Circles
and Paradoxes
- I -
"You're pretty good."
He's more than that, though. Much more.
"Just what I'd expect from the man with the same code as the boss."
He thinks I'm talking about Liquid, of course.
Traditionally oblivious.
Textbook Snake.
"It's been a long time since I had such a good fight."
Too long.
I've almost forgotten how it feels like.
How the heartbeat attaches itself to the bullet.
How the whole world takes a backseat to the battle.
How the endless conspiracy games become irrelevant, when destiny lies in the thread of the moment.
In the barrel of a gun.
"But I'm just getting warmed up."
He's the last in the three-piece jigsaw puzzle that will never fit.
Les Enfants Terribles.
A schizophrenic paradise.
Liquid. An overgrown child plagued with an inferiority complex and delusions of grandeur.
Solidus. Mr. President. Nourished with a superiority complex and delusions of change, of freedom.
Children.
They're no more him than mannequins wearing his face.
This one is different.
No complexes. No delusions.
The perfect soldier.
He's least and most like him.
My pet paradox.
I flip the revolver, a second before the plunge.
Is it the beginning, or is it the end?
Is there even a difference?
We're back in ground zero.
And this time, he's all mine.
There's just one small catch.
The man can live up to the legend.
But the legend can never live up to the man.
- II -
For such a camouflage expert, his apartment is remarkably easy to find.
It's simple elimination.
The blank door belongs to the man with no name.
The clinking of metal alerts me to the fact that I'm shifting weight from foot to foot.
Fidgeting.
I never fidget.
It's all his fault.
His presence tends to… unhinge things.
Either that, or it's these damn civilian clothes. They never seem to really fit.
Too loose. Too careless.
Vaguely itchy, too.
More like a bad Halloween disguise than anything.
Civilian interactions make for an even worse fit.
Which might explain why I've been standing here for a few minutes now, without knocking.
This is ridiculous.
I'm here for a reason.
I just happen to not know what that reason is, yet.
A minor setback.
No use stalling. I reach for the door.
My fist encounters empty air.
Interesting. It's not exactly what I'd call an Open Sesame type of door.
"How did you know I was here?"
His expression barely changes, only the brow rising a millimeter or two.
He's wearing a disguise of his own, probably feeling as trapped in it as I do in mine.
But that's not the oddest aspect in his appearance.
I've seen him shot, electrocuted, tortured.
Been at least partially responsible for all of the above.
But I don't recall him looking as tired as he does now.
He casually turns his glance in my feet's direction.
"You should work on your stealth technique."
Oh.
The spurs.
Fair enough.
Stealth has never been a particular interest of mine.
It tends to undermine the dramatic nature of entrances.
Not that this one is what you could call dramatic.
Well, some sacrifices must be made.
It's one of the first lessons you learn as a spy.
Another is not standing like a mute dummy in face of the opposition.
Luckily, he speaks before I manage to forget a few more vital lessons.
"Looking for another duel?"
Now he's speaking my language.
"Always."
He gives a lightly pronounced sigh.
"How about we take a rain check on that? I'd rather not ruin the furniture."
I glance over his shoulder, into the apartment.
There are certain things you come to expect from a soldier's personal habitat.
Coziness is not one of them.
A comfortable looking couch. A large carpet stretched across the floor. Warm colors.
This actually looks like a home.
Feels like one.
But I know better.
Our breed doesn't have a home.
Sometimes, though, the illusion comes so close to the real thing that it's tempting to play pretend.
I return my gaze to him.
"You may have to compromise. I always get what I want."
This time the corner of his mouth accompanies his brow, creating a hint of a smirk.
"Didn't seem to manage to get me to die."
"What makes you think that was what I wanted?"
He has no answer for that.
Good.
At least I have some advantage over him.
Finally, he tilts his head sideways in what's either acknowledgement or invitation, or both. I've never seen much sense in economical body language, myself. It's the only kind he seems to possess, though.
He takes a step back, vacating the doorframe.
I follow him inside.
One of the upsides of sidestepping the Iron Curtain every once in a while is the cultural exposure.
It's more infectious than nuclear radiation.
Jeans. Fast food.
Westerns.
In this case, however, it involves the highly disturbing, jarring sounds emitted by a radio in the corner of the room.
"What is this?"
"I take it you're not a fan?"
"Depends on your definition. I think it would make an excellent torture technique, for one."
"The ultimate form of expression, isn't it?"
The comment isn't delivered in a biting manner, but for an inexplicable reason, a part of it gets under my skin all the same.
