DISCLAIMER: I do not own Snake, Raiden, or Otacon. They are owned by Hideo
Kojima who is in turn owned by Konami, which for its part is in all
probablility owned by crafty extraterrestrials. I don't own a pizza right
now either, and don't I wish I did.
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It was dark like the inside of a person is dark.
The only light available came from the dim red LED in the corner, and that wasn't much. It showed Snake where it was, and refused to provide any other helpful information, much less illumination. He took a deep breath of the warm, faintly stale air, and paused for a moment of introspection.
Why was he here? Was he really accomplishing anything?
The LED blinked from 1:37 to 1:38.
Was this just another futile struggle against impersonal forces he'd never understand fully? He rather suspected it was. It wasn't the first—and unless something went very, very wrong in the next few hours, it wasn't going to be his last.
1:38 turned into 1:39.
"Hell with it," he said aloud, and rolled out of bed.
He couldn't sleep. He couldn't. It was as simple as that. He'd been trying to doze off since 12:30, but his body was having none of it. According to his mere physical self, he should be out doing something productive, like knocking down trees or beheading lynx. And this wasn't the first night of it, either. He'd managed three hours the night before, and it had felt like trying to arm-wrestle himself.
He ran down a quick mental checklist for the six-hundredth time. No, he hadn't had any coffee. No, there was nothing—well, nothing out of the ordinary—weighing on his mind. No, he hadn't left the stove on.
There was nothing for it, he decided, but to get out there and find a lynx. He pulled on jeans and a shirt and spent ten engrossing minutes trying to find his boots in the pile of laundry at the foot of the bed before he realized they were out in the living room next to the couch. His jacket was tossed over its arm, right where he'd left it. Where to go, now? Hell, what was –open-? There was at least one movie theater, but there was nothing good out that he hadn't seen already. There was the all-night copy shop, which sounded moderately promising--on the other hand, could he keep himself amused for a few hours around that much technical equipment without rendering something expensive completely inoperable? Probably not. Long- standing habit. His options were narrow indeed. Only one place to go, really.
Thirty minutes later, the Snakemobile safely parked outside, Snake perused the frozen novelties. There were moments in everyone's life, he reasoned, even eugencially engineered bloody-handed mercenaries like himself, when an ice cream bar seemed like a really good idea.
That done, Snake set to wandering. Bananas were cheap, he noted. Three pounds for a buck. He managed to scrape a full fifteen minutes' diversion out of tailing the guy restocking produce—he'd finish one vegetable, go into the back room, refill a wheeled cart with boxes of the next vegetable, and come back out. Repeat. It wasn't much of a challenge, not even when the produce guy took a smoke break and Snake switched the cabbages for iceberg lettuce. It was something to do.
It was times like this, he thought, forsaking produce for the baking aisle, that he envied Otacon. Otacon was a true professional when it came to insomnia—it took actual visual hallucinations to slow the man down. Maybe he just had more practice. As far as Snake had been able to observe, Otacon was nocturnal, diurnal, -and- crepuscular.
Hm. What was the difference between 'real vanilla' and 'vanilla extract', again? And why did pepper come in so many colors? Pepper was just supposed to be pepper-colored, wasn't it?
It was a few minutes later, when Snake caught himself singing along to "Ring of Fire" over the store's Muzak, that he realized he had to leave. If he didn't, he was going to end up baking muffins.
He couldn't let that happen. Rose would laugh. Otacon would find out, and mention it in passing to Raiden, who'd tell –her-, and next time he saw her she'd have that look on her face. The –girl- look. The one women gave other women just before they went off in groups and started giggling. She'd probably pat him on the back and coo at him. The prospect alone set his back teeth to grinding. Yes indeed, it was time to go.
His watch said two forty-one. There was a good chance Otacon would still be up, come to think of it. He'd probably find him hopped up on FreeCell again. That settled it. He'd go see Otacon and save him from his computer. Either he'd get some expert advice, or he'd be able to borrow something really tedious with subtitles.
On his way out, it was all Snake could do not to pick up a lemon cake mix. "Thirty-six hours," he reminded himself. "Auditory hallucinations and disorientation start at thirty-six hours. No worries. No baking." Deep breath. Get in car. One thing at a time, Snake.
