He smugly beheld them past the mass of merry formality shuttling up and down the Cross Hall's embroidered red carpet. Their formalness, however, was theirs alone as they stood clustered together like a pack of trained wolves. Wolves: possessive of the shiniest dark coats, the finest white teeth, the iciest eyes of mannerly intensity. Militant swagger and sway, personified.
That, that was his creation standing right there.
Although, Colonel Jackson, too, had played his part.
Jackson, though, of course, was absent from the gathering. His wife and father-in-law had decided to act in his stead, so there they were. Second only to him, they demanded admiring eyes wherever they went, without need to even lift a finger or bat an eye. What outstanding patriots of color in a sea of whitebread fat cats. They reigned as charismatic figureheads to his extraordinary little family. Yes, he felt privileged to call them that. His family, his children— though admittedly, he was no older than they were.
Like Jack, they would one day be an uncontested force courtesy of the United States, but above all, his influence and design. All thanks to him.
Dead Cell.
An American dream.
While not their debut in action, this marked their formal introduction to the public at large. For this, he had called on some of the finest photographers and a few close and favored journalists. Foreign ambassadors paid thousands upon thousands to meet this new team and the man behind their conception. A hodgepodge of media moguls played and paid their way into the event, if only for the prestige of being seen where they would normally not be seen. The occasion bordered on sublime. Virtually nothing could ruin this evening.
And then, the pack divided.
William waddled his way through a chattering throng of crusty, old bureaucrats, struggling to exert as little energy as possible, for the buttons holding his white dress shirt closed beneath his flapping black coat were on explosive red alert. Of the fledgling Dead Cell, this balloon of a man fashioned himself after a blatant wolf in black sheep's clothing, a misfit savant. But given his, albeit jaded, credentials with NEST and Peter Stillman listed as his mentor, he was an invaluable asset as the resident bomb specialist; therefore, he had to be tolerated. Last but not least, he was fat, and that had to be tolerated, too. But, he was still dubbed accordingly. William Ratti, the Fatman with the candied hands.
He watched him further slosh his way towards the Red Room, no doubt to scope out the elite spread that awaited them all, if not most, in due time.
No one could part a crowd like he could, even with a rather excessive girth as common as his. Fatman carried about him an air of alienation mixed with a too fruity cologne that urged many to just get the hell out of his way.
A guffaw burst out as Fatman finally squeezed through the semi-congested doorway of the Red Room. He'd hit his mark and likely wouldn't be seen again, short of being forcefully pried from the wheeled buffet within. That man did love his fine dining.
"Mr. President."
Helena Dolph-Jackson lounged against the wall, beneath a particularly stone-faced Presidential portrait— an expression like that warranted the suspicion of that former U.S. leader having been a Philosopher. These thoughts couldn't be helped. And as if on cue, his lady of fortune glanced up at the painting and scowled. Her father, Scott Dolph, lifted a large hand to her arm, perhaps to stifle whatever it was that made her react the way she did.
"Mr. President?"
That blue ballroom gown Helena wore belied her long, buxom frame. Even being the daughter of a Marine, few would have thought of this dark femme fatale being able to handle the amount of munitions she did on a regular basis. The fall of bleached blond curls and frosty lips lent an even more youthful look to an otherwise seasoned female in the employ of the U.S. Armed Forces.
That wasn't to say her ability and rarefied womanhood for her position were what made Helena the Lady Luck of Dead Cell. No, there was something far greater that even he could not place.
"We'd like you to take a picture with the U.N. representatives! Mr. President, Mr. Sears, over here!"
He heaved his broad shoulders and turned to the little man beckoning at his side, the first of many. There was the camera, black and sleek, justly poised and waiting for a few shots of 43rd President and founder of Dead Cell, George Sears. And just a few feet away, some men from the U.N. stood, Russian, Sudanese, Liberian, among others.
"Hmm, a picture? Of course, right this way."
"Mr. President, when might we be allowed a demonstration of your new unit's capabilities?"
"I'm sure we can work something out. My team is very eager to get into action-"
A brilliant cackle echoed over the swell of political heads swaying up and down the Cross Hall.