I don't let it show, maneuvering into a different topic instead.
"Raikov would love it."
In fact, it'd be a perfect fit.
Neither makes the least bit of sense.
"They're called The Beatles. Part of the British Invasion."
British Invasion.
The new definition of hitting rock bottom.
He smiles, conveying amusement of the type I'd classify somewhere between irritating and insufferable.
"I thought you kids loved this new stuff."
I shoot him a glare that, had this been a utopic universe, would inflict at least seven extremely painful deaths on the subject.
Unfortunately, this is about as far from a utopia as it gets, so some of the effect is lost in translation. He manages to take the hint, though, switching the station and hitting an old jazz tune.
"Better?"
"Much."
With the tormenting 'music' out of the way, I take my time to survey the environment – a habit almost embedded by now - pausing as I locate the refrigerator.
"Planning to steal my food again?"
I turn my head to him abruptly, almost straining my neck in the process.
How did he know?
"I don't know what you're-"
"EVA told me."
Of course.
That bitch.
"And you believed every word she said? Doesn't your CIA Operative's Handbook have a section on femme fatales?"
For a brief moment, something akin to a pained expression crosses his features, instantly swallowed by another one of those infuriating near-smiles.
"I'm pretty sure she'd have no reason to lie about that."
He watches impassively as I struggle to find a plausible explanation or excuse, coming up with none.
Terrific.
"Hope it didn't give you indigestion. Those vampire bats can be nasty."
Sadly, he doesn't stop there, instead proceeding to detail everything from the texture of tree frogs to the nutritive quality of Japanese flying squirrels.
And something particularly unnerving about an old parrot, too.
I wonder if he's trying to torture me, but soon realize that it's simply a topic he's intensely passionate about.
I almost regret coming here.
Taking a seat on the couch, I attempt to block out the monologue about his unorthodox, not to mention often rotten, taste in food.
It doesn't bring fond memories.
"Speaking of which, what happened to Johnny?"
"Who?"
"Johnny Sasaki. He was guarding my cell in Groznyj Grad. Interesting guy."
"Oh, him." Also known as the most incompetent soldier in the whole of Groznyj Grad. Not a title to be taken lightly, all things considered. Good thing Volgin was busy being himself when he let me take care of the guarding arrangements. "Guarding in a very loose sense of the word, you mean. Volgin wasn't very happy with his performance."
He frowns, obviously troubled by this piece of information.
The advantage is mine again.
I lean back, savoring the moment.
"So unhappy, in fact, that he wanted to take care of him personally." I pause for as long as I can, watching the apprehension gather on his face in a storm cloud manner, before belatedly adding, "Lucky for him that the good colonel caught that lightning when he did."
Now he's giving me the murder-inducing stare.
Somehow, he's better at it.
Must be the eye patch.
Oh well.
I supposed I deserve it.
But it was worth it.
"Things got a little chaotic after that. He wasn't exactly what you'd call a high priority." Or any priority, really. "He took off right before the bombing. Should be back with his family by now."
He gives a single, relieved chuckle.
"So the Johnny Clan is back together. That's something."
He heads for the liquor cabinet, pouring himself a shot of whiskey, then tipping the bottle in my direction questioningly.
"I don't drink."
It can catch you off guard.
And here, I'm innately off balance.
"Well, there's water. And milk."
He's about to say something about cats.
I just know it.
"Water."
Cat comment avoided.
For now.
Since his back is turned, I'm spared the smirk.
Supplied with the drinks, he makes his way to the couch, handing me the glass before taking a seat beside me.
"I thought you'd like Rum better, to go with your new look."
He sends me a pointed glare.
I find myself unable to meet it, and turn to conduct a thorough study of my boots instead.
Wrong thing to joke about.
I should know better.
"I'd still need a peg leg to qualify for it."
Bastard.
"I'm sure you're on the right track, with the cliff diving."
"You should try that. It's fun."
I put every ounce of conviction available into my voice.
"I don't think so."
He shrugs indifferently, taking a sip from his drink.
"Your loss."
I make a mental note to never stand close to him on a high surface again.
"How long do you have before your GRU comrades begin to miss you?"
"A few more days," I assess. "I plan to make the most of them."
He raises an eyebrow.
I have to make a preemptive strike.
"No cliff diving."
"You're not afraid of heights, are you?"
My jaw clenches against my will.
So this is what being stuck between a rock and a hard place means.
Cat remark on one side, chicken accusation on the other.
But I'm not a spy for nothing.
