Author's Note: Like with most of what I write, I'm never totally sure what was going through my head at the time I was writing this. I do remember that it was late; I was up until three in morning getting this all out in my Livejournal, as it so happened. I blame any grammatical/spelling/characterization errors on that fact and my own (admittedly shaky) grip on how Raiden should/shouldn't behave. :} (I plead a good reason for the 'naked' thing, in the light of the Arsenal incident: It was probably just that cold.)
Now, a bit of explanation is in order: While I may not know what prompted me to write this the way I wrote it, I do know why Abernathy happened at all. :} Suffice it to say I'm of the opinion not only does everyone need an 'evil' clone, it's even more a necessity to have your very own Metal Gear fancharacter. It is trebly a necessity that you have a clone when you are such an one as to be raised in the image of Solid Snake; after all, the Patriots never did explain who was supposed to take Liquid's place in the Big Shell debacle.
So Raiden gets--Abernathy, the pretentious gay albino goth diplomat. Who, I assure you, has an even bigger inferiority complex than Liquid does. He'll probably show up in my later works, if I get sufficient constructive criticism/acclaim here. :} Enjoy!
And...yes. I did change the title, in keeping with the facts that it was originally very stupid and I have a nice new titling paradigm for everything involving Abby. :} Disclaimer the First: I don't have any legal claim to anything Hideo Kojima created as a part of Metal Gear Solid 2, or the entire Metal Gear series. Abernathy, insofar he is taken out of the context as a clone, is wholely mine, however.
Disclaimer the Second: Don't sue me for any mental trauma incurred while reading this. :} It's not my fault, really!
Metal Gear Parallax: At Aphelion


The simple act of brushing one's teeth was a remarkable equalizer. Abernathy squinted pale-pink eyes at the mirror before him, gnawing on a brush around a mouthful of foam with sheer anxiety. It wasn't as if it was going to make his day much better, but it mitigated matters.
Somewhat.
He spat, rinsed his mouth, and eyed the mirror myopically again as he scrubbed at his face with a towel. His mood was barely improving--and was quickly taking a roller-coaster straight back to abysmal as he glanced up from the sink, catching the blurry sight of his 'brother' wandering past in little more than a towel.
Around his neck.
"And a fine morning to you, too, Drummerboy," Abernathy muttered into his own towel, winning a little less than recognition from the presence behind him.
They'd already gotten passed the 'what the hell are you doing in my bathroom every morning?' stage--a miracle in itself, that more blood had not been shed to satiate Jack's territorial instincts--to the 'why are you sleeping on my COUCH, you loser?' stage. That Jack had decided merely to ignore his albino clone was saying something about how likely they were to progress beyond that aspect of their relationship.
"Don't teach you much about modesty in that vaunted FOXHOUND of yours, do they?"
Grunt. Abernathy wasn't certain if he should be worried or pleased by the lack of reaction--on the one hand, it wasn't the violent denials he usually got at the mention of the Patriot front organization; on the other...it wasn't the violent denials he usually got. It could mean anything.
Abernathy almost opened his mouth, another jibe at the ready--when something caught the corner of his blurry vision. It occurred, abruptly, he'd never actually seen his 'brother' wearing anything less than long sleeves and jeans--let alone actually in the buff. This brought up some interesting revelations: Namely, the tattoos.
Dropping the towel, Abernathy turned and made a passing snatch at Jack's wrist--and caught it, by whatever miracle of exhaustion had his 'brother' off guard for even that little moment.
This provoked a definite response--a low noise of warning, almost like a growl, and an even softer, "Abernathy..."
"Just a minute, Drummerboy. Smooth out your hackles, and--ahh." Against his 'brother's' protestations and increasing struggles, Abernathy muscled him close enough to see what he thought he'd glimpsed before: Barcodes. Barcodes across the deltoid that were mate to similar barcodes on Abernathy's own ice-white skin. "So it wasn't just me they wanted to keep track of. You show me yours and I'll show you mine...?" he murmured in an undertone.
Jack jerked his wrist away, rubbing it and giving Abernathy a distinctly antagonistic scowl. "What was that about?" he asked, tone bitterly guarded.
Raising his hands carefully, Abernathy replied. "Calm down, Drummerboy. I was just curious."
"You don't have any right to be that kind of curious," Jack replied, considerably aggrieved, and rearranged the towel to cover the barcodes. "You're not even supposed to be here--"
"Yes, yes, whatever, if not for the good grace of Rosemary and your own soft heart, but give me the decency of the fact YOU were parading about as naked as Adam and you're hardly one to tell me about rights. Here, look." Abernathy rolled up the loose sleeve of his shirt, revealing the matching barcode on his own deltoid. "Satisfied about my right to be 'curious'? Hell, Jack," he spat, tone taking a turn for the bitter. "I haven't got anything else like a family to be curious about."
A brief pause lingered between the 'brothers', Abernathy staring at Jack with as close to malevolence as his myopic squint came; Jack's own reflections turned briefly inward. It passed swiftly enough, Jack raising his head in briefest assent--but no approval of Abernathy's continued presence in his territory.
