DISCLAIMER: No, still don't own anything related to Konami or the Metal
Gear series. I am exploiting their ignorance of my existence for personal
aggrandizement and the accumulation of truly gratuitous wealth. Thanks for
asking.
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Up on the third floor, there were two lights on. One, the last apartment on the right, was Otacon's. No surprise there. Intermittent flashes of bluish light suggested that he either had the TV on or had taken up late-night arc welding.
The other light on was the third from the left. She—and the occupant was most definitely a she—usually seemed to be up and about when Snake came this way. On two separate occasions he'd seen her close the vertical blinds on her sliding door wearing a sports bra and tennis shoes and nothing else. It was an enduring, if trivial, mystery—was she part of an erotic jogging club or something? Was there some obscure moth infesting her apartment that only ate women's underwear? It wasn't exactly ley lines or the Loch Ness Monster, but it made Snake wonder. Maybe Otacon knew her. He'd have to ask.
He craned his neck. No sign of her this time. Couldn't win 'em all.
He wasn't even sure why Otacon bothered to lock his front door, either, but he did. Probably because Snake usually came in the window. He didn't really feel like it tonight, but he didn't have a key and it was either the window or the balcony, which was was Raiden's preferred avenue of entry. It wouldn't be fair to confuse Otacon by tampering with the pattern. With one leg over the railing meant to keep the average citizen from doing precisely what Snake intended to do—to wit, inch along a narrow strip of concrete molding for a few feet until he could get a handhold on a window into the spare bedroom—he paused. Suddenly it was blindingly obvious why Otacon locked his front door. He was the only one who ever used the damn thing, and –he- had a key.
"You can lead a bad-assed freak to a normal urban life," Snake thought, "but you can't make him like it."
And then he hauled himself over the windowsill and inside. He closed the window softly behind him. Everything was more or less as he'd left it last time he'd crashed here, which was to say his box was still in the corner and Otacon hadn't bothered to fold the futon-thing back up. And there was his bandana! He'd been worried.
"C'mere, you," he chided the thing, and scooped it up. "Been out seeing the world again? Looking for lady bandanas?"
…God. Snake smacked a hand to his face.
Thirty-six hours. -THIRTY-SIX HOURS-, damn it. It hadn't even been twenty- four yet, and here he was talking to inanimate objects. How did Otacon manage?
Well, he'd find out in a few seconds. Out the door and down the hall he went, toward the blue flicker and the sound of a girl saying something wistful in subtitles.
"Olewa something." Long pause. Water dripping. "Watashi something something something." The sound was down too low for him to really make anything out.
His Japanese was still passable, if rusty, which was something he'd never had the heart to tell Otacon. Otacon knew "hebi', of course, and Snake heard it plenty often. The translation engine he used on mission-related documents was a good one, but the quick one for when he wanted to say 'the snake is smoking again, he must be on fire' was probably staffed by people who spent most of the day snickering. What he probably –thought- meant 'the otaku rides again'…well, it didn't. At the core of his being, Otacon was still baka gaijin. It suited him.
Ah. Miyu. He recognized her, now that he could see the screen. She was the one with the meatball on the side of her head. She looked sad.
"Hey, Otacon," he said. No answer. He leaned further into the living room. "You there? S'me."
…Well, this was new. Otacon was home, sure enough. He was sprawled across most of the sofa like a loose collection of sticks and laundry. And, wonder of wonders, he was –sleeping-. This was the kind of thing people made nature shows about.
Nature shows, horror movies, and chick flicks, Snake amended. In a few seconds he'd have to get a radio collar around Otacon's neck, stab him repeatedly with a kitchen knife, or toss an afghan over him, depending on which was actually going on.
He waited. Nothing happened, except for a muffled snort from Otacon and Miyu getting wistful again. Oh, well.
What the hell to do –now-? He couldn't just walk off with Otacon's stuff. Well, actually, he could. It just wouldn't feel –right-, though, not after this incredibly touching moment. Why, Otacon even had his glasses on. And a tiny ribbon of drool out of the corner of his mouth. Hell.
No, he'd leave Otacon's anime where it was.
There was still a lingering problem, however—he either needed to bore himself to sleep somehow or find a source of amusement until he hit sixty hours and started seeing things. And –that- was going to be a while.
…didn't Rose have a bunch of romance novels lying around?
She did, he was sure of it. The kind with women in disheveled petticoats on the covers. There was always at least one, usually a small pile of them, and Snake had noticed that if you held one flat you could find the good parts by where it opened. Those would do the trick. Of course, asking to borrow one—hell, it might take several—would be even harder to live down than the muffins. He'd have to go get them himself. Right now, even, to avoid any chance of her getting up early. It was three-twenty already.
On his way out he flicked off the overhead light. There was a snuffle from the sofa. Miyu, now the only source of light in the room, gazed off into the distance. At least Otacon wouldn't be lonely.