"No. I just have the sense not to bounce off them whenever I get the urge."
"So you do get the urge."
Actually, the only urge I'm experiencing at the moment is to shoot him in the head. Maybe in a few more places while I'm at it.
And it's a strong one.
"You know, EVA may be a bitch, but I'll give her credit for putting up with you for as long as she did."
He fails to pick up the bait, responding only with a partially quizzical, partially amused look.
"You don't like her much, do you?"
"She knows how to utilize her… assets. She's not a bad spy."
As much as it hurts me to admit it.
"But you're better."
"Of course."
"Your humility is astonishing, Ocelot."
"Humility is a sign of weakness."
A pensive expression comes to life and is extinguished in the same moment.
"I'm guessing just about everything is, to you."
"No. Not everything."
"So, why the dislike?"
He's confusing dislike with a healthy sense of competition.
Which is a good thing, probably.
"Nothing in particular. She's just not my type."
"And who is?"
Is that a trick question?
No, can't be, knowing him.
Damn it.
Somehow, I doubt that 'annoyingly invincible food-obsessed soldiers' would be the best answer here.
"Somebody less obvious."
He makes a thoughtful sound.
His expression is too innocent to mean well.
"Not Volgin, then."
And now I really have to summon up every fiber of remaining self control to resist from drawing my gun and doing some live target practice.
He proceeds to look disgustingly, misleadingly inoffensive.
"I didn't know Ocelots could blow steam out of their ears."
Then, without as much as a shift in expression, his demeanor turns more serious again.
"Did you hate him?"
"Hate him?" The very notion seems absurd. "It's like hating bad weather. What's the point?"
"These things don't really need a point."
"He had no second thoughts," though I'm not entirely sure about first ones, either, "no regrets. He didn't give a damn about the status quo, or keeping up appearances." I hope no wistfulness makes it into my tone. "He didn't care what anyone thought. You've got to admire that, if nothing else."
The corner of his mouth quirks slightly.
"Nothing else seems about right."
I look away, straightening out my line of thought before speaking again.
"Conscience, morality, regrets - these are all obstacles in our line of work."
The only question is how to overcome them.
He doesn't say anything, watching me with a disquieting intensity.
As if he's in the middle of an ambush, waiting out his prey.
It's a good thing that I'm a predator, too.
But it doesn't make his stare any less penetrating.
"It's easier to be a force of nature."
"Until you're hit by a lightning."
I snort.
"Not everyone takes the concept of poetic justice that far."
"Who knew Volgin had the soul of a poet?"
Somehow, the use of 'Volgin' and 'soul' in the same sentence causes me to choke on my drink.
His corresponding chuckle is followed by a solid slap on my back.
I cough a few times before my breath stabilizes.
"I'm sure Raikov did. That would explain some things."
A speech vacuum follows the statement.
It looks like we've run out of small talk fodder.
I raise the glass to eye level - an imitation of an old ritual that I've never quite been able to understand.
He does the same.
"Mission accomplished. World saved."
These words couldn't be emptier if they tried.
But we drink to them nonetheless.
He performs another one of his minimalist head motions, calmly watching the light bend through the empty glass before putting it down.
"What now?"
The tiredness I'd spotted earlier makes a comeback, enwrapping the question in all its essence.
It makes sense.
A true soldier is useless without a battlefield.
Downtime is nothing but suspended animation, with a vague promise of revival.
But there are always battles to be found, if you know where to look.
"I hear things are heating up in Vietnam. Might get interesting there soon."
Though not soon enough.
"I'm not looking for wars."
"You don't need to. They find you."
"That's not a good thing, Ocelot."
"It's better than the alternative."
"Which is?"
"Normality."
Public ally number one.
And my own personal nemesis.
His too, if I know him even a little.
For a while, we sit in silence.
It doesn't feel empty, cold or foreign, like it often does.
It doesn't put me on edge, either.
Actually, this feels disturbingly natural.
It's strange, though, going so long without trying to shoot each other.
But I have a feeling I might just get used to it.
There's still something I have to get out of the way.
And it's not going to be easy.
"John, about your eye-"
"I know."
I don't recall ever feeling as grateful as I do now.
Apologies have always been the single worst barrier to cross.
Especially the ones I mean.
When he speaks next, his tone nearly borders on inquisitive, but manages to remain within the realm of expressive lethargy.
"So. What do you want?"
Well.
Nothing else seems to work on him.
Time for the straightforward approach.
"You."
