Hal wonders now, when he first began to notice it. In truth, there was no reason for him to have thought there was anything untoward about events. They lived a world away from the vanity of the men who attended dinner parties, who appeared in magazines, who moisturised their skin; what soldier would attach any real significance to a grey hair or two? After all, Hal had been dying his own for many years.
Covering up his roots because Dave made him feel old.
Bursting into his life in a hail of bullets and a splatter of blood, Dave had seemed like some unstoppable force of nature. At first, terrifying, and later comforting - Hal had found the experience something like experiencing his first thunderstorm, only to take shelter and to discover for the first time what real warmth and safety was. Cowering in a cupboard, injured and terrified, Hal had wanted desperately to prove to the gruff soldier who had been his salvation that he was not weak, that he did not always need to be protected. For the first time in many years he had acted rashly, living on his emotions, and he had discovered that he loved it.
Later, they had created Philanthropy. For once they were sure of themselves. They did not need to rely on the orders of other men to know what had to be done in this world. Fear nothing. Protect those who needed them. But in the end, Hal hadn't even been able to manage that, and it was at around that time, he supposes, that he first noticed them.
The debris of life. Dust collects on the top shelves that we do not look at; grime between the cushions on the sofa. Old hairs remain tangled in the brush long after Snake has departed for his latest mission. And it is only now, as he holds the hairbrush to the light and stares that he realises.
Dave's hair is starting to turn grey.
At first, denial. Dave is a young man, and what's more, a whirlwind of energy, a veritable one man army.
Disbelief. At the situation, at his own stupidity. Dave is a clone. Of course he had known that; known it for many years. Dave had never bothered trying to make a secret of it. He had always been far more honest and straightforward than Hal himself.
And then, finally, anger. Directed first towards himself. Hal is a scientist, a man of thought! What made him think that Dave could stay with him forever? What right had he to think that way of any man, least of all one taken from the genetic material of a soldier who had already lived a fair span? And then, slowly, the anger settles. A rage towards the men who created Dave. Who envisioned him as a weapon, or a useful tool. Who could not have imagined his taste for ramen, the way he would watch old films into the night and fall asleep in front of the TV, or the hairbrush in Hal's hand. They could not have seen a need, those other, alien scientists in their cold laboratories, for their new super-soldier to be gifted with the lifespan of a civilian. He would live fast, die young, go out in a blaze of glory, clutching medals with the name of his country emblazoned upon them. They had not seen any reason for him to live as long as ordinary people. They had not seen any reason for him to be loved.
Hal clutches the hairbrush in desperation, cursing his stupidity, and suddenly he is back inside that cupboard, as though Dave had never changed anything in the years they've been working together - as if Dave had never existed. He's alone again, and he can feel that old weakness welling up inside him.