Just a few feet away from Helena and her father, two other members of Dead Cell huddled in subdued revelry.
Sears was only ever compelled to call the duo one thing:
The pretty boys.
Regardless of the time or place, these two always won his fascination to countless bitter ends, doubly so when paired together. Aside from physical prowess, they sported charisma third to him, second to Dolph and the Jacksons. It offended Fatman and charmed the President. It scathed, it vaguely romanced. The mysterious East and the seductive West, come together.
Nathan Jia Guo was the youngest of the lot, but only by a year or two, at least. He was a tall man for his Asian heritage. He was lean and had the look of cunning all around him. He was loose; he was intellectual. One could cut the man's syrupy mystique with a knife, and Sears wondered if his partner was the one that did the cutting, if only behind closed doors.
"Now, Mr. President, if you could just stand between Mr. Bogomolov and Mr. Yakubu, we can get this picture underway..."
"Certainly."
Decebal deftly waved his long, dark tongue at Nathan and laughed that haunting sort of laugh of a man possessed.
Decebal Vãduva was what Sears deemed another misfit among misfits within his team. But for an aberrant, he was well versed in self-control, even civility to a wicked little extent.
And other things.
Like his dear Lady Luck, a certain air pervaded his presence that demanded he be placed in a league, a race, all his own. A virtual enigma. All the while, the Romanian stood slick and tall like his fellow, the Chinaman, but he walked with a mastered fluidity few else dared to compare to.
Sears knew, however.
This Marine had a way with bending.
That was all he could ponder on the matter.
One also couldn't forget his particular fixation with all things sharp— the man was a fiend, a veritable whirling dervish, with martial cutlery. And one couldn't tell unless Decebal graced them with his sinister trademark smile as opposed to a sweet yet bleak smirk, but he had dental work done, as well. In the short span of years since his initial enlistment into the Marine Corps, Sears' smooth-haired Romanian cast himself a personality and appearance he could liken to a modern-day Dracula, for lack of a better example as suave and dehumanized.
Personally, Nathan called him Vamp for reasons beyond what the President gleaned at face value. And that word, for all the endearment loaded into it, stuck. With Decebal, and all his comrades-in-arms.
The pretty boys joked and clung to each other like brothers, or something closer than brothers, then pointed at random heads and snapped their wrists as if they tossed darts at bloated flies already pinned to a bull's eye. Sears left it to those two to not be fazed by the sociopolitical horde; he even left it to their morbid humor to make merry light of kitsch events such as this.
The President just had to hope it wouldn't get out of hand.
"Smile, sir!"
"Mr. President, we should get a photo of your entire team together for posterity. Would that be all right?"
"Ah, well, the gang's pretty much all here. Although, my friend, Al Spitznogle couldn't make it. The old boy has dialysis in the morning, that sort of thing-"
"...dialysis?"
"Either way, I'm sure we can arrange something. Please, why don't we meet in the Red Room? If you find yourself lost, refer to any of the party attendants or Secret Service for directions. Excuse me while I rally them up."
Sears waded through a throng of congratulatory arms and hands, even a few kisses, in regards to his latest endeavor. He nodded and waved, offered handshakes and pecks on cheeks in return, while vaguely sneering at the lot surrounding him.
A single hand patted him especially hard on the back, displaying a brisk informality that the President could attribute to one person.
"This is quite the exceptional turnout, eh King Snake? How are the rugrats faring?"
"I almost thought you weren't going to make it."
"Oh no, sir, I wouldn't have missed this for all the chaotic world. I've been hankering to quell my curiosity ever since you put forth your designs for your little counter-terrorist thing going on here... Fairly brilliant, I must say. We really must parley on your thought processes as to how you founded this idea and picked your members."
"Later. For now, enjoy the show."
"Of course."
Helena stood alone beneath a somber-faced John Adams Jr., sipping water from a wine glass with flighty, curtain-like disinterest draped over her face. Upon seeing Sears draw her way, she slipped into a more dignified posture, but nothing could sway the boredom of her piercing, blue eyes.