Before he gets the chance to completely misunderstand and misinterpret that very simple statement, I lean forward and press my lips to his.
He doesn't respond in any particular way.
Which isn't exactly the way I imagined it'd go.
I pull back, trying to salvage the shards of dignity I have left.
He remains still, wearing a blank expression.
This would probably classify as an awkward moment, if 'awkward' was a part of my lexicon.
A misunderstanding. Nothing more.
"I see."
His face grows even blanker, if that's even humanly possible.
"And you always get what you want, huh?"
"That's right."
"Well, what about what I want?"
"What-"
A slow reaction time has never been a shortcoming of mine, but with him, this sort of convention is often turned upside down.
This could be the reason for the minimal response – not to mention resistance – my body comes up with when he moves forward, instantly and ruthlessly eliminating the distance between us.
There's a repositioning of limbs on his end - one hand at my waist, the other at the back of my head.
That's hardly the focal point of the situation, considering the location his mouth assumes.
It's warm, lightly tinted with alcohol, and it isn't exactly the way I imagined it, either.
It's better.
A voice in the back of my mind tells me that maybe he's not quite as dim in these matters as I believed.
But to be honest, voices in my head aren't my top priority at the moment.
I lose track of time.
It becomes a meaningless speck in the background, not worthy of my attention.
It can't be forever, though, because eventually, he ends it.
There's not much I can do other than slowly breathe out, searching for lost equilibrium.
I can practically feel his essence radiating onto me, his face a mere few centimeters from mine.
"You may have to compromise. I always get what I want."
"I never compromise."
"That's too bad."
Before I can formulate a single thought that doesn't begin with 'how' or 'what' and is quickly supplemented by 'the hell', I find myself lying flat on my back, by the couch.
And the son of a bitch is right on top of me, knees locked securely around my hips.
Smiling.
I try to maneuver out of the unfortunate position, spurs digging into the carpet.
No luck.
"Hey, that's not –"
…fair.
Goddamn judo.
"What are you gonna do about it?" He leans in closer, but sadly not close enough for, say, a headbutt. "Meow?"
The radio foolishly chooses this moment to announce that it's been a hard day's night, or something to this effect.
Actually, there is something I can do.
In the confines of a second, I draw the gun, aim, and pull the trigger.
There's a stunned, static, and very satisfying silence.
One down.
The furniture will get its turn, too.
I casually return the gun to its holster, blatantly ignoring his glare.
His next words take on the quality of a growl.
"You'll pay for that."
I smirk.
The balance of power is finally restored.
"We'll see."
It's a concept even a child could understand.
Compromises are boring.
And conflict is anything but.
I grab him by the shirt, pulling him towards me.
It looks like I'll be getting my duel, after all.
- III -
"I think you're taking your codename a little too seriously."
He sends a meaningful glance to the fresh bite mark now decorating his shoulder.
I shrug.
"You're one to talk, with all that hissing."
"I hissed because you bit me."
"Circular thinking will get you nowhere, Snake."
I take the spare seconds before his reply to assess the damage.
One radio. One coffee table. One carpet.
Not bad.
But I'll try harder next time.
The carpet feels prickly against my back, but it's still a step up from the clothes.
"Will this?"
His hand slides slowly down my chest, heading for a strategic location.
"This," a necessary, rather abrupt intake of breath breaks the sentence, "has more potential."
A potential that goes absolutely nowhere as he suddenly removes his hand.
"Why did you stop?"
"You're tense."
Am not.
"I'm fine."
He frowns.
"Do you ever relax?"
"No."
"Another sign of weakness?"
"Practicality."
"You mean survival instinct."
"Same thing."
"Not everything is about survival."
"Of course it is."
He maneuvers back on top of me. Only this time, I'm not particularly motivated to try and stop him.
"Relax."
"Is that an order?"
"Yeah."
"You don't outrank me."
"You're being difficult."
"If you wanted easy, you should've tracked EVA down."
He remains impassive.
Is there something wrong with my insult technique?
"Close your eyes."
"No."
"Do you trust me?"
What does that have to do with anything?
"Do you need me to?"
"It's not about what I need."
"Then what's it about?"
"Us."
There's an 'us'?
That's interesting.
But not an entirely objectionable sort of interesting.
"Yes. I trust you."
"Good. Then close your eyes."
"What for?"
"Trust means you don't get to ask."
"That's called obedience."
"Then why are you having such a problem with it?"
I sense a catch in there.
When your defense is weak, the smart move is to take the offensive.
"You're saying you don't?"
