once Esther hits the stairwell she breaks into a run, bounding for the deck. She immediately rushes for the railing, throws the bag and all her murder instruments overboard, and breathes a sigh of relief.
Tonight, she's going to sleep well.]