"Mr. President."
"Where's your father, my dear?"
"Vamp and Nat pulled him off somewhere while my back was turned. Bastards. I'm bored to death, sir. Me without my husband, father, or friends... Hmph, I feel like a fish out of water standing here."
"Festivities will begin soon enough. In the meantime, help me look for them."
"Why?"
"Why, just for a little family photo to appease the press."
"'Family photo', huh... Sure, why not?"
Sears gestured the woman to walk ahead of him, which she did so in an unwitting shimmy of her hips. His head bowed once in something a little less than intrigue; then, remembering why he came to gather her, the President fell in line with their search for the rest of newly founded Dead Cell.
Helena commenced a quaint and courteous enterprise of asking around for her family and friends, while Sears simply observed from the rear. She had a deep voice, a smooth one that might've been perfect for singing in a lounge than bellowing war cries on battlefields. But this was the lot she was cast, and she had to play her part. If the gal was lucky, like her peers claimed her to be, then Helena could one day do a little singing on the side. A bit of life after a hard day of combat was acceptable.
The woman eventually began to wade off towards the Blue Room on and up the other side of the Cross Hall.
Sears followed suit, all the while going through the motions of the briefest friendly banter and physical contact with those who required it of their dear, dear President.
"...so Grant says, 'I know only two tunes. One's Yankee Doodle and the other isn't.'"
"...I don't get it."
"Then you are not an American."
"I was born in Jamestown."
"So, suddenly, that makes you better than me..."
"You're hopeless."
"Sir, this way," Helena called, waving a hand between the two men whom had gone from amiable terms to heated. Sears found relief in her interjection to get him through the crowd which soon planted them at the Blue Room's threshold, at last. "Something's happening, though..."
"What?"
"Take a look. Looks like someone's appeasing the press already."
"Ha, so it seems."
On the far side of the Blue Room, a crowd gathered between the columns of the portico that overlooked the south presidential lawn. A hushed chatter overwhelmed the sounds of genuine awe, followed by the click and flash of hungry-eyed cameras. Sears nearly found the unease worrisome.
But, it was only Vamp.
Upon the stone balustrade, the Marine had been coaxed like a snake from its basket, and charmed onward by his brother-in-arms, he danced. He danced. And swayed. And bent in ways the President found uncomfortable watching. It was just one of those dances— a short-stepping, European flavored Elvis-esque routine using pelvis aplenty— that Sears would rather not have taken in every detail, as opposed to Nathan who swayed and clapped merrily just as well to soundless music. He palmed his chagrin-wrought face, much like Scott Dolph who stood not a foot away from the gyrating Vamp.
Helena pressed through the awestruck mass of people, coming to stand next to her father with a singular look of subdued awe.
And then...
The dark woman's face had lit up like a candle, and she bobbed her head to the Chinaman's sudden, melodic humming.
"Alright, alright, you have your fun for now," Sears voiced with an overly dramatic air, "but on the field, you won't be a party, you'll be a team, understood?"
Dolph laughed from the belly up at the President's serious tone. "Let them be the judge of that, Mr. President. You just sit back in the Oval Office and let them do their job while you do yours."
"Ha, you're being smug, Dolph..."
"Much like you, sir?"
"War's a serious matter when it comes down to it."
"In all my thirty plus years of service— and going strong— I've never questioned otherwise."
The two big men exchanged glares worthy of igniting rivalry with the setting sun, glares stressed by the muted encompassing gaiety which never quite ceased, even for all the gravity that swirled between them. The swords crossed at the hilt here were nothing to be concerned about, really. Dolph's seniority and experience was admirable enough; Sears himself had somewhat an equivalent in superior genes and exclusive military rearing, perhaps even an edge. While he couldn't be on the field himself, and the fact that he and the commandant weren't the most like of minds... In conjunction with Colonel Jackson, the man could be trusted.
Family men.
Familial piety, sense of duty, so on and so forth.