"No. I'm saying trust is just as essential as survival."
We could argue all day.
More, probably.
But for some reason, I don't really feel like it.
I close my eyes.
If only to shut him up.
His hands lock around my waist, spreading warmth.
A sound becomes helplessly trapped in my throat as his mouth travels the same path his hand did earlier.
When he finally reaches his destination, I decide that maybe, sometimes, trust isn't such a horrible thing.
Maybe.
- IV -
Trust is an optical illusion.
And not a particularly effective one, at that.
"Did you know?"
He's still pale.
Still weak.
But it's as if the anger has become molded into him, and maintaining eye contact feels like staring into green steel intent on slicing you in half.
I can lie. He'll probably believe me, even now.
"Yes."
But apparently careless honesty is a contagious disease.
"Then why didn't you do anything?"
"There's nothing I could do."
A lie works better when you force yourself to believe it.
But somehow, he deflects it without even trying.
"That doesn't sound like you."
"I sound whichever way I want to sound."
Even I know how childish this statement is.
He doesn't give it the courtesy of a response.
"You know what I am to them. A tool. An experiment."
I can sense his pain, coming through in deadly waves.
Infecting me.
He feels betrayed by the people he trusted the most.
He doesn't understand that these are the rules of the game.
He leans closer, turning all this burning intensity onto me.
"Is that what I am to you?"
"No."
"Then why?"
I have no magical excuse, no answer but the most obvious.
"It was the mission, John."
"And the mission is everything?"
Is that supposed to be a rhetorical question?
It's all so clear-cut. So simple. Why does he need to complicate it?
"Hasn't it always been?"
His expression softens.
It's not anger.
This is worse than I thought.
"The mission is over."
This is personal.
"Life as a puppet isn't all it's cracked up to be, Ocelot. I'm done playing along."
He's shoving his newfound delusions in my face. Does he expect me to simply accept it?
"You're talking as if you have a choice. Everybody is a pawn."
Some just happen to be more aware of it.
And are more flexible for it.
"That's what they want you to think. To prevent rebellion. To avoid change."
"Don't be stupid, Snake. That's just how the world works."
"And that's good enough for you?"
"Nobody is asking me."
"I am."
Why does he have to insist on fighting facts?
It's the way it is.
It's the way it'll always be.
"It's them or me, Adamska. It can't be both."
Fury mixes with panic, making me feel almost dizzy with its intensity.
How can he be asking me this?
This isn't a choice I can make.
This isn't a choice.
"You can't go against them."
The smirk he gives me is a bitter creature, entirely devoid of humor.
"Watch me."
"You have no idea what you're doing."
"I'm paving my own path from here. Writing my own destiny."
He takes a step back, the distance between us becoming painfully pronounced.
"Maybe you should think about doing the same."
I draw my gun and I level it to his head.
He simply shakes his head.
And walks away.
"Snake!"
My hand is shaking.
I ignore it.
"Come back and fight me, you coward!"
He doesn't turn back. Doesn't even acknowledge hearing me.
"John!"
My gun is pointed at nothing.
He's gone.
I let my hand fall to my side lifelessly.
Everything feels lifeless.
Soulless.
I just stand there, devoid of purpose.
Then I speak.
I hate these words.
But at the moment, they're all I have.
"I'm sorry."
- V -
Ironically enough, things have grown colder in the wake of the Cold War.
More boring, too.
With the deceptively delicate game of balance gone, true conflict has become scarce, manufactured on demand.
Civil wars, regional disputes.
Kindergarten squabbles.
You take what you get.
There's not much glory to be found in a mercenary career.
But it's a living.
Still, anyone who had experienced the Volgin School of Weather can feel the faint buzz of electricity in the air.
This is simply the calm before the storm.
Unfortunately, reassuring as it is, this line of thought isn't particularly helpful in finding something to do in the midst of this frustrating calm.
There is an affliction worse than death, and it's called boredom.
And shooting cardboard enemies isn't the best pastime, really.
The occupational stupor is interrupted by a hand on my shoulder.
Impossible.
No one has been able to sneak up on me in ages.
I swiftly turn around, placing the gun barrel under the man's chin.
My hand freezes.
It can't be.
More lines decorate his face, but not for a second marring it.
No camo.
A coat. A suit. An eyepatch.
Him.
"When you have to shoot, shoot, don't talk."
I lower the gun, and he smiles.
"Emulating me again?"
What…
…The mustache.
"I've always wanted one."
"Right."
His smile recedes.