Abernathy, hoping for little better, merely smirked and pressed onward on the topic of discussion at hand before he was relegated to ignorable annoyance again. "I don't imagine you've got a matched set, do you?" Abernathy slashed a hand across his hips in demonstration. "A pair starting there, at the sartorius...?"
Jack had already wormed his way past his clone to the sink, begun his own morning ablutions--and the question caught him somewhat unfavorably. He thumped a hand down on the counter, and glanced, irritated, back at Abernathy. "Why does this matter so much to you?"
"Humor me, Drummerboy! I'm grasping for anything with both hands here; misery has always loved company, after all, and it makes me happy to know that Daddy Patriot's machinations weren't limited to me."
Another moment of silent stretched between them, before Jack shook his head and looked away, brows furrowing. "You're sick, Abernathy."
"I'm not sick, just lost. Come now, can't you be at least a little compassionate?"
"It's sick. You're obsessed with something that's better dead. I didn't want to think about it anymore, except you moved into my home with your pity-me act. Stop it!"
It was the longest speech Abernathy had gotten out of his 'brother' at any one time; the singularity of the incident momentarily stopped him as he chewed on Jack's words. He discarded most of them immediately, of course--for later consideration, or no consideration at all. What right, after all, did a soldier have to dictate terms to Their chewtoy? None. But it did take him a moment to come up with a suitably distracting jibe from the matter at hand, namely: "What does Rosemary think of them?"
"What does she think of what?" Jack's normal composure had begun to fray around the edges, flickers of greater-than-usual annoyance showing through the holes.
"The tattoos. I'd heard some girls found them appealing. In a kinky sort of way. You know, the whole sadomasochism gig. Can't say I ever went in for it myself."
If a tone by itself could be cold enough to freeze glass, the mirror would have swiftly been done in by frost. "Don't go there, Abernathy."
"Don't get all Boy Scout with me, Drummerboy! It isn't as if it's not blatantly obvious she's pregnant, and since I've yet to see the heads of other suitors on pikes on the lawn yet, I can draw my own conclusions about who she's inviting into her bed most often. It isn't as if you two aren't making calf-eyes at each other at every opportunity; it's sickening sometimes, Jack. Disgusting enough that I'm almost glad I'm gay. Hell, it's not as if I complain of the noise or anything--you're downright quiet. Raiden, in stealth-mode even when he screws--"
Abernathy had never exactly paid attention to how fast his 'brother' could move when the situation called for it; nor had he really realized what sort of meaty thunk a fist connecting with a jaw could make. He staggered back a step, slouching into the sharp-edged cabinet behind him, and stared incredulously at his 'brother', blood trickling from a split lip.
It was, perhaps--no, was, absolutely--the first time he'd forced Jack to physical violence. He wasn't sure he liked that sort of power--nor the twinge of fear that it brought with it. He was no fool; he'd seen the training videos, knew just someone of Jack's caliber was capable of, even unarmed and naked. It took all of what little courage he had to even look his 'brother' in the eye as Jack watched him, gaze inscrutable and cold. Abernathy didn't even dare so much as breathe, on the verge of suffocation, the better half of him screaming imprecations for ever daring to do such a foolish thing.
The standoff wound on for an interminable minute, then another--Abernathy scrunched up against the wall, bleeding and wide-eyed as a scared rabbit at the vision of Jack, frigid and silent as death. Abernathy began to struggle for breath, chest tightening and misty vision clouding further with red as he fought to keep from making any move that might bring Jack down on him...
...and dropped to his knees, gasping for air as his will gave out, cowering and hoping beyond hope that shameful behavior wasn't to be his last act in life.
Maybe someone was listening, just that once; or maybe--far less likely--Abernathy had misjudged his brother. Jack breathed out in a heartfelt sigh, and muttered, "Get up, Abernathy."
Obediently, Abernathy scrambled to his feet, still gasping for breath and trembling. What if...? But he knew Jack, knew he didn't go for grandstanding in disposing of his enemies. Cold, yes. Efficient, but not necessarily brutal.
It didn't do anything to slow Abernathy's heartbeat. He gulped once, raising his gaze to meet Jack's--pink eyes flinching away from ice-blue--for just a moment, before dropping his head again.
"Don't ever say something like that again."
Abernathy's gaze flicked up; dropped again, the briefest of acknowledging nods. It hurt, but his pride was already bruised enough. A bad day, getting no better, indeed.
Silence lingered a moment longer, before Jack added, with a certain finality: "Get out of here."
Cutting his losses, Abernathy darted for the door--pausing only long enough to make a blind grab for his glasses as he went. He was on the verge of making a break for his spartan belongings and running for it when Jack's voice transfixed him again: "Abernathy?"
Unconsciously, the clone glanced back, eyes flickering with fear a moment more. "...What, Drummerboy?"
"...You should do something for that lip."
Some things could hurt one's pride worse than pure humiliation.
Like being proven wrong.


Creative contents of this document not already acknolwedged as copyright to others are © 2002 Kim Kondratieff.