Sears broke the proverbial ice by laughing heartily and landing a heavy pat upon the other man's shoulder. "Fine, fine, no need to lock horns over nothing, Commandant. I'm only looking out for their welfare in the long run. Some modicum of seriousness can save lives and all that..."
"No argument there."
"Ha, well. As much as I would...love...for you all to continue your camaraderie as such, publicity calls. Time for a picture with the rest of the family."
"Family?" Vamp eased himself off the balustrade, slinking into the crowd on long legs atypical on a man of his stature. Those who'd gathered too close around him parted nervously, for his stare, regardless of direction, moved and stunned. For the unfortunate masses, it was rarely full of warmth. A trained eye knew where his lay. And because of this, Sears was certain it'd be a benefit to the team.
Sharp, dangerous, but a benefit all the same.
"Hmm..."
"Aw, c'mon, Vamp, let's do it," Nathan said, speaking playfully while hugging his comrade's shoulders. "How often do we get to hang out at the White House and be this ritzy as hell, eh? We're gonna be famous here, for what we're gonna do. Yeah, and ain't we family, bro? Let's live it up in the limelight."
"Heh." The two men thoughtlessly roughhoused amongst each other until the pallid Romanian yielded some agreement, sealed by a tug on the Chinaman's queue wrapped expertly around his neck.
"Excellent," the President motioned with a clap. "Now, if we can relocate ourselves to the Red Room, we can get this done."
"What about William?" Helena asked, flanked closely by Vamp and her father.
Sears sighed and rubbed at his temples. "I don't think we need to look for him. I know exactly where he is."
Spearheaded by the President and Dolph, the whole of winsome Dead Cell, sans its corpulent share, strode through the outer half of the Blue Room in their little cavalcade to the Red Room conjoined at its left side. Flickering shutters and eager chitchat followed in their wake. Yes, they generated intrigue all too quickly, too easily, motley crew that they were. It would make a fitting facade that could, with the right words and public angles, strike awe and fear into allies and dissidents alike. A tour de force.
Even a dynasty.
Sears knew he delighted too much in entertaining these thoughts. Being the maker of men strong enough to rule the free world was too bold an idea to swallow. He couldn't be taken in by delusions of grandeur. Not yet. The man had to bide his time, for something greater, before delusions became reality.
"Hahaha!"
A fatty cackle burst from the Red Room as soon the President and his lot made their entrance.
At the main dining table that had been squeezed into the room normally made for smaller dinners and casual business settings, William sat surrounded by other suited human satellites of matching girth. They talked, spat, guffawed over god knew what. The lack of innocence in their blithe, little conversation stood bolstered by the occasional whispers and darting of eyes. Here was yet something else that Fatman Ratti was capable of.
An air of conspiracy.
Those beady, seedy eyes. The downward smirk.
Unlike the others, the man was obviously not going to be as much a team player. That perpetually crooked scowl spoke volumes, as did the treacherous point to his lips. William was problematic, indeed. Or rather, he would be problematic.
"William!" Sears called out.
Ratti craned his bald head sharply forward in the President's direction, then rose a wine glass— his pinky curling outward for that dainty twist— in acknowledgment of his presence. His flanking company was slow to follow suit, but just as well, they greeted their esteemed U.S. leader with similar gestures. "Yes, Mr. President?"
"Finish your food and drink; we're taking a picture with the entire crew."
"Ooh, a picture? Be sure to have the photographers get my good side."
"Will that be the Northern Hemisphere, or the east?" Nathan quipped, then fell back into Vamp's arms for a shared laugh.
"I'll have you know my size is typical of historical kings," William blazed as he rose from his seat. "Kings!"
"Where do you get your history from, haha..."
"Alright, that's enough out of you two," the President said.
"Mr. President, if we can get you all to stand on the other side of the table, in front of the fireplace there, I think that'd look rather fitting," one of the photographers motioned.
Sears glanced up at the fireplace, where a portrait of old Dolley Madison hung, with rosy cheeks, ample bust, coy smile and all. Fitting, the man said. Perhaps. Madison was known for essentially setting the bar of First Ladies during America's infancy. In due time, Dead Cell could be known for establishing a standard in anti-terrorism and overall achievement, meriting the highest of boasting.