"Ocelot-"
"That's Revolver Ocelot to you."
"Is it?"
It's my turn to smile.
"Sounds better that way. I'm tired of ranks."
I know he is.
He nods.
"I hear Mother Russia is dead."
"It's positively tragic, isn't it?"
Luckily, I've had plenty of practice in being an orphan.
"So why are you here? Come to offer your condolences?"
"No."
He's here for a reason.
He just happens not to know what that reason is, yet.
"It's been twenty years, Snake."
More than an eternity.
Less than a moment.
He leans in, his lips nearly connecting with mine.
"Things change."
- VI -
Catching my breath has become more difficult. The sourness more pronounced.
It turns out the mustache creates an interesting obstacle, as well.
Aside from that, it's just like it used to be.
I still bite. He still hisses.
As if the years in between never even existed.
I trace his chest with my lips, trying to find him through a maze of scar tissue.
It's not easy.
I rise to my knees, lock my gaze with his.
"Do you trust me?"
"Yeah."
"Then you're an idiot."
"Probably."
A light jolt of pain cuts off my retort.
"Did you just pull my ponytail?"
He puts on his innocent face.
"I couldn't resist."
"I've killed men for less."
"Do your worst."
I do just that.
Sadly, he doesn't appear to suffer too much.
I roll over and lie next to him, sharing body heat.
After a while, he shifts his gaze from the ceiling to me.
"I'm building a place for people like us. A place where they can't puppeteer us anymore."
"There's not 'people like us' here, Snake. There's just you and me."
I pause for a beat.
"And I'm not a soldier."
"Could've fooled me."
He's still a little slow on the uptake.
"Maybe I was, once. But not anymore."
"If I was a soldier, do you think I'd be content with being second best?"
There's nothing he can say to that.
Checkmate.
"What are you, then?"
An existential question.
Wonderful.
"I am whatever the circumstances require."
"So you're everything."
Or nothing.
There's hardly a difference, anymore.
"Still playing their game?"
"They seem to think so."
"And what's the truth?"
The truth is that there's no such thing as the truth.
"Things change."
He turns sideways, putting his hand on my shoulder.
"I want you in FOXHOUND."
"It's official. You're insane."
"Might as well be, since I'm already an idiot."
"You haven't changed at all, have you?
"Guess not."
"Good."
It wouldn't have been real any other way.
"Do you need time to think about it?"
I shake my head.
What's there to think about?
This isn't a choice.
It's a given.
"You have me."
- VII -
"Outer Heaven."
"Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"
"Poetic."
He frowns at the dripping sarcasm, and I retaliate with a smirk.
This is the place.
This is where he intends to shape a dream into a reality.
A childish whim combined with the mark of greatness.
I can't figure out whether it's annoyance or awe that I'm experiencing.
Considering that this concerns him, it's probably both.
I place the blueprints on the table.
"This is it?"
"Metal Gear TX-55 in all its glory. Granin would have been proud."
He surveys the papers, his face managing to convey disgust and appreciation simultaneously.
"Nice," he assesses finally.
"That's one word for it."
He traces the prints with his thumb, his expression growing distant.
"Funny how it all comes together, isn't it? Almost like fate."
He's clinging to whatever nonexistent reassurance he can get.
I'm not going to take that away from him.
"Almost."
He looks up.
Time to finish my report.
"These aren't complete. You'll need the lead scientist to fill in the blanks."
"Dr. Petrovich."
"He shouldn't be too difficult to snatch. Though by the look of things, he'll probably be as just as big a nuisance as Sokolov was."
"I think I can handle him."
"Be careful. You never know what these shifty scientist types are capable of."
"I'll be sure to remember that."
He folds the blueprints and places them in his jacket.
"So how are the La-Li-Lu-Le-Lo?"
I snort.
"You just like saying that, don't you?"
"I think they're begging for a theme song."
True enough.
I should suggest it to them.
Back to the matter at hand.
"They aren't very happy."
"I can imagine. Do they know I'm behind it?"
"No."
"Will they?"
"At some point."
"You know what I mean."
"They won't."
He nods.
This is our final understanding.
That's it, then.
This is the end.
"You can stay, you know. You'll always have a place here."
A part of me yearns to stay.
Fight his futile war alongside him.
Play the Sancho Panza to his Don Quixote.
But that part is trapped in a hopeless childhood daydream.
And I'm all grown up.
"You know I can't, John."
"I know. But I'm still offering."
"You don't need me anymore."
He doesn't need anybody.