…had he just said "No worries?"
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More chapters to come as soon as I can crank them out. Thanks for reading!
**********************************************
It was dark like the inside of a person is dark.
The only light available came from the dim red LED in the corner, and that wasn't much. It showed Snake where it was, and refused to provide any other helpful information, much less illumination. He took a deep breath of the warm, faintly stale air, and paused for a moment of introspection.
Why was he here? Was he really accomplishing anything?
The LED blinked from 1:37 to 1:38.
Was this just another futile struggle against impersonal forces he'd never understand fully? He rather suspected it was. It wasn't the first—and unless something went very, very wrong in the next few hours, it wasn't going to be his last.
1:38 turned into 1:39.
"Hell with it," he said aloud, and rolled out of bed.
He couldn't sleep. He couldn't. It was as simple as that. He'd been trying to doze off since 12:30, but his body was having none of it. According to his mere physical self, he should be out doing something productive, like knocking down trees or beheading lynx. And this wasn't the first night of it, either. He'd managed three hours the night before, and it had felt like trying to arm-wrestle himself.
He ran down a quick mental checklist for the six-hundredth time. No, he hadn't had any coffee. No, there was nothing—well, nothing out of the ordinary—weighing on his mind. No, he hadn't left the stove on.
There was nothing for it, he decided, but to get out there and find a lynx. He pulled on jeans and a shirt and spent ten engrossing minutes trying to find his boots in the pile of laundry at the foot of the bed before he realized they were out in the living room next to the couch. His jacket was tossed over its arm, right where he'd left it. Where to go, now? Hell, what was –open-? There was at least one movie theater, but there was nothing good out that he hadn't seen already. There was the all-night copy shop, which sounded moderately promising--on the other hand, could he keep himself amused for a few hours around that much technical equipment without rendering something expensive completely inoperable? Probably not. Long- standing habit. His options were narrow indeed. Only one place to go, really.
Thirty minutes later, the Snakemobile safely parked outside, Snake perused the frozen novelties. There were moments in everyone's life, he reasoned, even eugencially engineered bloody-handed mercenaries like himself, when an ice cream bar seemed like a really good idea.
That done, Snake set to wandering. Bananas were cheap, he noted. Three pounds for a buck. He managed to scrape a full fifteen minutes' diversion out of tailing the guy restocking produce—he'd finish one vegetable, go into the back room, refill a wheeled cart with boxes of the next vegetable, and come back out. Repeat. It wasn't much of a challenge, not even when the produce guy took a smoke break and Snake switched the cabbages for iceberg lettuce. It was something to do.
It was times like this, he thought, forsaking produce for the baking aisle, that he envied Otacon. Otacon was a true professional when it came to insomnia—it took actual visual hallucinations to slow the man down. Maybe he just had more practice. As far as Snake had been able to observe, Otacon was nocturnal, diurnal, -and- crepuscular.
Hm. What was the difference between 'real vanilla' and 'vanilla extract', again? And why did pepper come in so many colors? Pepper was just supposed to be pepper-colored, wasn't it?
It was a few minutes later, when Snake caught himself singing along to "Ring of Fire" over the store's Muzak, that he realized he had to leave. If he didn't, he was going to end up baking muffins.
He couldn't let that happen. Rose would laugh. Otacon would find out, and mention it in passing to Raiden, who'd tell –her-, and next time he saw her she'd have that look on her face. The –girl- look. The one women gave other women just before they went off in groups and started giggling. She'd probably pat him on the back and coo at him. The prospect alone set his back teeth to grinding. Yes indeed, it was time to go.
His watch said two forty-one. There was a good chance Otacon would still be up, come to think of it. He'd probably find him hopped up on FreeCell again. That settled it. He'd go see Otacon and save him from his computer. Either he'd get some expert advice, or he'd be able to borrow something really tedious with subtitles.
On his way out, it was all Snake could do not to pick up a lemon cake mix. "Thirty-six hours," he reminded himself. "Auditory hallucinations and disorientation start at thirty-six hours. No worries. No baking." Deep breath. Get in car. One thing at a time, Snake.
…had he just said "No worries?"
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More chapters to come as soon as I can crank them out. Thanks for reading!