"Sir, this way."
"Alright, get a move on, all of you. The cameras are waiting."
"Mr. President, if you could stand on the left. And, Commandant, er Mr...Dolph, was it? You go on the right. Everyone else may fill in the middle. Madam, I think you'd look best next to Mr. Dolph here..."
"Fortune strikes again," Dolph chuckled, drawing Helena's arm into the crook of his and holding it particularly tight. "Every evening's brighter with a beautiful girl by my side. It's only a shame your mother couldn't be here, either, for double the pleasure. Never did have an eye for big events."
"Well, let's smile extra big for Mama. So she'll know we're thinking of her when she sees us in the papers."
"Mind if I join you two?" Vamp lingered against Helena's back, weaving his fingers down her free arm and then, gathering them in a final, tender clutch of her hand. The woman visibly shivered from the sensation of her colleague nestled so close, but shrugged it off with a thoughtful laugh.
"You scared me. And you don't have to ask, Dec, but any closer, and you'll be in my dress, too."
"Don't call me that."
"Hey, what am I, chopped liver?" Nathan squeezed his way in behind Vamp, hooking his chin into the other man's neck. He shook them both as to evoke his playful dismay in being excluded from their intimate huddling. They each returned the favor with a joking push at his angular face. "Fine, fine, be that way. I'll just be over here with the Prez."
Ratti had planted himself squarely in the assembly's center, adjusting his coat and blazer, then checking the still persevering buttons of his dress shirt. Lastly, he cleared his bald head of any sweat that might have been collecting there and wiped his hands on his backside. He was clearly ready to be photographed to high heaven, perhaps even to the point of eclipsing everyone else in the shot.
Sears grimaced off to the side, his note of the matter jolted off-kilter, along with his entire body, by Nathan moving himself into position at his left. He grumbled about trivial things, of Vamp always managing to cut him out of the picture when it came to personal mingling with the Dolphs, though of course he shouldn't be jealous. Of course. They were all family; in the end, everyone got their fair share of attention from each other, barring the Fatman.
A woman, a girl, broke from the throng accumulating in the Red Room, holding a cloth and makeup kit in her hands. She went up to the President, wiped down his navy blue blazer and all too lightly powdered his face with the mechanical care and precision of a common Presidential attendant. Sears loathed the action taken to prepare him for the press's pictures. But, in the shoes he filled, others were obliged to shape his appearance. He couldn't always be his own shade of natural.
"Now, all of you get a bit closer to fill in those gaps there, and I'd say you're more than ready."
Although, despite their still getting prepared, several photographers had already managed to snag candid shots of Sears and his entourage fussing amongst themselves. Likely, with which to weave some random tabloid lies.
"...Moses..."
"Hmm?" As the girl attendant departed, the President had lifted his head to the sound of something highly worth burning an ear. But, as this was a party of fairly grand proportions, any of the idlest gossip would drown in the loud political blather ebbing and flowing over every cubic inch of the room. Moses...
"Alright. Smile!"
"Some sort of nuclear..."
Sears' face soured just as the flash overtook his vision. He blinked hard to stifle the burn of white clinging to the backs of his eyes. But this action only served to hone his attention on the snippets of conversation he kept picking up from the other side of the room. Nuclear what? Who was talking, and what was being discussed?
"Now, how about some individual shots for a potential exposé in New York magazine? Commandant...!"
"Mr. President, can we get a shot?"
"Mr. President...!"
Bodies shuffled around the table to mix with Sears and Dead Cell. Of him and his company, only William had opted to break from the rush and sit himself back down at the table to continue eating. The incorrigible balloon.
"His...involve... Part of the army...for treason..."
"I don't believe that."
"Some obscure...or was it a book? ...raising...controversy..."
"Shadow Moses?"
The snippets were clearer now, almost whole sentences to be processed. To the President, it appeared that someone was speaking of that incident.