"That's not true."
I can see he believes it.
But it makes no difference.
He's grown too big for the world to sustain, now.
And the world has its fair share of defense mechanisms.
He's as good as dead.
And I've just given him his death warrant.
The least I can offer is a reality check along with it.
"You're only indestructible as long as they want you to be."
He forms a loose, unbothered smile.
"And here I thought I had bullet-proof skin."
How can he be so damn flippant about it?
"They'll kill you. You know that."
"I can live with that."
Stubborn idiot.
I try to find a good argument – something to sway him, to make him think this over.
He interrupts me before I speak.
"I'm doing what I have to do. There's no other way."
It's done.
It's his choice.
His dream.
His death.
All I can hope for is for it to be a good one.
I do my best to keep my voice from faltering, nearly succeeding.
"Good luck. You'll need it."
Not that any amount of luck would be enough.
But it's the thought that counts.
He doesn't say anything.
There's nothing to be said.
Tearful goodbyes aren't for us.
I begin to walk away.
"Adamska."
I turn around.
His voice is painted with slow-spread sadness, tinted with desperation.
Trying to atone for lost time.
For lost life.
"We're not enemies."
I sigh.
"We never were."
I give him the old gesture.
For a moment, the past is revived.
Then it dies again.
"Till we meet again, John."
But I know we won't.
- VIII -
The dim footsteps across the hallway finally translate into the tired visage of one of Sergei's head lackeys.
I've given up on trying to remember their names a long time ago.
They all look the same to me.
He stands at attention, waiting for a cue of approval.
This overblown toy soldier game is getting tiresome.
I nod impatiently.
He hesitates, and in this void split second, the dots connect.
I know what he's going to say before he opens his mouth.
Life has become painfully, laughably predictable.
His lips move, extracting mute, meaningless words.
He dutifully relays the details - the how, the why, the when.
I find that I don't particularly care.
After all, a severed limb can't hurt.
Another redundant nod later, he departs, leaving faint echo in his wake.
Alone at last.
I try to muster up an emotion – grief, regret, surprise.
Any emotion.
None arrives.
I stand still, perhaps attempting to transform into a live monument.
The world should stop for a beat to pay its last respect.
But it simply moves on, as if nothing had happened.
And I have no choice left but to keep playing along.
I let my hand rest on the grip of my revolver.
My immortal friend.
I take it out with a familiar twirl, too swift for the untrained eye to follow.
Flip it from hand to hand. A perfect balance.
Guide it as it performs its mesmerizing, neverending dance.
A funeral march of gunpowder and metal.
Eventually, I grow tired of that, too.
I return it to its resting place, but keep my hand hovering there, seeking comfort.
Six shots.
More than enough to kill anything that moves.
But what if it's dead already?
A vaguely familiar sound interrupts my musing.
It's coming from the corridor.
I step out, coming face to face with a young soldier passing by, with no an apparent care in the world.
Humming a cheerful tune.
Without a second of hesitation, I draw the gun and press it to his forehead.
"What's your name?"
He stands frozen - eyes bugged out, Adam's apple bobbing. From the looks of things, he's one step away from wetting his pants. Two from a heart attack.
"It's- It's Johnny."
"What song is this, Johnny?"
"Uh-" He sounds like he's about to choke on his own saliva. I almost feel sorry for him. "B-Beatles. When I'm Sixty-Four."
Of course it is.
Somehow, I just can't bring myself to pull the trigger, tempting as it may be.
Instead, I spin the gun, returning it to the holster in a fluid, precise motion.
"Carry on."
He exhales slowly, performs a crooked, shaky salute, and scurries off as if he has a beehive strapped to his back.
Kids these days.
This is it, then.
I have no meaningful eulogy.
No grave to salute to.
Nothing but a game in which I still have a part to play.
A thin smile rests on my lips.
I'd lied to myself all along.
We're not men with names.
We're not men.
We're corpses who just happen to still be walking.
Not necessarily the worst thing to be, in this day and age.
There's a light fluctuation in my breathing rhythm as the realization finally sinks in.
John is dead.
And so is Adamska.
- IX -
"How do you want to die?"
He shifts in place, the motion anchored on his elbow, finally meeting my gaze with a curious raise of the brow.
"This is your idea of pillow talk?"
I scan through the area, letting my gaze travel between indistinguishable trees, grass and rocks, before returning to the leaf-patterned sleeping bag.
"I don't see any pillows."
He makes a noise permanently entrapped between a snort and a sigh.
Loopholes are fun.