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Next chapter: yet more unlawful entry and irresponsible goings-on! Coming soon. Now that you've wasted your time reading this little piece of burnin' love, go do something productive.
*********************************************************************
Up on the third floor, there were two lights on. One, the last apartment on the right, was Otacon's. No surprise there. Intermittent flashes of bluish light suggested that he either had the TV on or had taken up late-night arc welding.
The other light on was the third from the left. She—and the occupant was most definitely a she—usually seemed to be up and about when Snake came this way. On two separate occasions he'd seen her close the vertical blinds on her sliding door wearing a sports bra and tennis shoes and nothing else. It was an enduring, if trivial, mystery—was she part of an erotic jogging club or something? Was there some obscure moth infesting her apartment that only ate women's underwear? It wasn't exactly ley lines or the Loch Ness Monster, but it made Snake wonder. Maybe Otacon knew her. He'd have to ask.
He craned his neck. No sign of her this time. Couldn't win 'em all.
He wasn't even sure why Otacon bothered to lock his front door, either, but he did. Probably because Snake usually came in the window. He didn't really feel like it tonight, but he didn't have a key and it was either the window or the balcony, which was was Raiden's preferred avenue of entry. It wouldn't be fair to confuse Otacon by tampering with the pattern. With one leg over the railing meant to keep the average citizen from doing precisely what Snake intended to do—to wit, inch along a narrow strip of concrete molding for a few feet until he could get a handhold on a window into the spare bedroom—he paused. Suddenly it was blindingly obvious why Otacon locked his front door. He was the only one who ever used the damn thing, and –he- had a key.
"You can lead a bad-assed freak to a normal urban life," Snake thought, "but you can't make him like it."
And then he hauled himself over the windowsill and inside. He closed the window softly behind him. Everything was more or less as he'd left it last time he'd crashed here, which was to say his box was still in the corner and Otacon hadn't bothered to fold the futon-thing back up. And there was his bandana! He'd been worried.
"C'mere, you," he chided the thing, and scooped it up. "Been out seeing the world again? Looking for lady bandanas?"
…God. Snake smacked a hand to his face.
Thirty-six hours. -THIRTY-SIX HOURS-, damn it. It hadn't even been twenty- four yet, and here he was talking to inanimate objects. How did Otacon manage?
Well, he'd find out in a few seconds. Out the door and down the hall he went, toward the blue flicker and the sound of a girl saying something wistful in subtitles.
"Olewa something." Long pause. Water dripping. "Watashi something something something." The sound was down too low for him to really make anything out.
His Japanese was still passable, if rusty, which was something he'd never had the heart to tell Otacon. Otacon knew "hebi', of course, and Snake heard it plenty often. The translation engine he used on mission-related documents was a good one, but the quick one for when he wanted to say 'the snake is smoking again, he must be on fire' was probably staffed by people who spent most of the day snickering. What he probably –thought- meant 'the otaku rides again'…well, it didn't. At the core of his being, Otacon was still baka gaijin. It suited him.
Ah. Miyu. He recognized her, now that he could see the screen. She was the one with the meatball on the side of her head. She looked sad.
"Hey, Otacon," he said. No answer. He leaned further into the living room. "You there? S'me."
…Well, this was new. Otacon was home, sure enough. He was sprawled across most of the sofa like a loose collection of sticks and laundry. And, wonder of wonders, he was –sleeping-. This was the kind of thing people made nature shows about.
Nature shows, horror movies, and chick flicks, Snake amended. In a few seconds he'd have to get a radio collar around Otacon's neck, stab him repeatedly with a kitchen knife, or toss an afghan over him, depending on which was actually going on.
He waited. Nothing happened, except for a muffled snort from Otacon and Miyu getting wistful again. Oh, well.
What the hell to do –now-? He couldn't just walk off with Otacon's stuff. Well, actually, he could. It just wouldn't feel –right-, though, not after this incredibly touching moment. Why, Otacon even had his glasses on. And a tiny ribbon of drool out of the corner of his mouth. Hell.
No, he'd leave Otacon's anime where it was.
There was still a lingering problem, however—he either needed to bore himself to sleep somehow or find a source of amusement until he hit sixty hours and started seeing things. And –that- was going to be a while.
…didn't Rose have a bunch of romance novels lying around?
She did, he was sure of it. The kind with women in disheveled petticoats on the covers. There was always at least one, usually a small pile of them, and Snake had noticed that if you held one flat you could find the good parts by where it opened. Those would do the trick. Of course, asking to borrow one—hell, it might take several—would be even harder to live down than the muffins. He'd have to go get them himself. Right now, even, to avoid any chance of her getting up early. It was three-twenty already.
On his way out he flicked off the overhead light. There was a snuffle from the sofa. Miyu, now the only source of light in the room, gazed off into the distance. At least Otacon wouldn't be lonely.
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Next chapter: yet more unlawful entry and irresponsible goings-on! Coming soon. Now that you've wasted your time reading this little piece of burnin' love, go do something productive.