Suddenly, errant eyes began riveting themselves upon him. He could feel it. They were no easier to point out than needles in haystacks but the slight cocks and tilts of heads proved just enough of an indication. What, if anything, was transpiring under his nose here? Or, was he just being paranoid? No, not at all, Sears had nothing to worry about. He was secure here. He was the President, and America's golden boy. He couldn't fall now.
The Patriots wouldn't let him.
"Are you alright, Sears?" Dolph asked out of the blue.
The President shook his head incredulously then looked to those churning all around him. Sleepers for conspiracy. Possibly.
I couldn't possibly be this paranoid, he thought to himself. It's utterly ridiculous. "I'm fine, Commandant. I suppose the air in here is getting just a little...close. That's it; I need a drink, that's it..."
"Haha. If William hasn't sucked up all the good wine by now, that shouldn't be too much trouble."
"The Big...Boss. There you are."
"Shalashaska."
If there was a man more sly of air than Ratti, that man was Shalashaska. As an aside, no one looked better in brown than he did, that could never go without saying. But his embroidered chestnut suit, complete with bolo tie and cowboy boots— although, for once, he went without his trademark spurs— had opted against complimenting that catlike presence of his. All that brown was found unsettling...
"You look a little green around the gills. Slipped a bad shrimp? Heh."
"Perish the thought. Where have you been hiding?"
"Exactly where you left me earlier, sir," the man said, bowing his head as he fiddled with his subtly baronial handlebar mustache. "Nice display you and the rugrats put on there. I'm sure editorials the world over will just eat that up."
Sears tugged at his cuffs with a touch of ire, and then rolled his head from side to side as if to quell a certain kink. With a slight nod, he answered, "Well, we all have to start somewhere. But in any case... What do you want?"
"Ah, well, as to the point as ever, I see." Shalashaska stepped closer to the President, his hands hidden in the pockets of his long coat. The smell of sun-kissed hide was always strongest when he was nearby, and now was no exception— the smell of a cowboy, at heart in this fellow's case. Shifting his long, gray-blond ponytail to one side, he looked up with cool blue eyes askance and dismally smirked. "We need to talk."
"...Concerning?"
"I trust that you understand...the ghost of Shadow Moses has yet to be exorcised in full. You can guess what that entails, King Snake."
"Christ..."
Gazing away, Sears spied his team congregating in another part of the Red Room, circled by spectators. Between the four of them, as William still maintained status as local king of the dinner table, Nathan and the Commandant had taken to picking through the press for this question and that, while Vamp and Helena slow-danced behind them. In the absence of the Colonel, it was a remarkable sight to see them virtually reenact the closeness of lovers in the public eye. And few, if any, had yet the gall to call them out on it.
Perhaps, there was the understanding that things were...open and secure, for lack of better words.
They were all practically family after all. They put their love, trust, and care in each other's hands and they went with it.
Sears glowered in finality.
"Ah... Here's hoping Dead Cell doesn't come under fire for no apparent reason. Because of this mess. Shalashaska, surely we can work things out."
"Naturally. The powers that be are plainly on your side. Step into my office and I'll offer my...humble insight."
From Sixth: I realize there might be a slight inconsistency with uh...Fortune, but I was much too late into writing that I decidedly kept it in there. Hopefully it might not make much of a difference orrrrrr...people won't notice.
Anyways, this marks the last MGS fic that I'll be writing. At least...for an indeterminate while. If I ever get another idea, I just might act upon it. That is, unless Armageddon '09 hinders my plans (oh yes I'm such a pessimist for the future state of the world, immediate or not~) or worse yet, death. lol. I'd say this is a nice wrap-up to the pattern I had going. Weird, sex, necro-sex, not quite as weird or sex (and the underlining pattern being Vamp, Vamp, Vamp and Solidus/Dead Cell...with Vamp).
I started this way back in December, that I REMEMBER. And I'm just now getting done. ...that says something. And I don't think it's good. Whatever. Thanks in advance to anyone who bothers reading, peeking, scoffing. Your eyes are appreciated in whatever form, I guess.
And yes, I know how I ended it~ Oh, Ocelot, you're such a card. Or a cad, same thing?