"Well, it'd be nice if it didn't involve a lightning bolt."
That's a healthy basic requirement.
"That's all?"
A charge hangs in the air, releasing quiet tension into the atmosphere.
The constant chirp of nearby insects accommodates it.
The dark sky stretch for an apparent eternity, creating the impression that the world is much bigger than it actually is.
"I want to die for something I believe in."
"You'll die on a mission, John." Sugarcoating has never been one of my strengths, and this seems obvious enough. "What does belief have to do with it?"
"You asked how I want to die, not how I will."
Damn loopholes.
"So what do you believe in?"
Truth? Justice? The American Way?
He breathes out, stretching time before finally answering.
"I don't know."
"When are you planning to find out?"
He raises an eyebrow.
"You know, you can be a little annoying sometimes."
"A little?"
I'm not 'a little' anything.
He looks up, searching for an answer in the starless sky.
I wish I could give it to him, but I don't have one, either.
When he speaks, it's closer to a whisper, as if he doesn't want to upset the fragile balance of sound around us.
"I believed in her."
We both know who he's talking about. He doesn't know how much I really know, though.
But I understand.
We know that concepts are really just pretty words invented by governments, to back some convenient cause-of-the-day.
It's all absurdly meaningless.
Believing in somebody is the only real choice left for us.
"But I don't want to die like she did."
Amazing.
The perfect soldier isn't so perfect after all.
I turn over, trying to capture the emotion on his face.
Sadness? Guilt? Resignation?
I can't pinpoint it.
"She had a dream, you know."
Don't we all.
Except, I can't quite remember what's mine supposed to be.
"She wanted to make the world whole again."
He can be so remarkably naïve sometimes.
"The world can never be whole, Snake. Not as long as there are people in it."
"That's an optimistic view."
"Just realistic. We're a fractured race. There will always be war. It's human nature."
"Maybe human nature is a bit more complex than you think."
"I wouldn't count on it."
"Huh."
I catch something new in his eye- a sharp clarity.
He sees something I don't.
"Adamska, there's something I need-"
He stops then, encountering some invisible barrier.
I narrow my eyes, trying to figure out what he's hiding.
"What?"
"Nothing."
I can feel it's something important.
But he can't tell me.
Too bad.
Well, I'll find out at some point, anyway. He's not that great at secret keeping.
"So how about you?"
Subject change is the solution to everything, apparently.
I don't take too long thinking about it.
"Anything but old age."
I can't think of anything that scares me more.
"You picked a good career for it."
"And I don't want it to be forgettable. The last bullet should come from someone worth my while. Somebody I can admire."
"How do you know it'll be a bullet?"
"It has to be." The world owes me that much. "It's going to be the duel of the century."
He gives me that irritating amused look of his.
But I can't say I'm particularly irritated.
Strange.
"Looks like you've got it all figured out."
"I'm still leaving room for surprises. Wouldn't be very interesting otherwise."
"Really?"
This is my chance.
I make a quick roll sideways, grabbing his forearms in the process. As I straddle his hips, I look down on his face – surprised, for once.
I like this new angle.
"I've picked up a few new moves."
"I can see that."
I press closer, my next breath landing on his mouth.
"You're mine, Snake."
And right now, nothing else matters.
- X -
Hitting the ground isn't the optimal method to end a duel.
In fact, some might even consider it a humiliating defeat.
"Impossible…"
Above the buzzing white noise in my head, I can hear him talking, lecturing me about combat techniques.
Who does he think he is?
"Besides, I don't think you're cut out for an automatic in the first place. You tend to twist your elbow to absorb the recoil. That's more of a revolver technique."
And now he's telling me what weapon to use.
This is one step too far.
"You filthy American dog!"
I pull out the knife and lunge at him.
Somehow, he manages to intercept me without any apparent effort.
Repeatedly hitting the ground isn't the optimal method to end a duel, either.
I'm getting a little tired of looking at him from this angle.
He's closer now, crouching beside me.
At least, that's what I manage to make out through to nauseating, insulting vertigo.
"But that was some fancy shooting. You're pretty good."
That condescending son of a bitch.
I grasp his arm.
I need to look him in the eyes – it's important.
He needs to remember me.
Because one day, I'll get him.
And everything will be different.
Green eyes.
Like a burning forest.
It feels like I'm looking through him, and into myself.
Then back again.
"Pretty… Good."
Suddenly, it all makes a perfect circle.
Then my vision begins to blur.
Everything fades away.
And there's nothing left.