Molotov's feet are propped up, six inch stiletto heels practically a weapon on their own, and she's looking at them absently, wishing she had her heel spikes, her hallucinogen, all her normal weapons. It was actually funny, that she hadn't really missed the weight of all her holsters and her guns and her sword until the arena itself. She'd barely noticed their absence until now, what with a gym full of other fun things to play with.

She won herself an assault rifle, though, and that's nothing to sneeze at, especially as it grants her far more authority than any of the other prizes would have. A QBZ can get a bullet through someone's skull far quicker than the pin on a grenade can be pulled.

"You can put all of your weapons down in front of Molotov Cocktease," she answers, carbine raised, head slowly rolling towards the voice, "or else she shoots your brains out. But it's your choice, Mr... ?"

She's smirking, and there's definitely something of a teasing element to in her voice. But seriously, she'll blow his head away if she has to. Like he said himself, it's a death arena.