Rather important little note: This fic is not a fic at all. It is a conglomeration of small drabbles, pieces of stories that do not belong in any fic. These were all challenges, where a phrase and the word count were given to me, and I wrote something in response to the challenge. I like some of them, so I'm posting them here, in this story thing. New drabbles go into new chapters. None of them go together. They're just here.
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Challenge #15

Phrase: "I was so weak that I couldn't even cry anymore."
Word Count: 699
Rating: R

Title: Gray Skies and Pavement
Author: Rydia Highwind
Disclaimer: Metal Gear Solid and Metal Gear Solid 2 and all characters refered to herein belong to Konami. I claim nothing, I'm simply borrowing.
Summary: Pre-plant. Jack dreams.
Warning: Really, really weird. Inconsistancies are intentional. On a random note, I apparently can't use my former dividers because this site hates me, so here's something new for your enjoyment. Woo. I know it looks stupid, but there's no other way to do it anymore. Wee, random periods.

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It's raining outside the little diner they always meet at on the corner of Riley and 72nd, and he's glad to be inside, brushing the precipitation off of his jacket. It's a Tuesday evening, just like always, and their booth is even free for them. He smiles at the pretty blonde waitress as he walks by, and he knows she recognizes him by now and is preparing him a cup of coffee just the way he likes it. He slides into his side of the booth, next to the window, and he leaves his jacket on. They never stay that long anyway. Just long enough to warm up with their coffee or hot chocolate and to talk about whatever needed to be talked about that day.

The waitress comes back with his coffee, black, and he looks at his watch. It's two past eight, and he's alone in the booth. His companion is late. That's rare. His watch must be fast. The clock on the wall says it's seven fifty eight. No wonder he's still alone. He sips his coffee and looks out the window. There is no one outside, no one wants to walk or drive in this weather. Even the diner is surprisingly empty. There is nothing outside, just gray skies and pavement. Nothing until the edge of the world, except maybe a few sets of headlights here and there.

Minutes pass, and the waitress comes back with a cup of hot chocolate, which she sets across the table from him. She pushes a lock of her dark hair behind her ear and glances at him. "Where's your friend?" she asks, because she isn't supposed to bring out a drink for someone who isn't there.

The clock turns to eight o'clock exactly, and the bell on the door jingles as it opens. He doesn't have to turn around to look to see who it is. He already knows. And he smiles at the waitress. "He's right on time," he tells her. Just like always. She smiles back and steps away from the table as the man in the trench coat approaches the table, and then she heads back to the kitchen.

The man sits down across from him and he is still looking at the waitress. "She's cute," he says. "I like redheads." He pours milk in his coffee. He hates it black. That's why he usually orders a cappuccino when they meet here.

"We shouldn't meet like this, Jack," says the man. His face is hidden under the brim of his hat. He always wears a hat when it rains. It rains a lot. He can't remember what the man's face looks like. "This isn't good for you. You keep changing things."

"I needed to talk," he says, looking down into his cup. He likes his coffee black, and he'll never understand the obsession with cappuccinos these days. "Everything's going wrong. I just broke down again last weekend. It's all going to hell. Jesus. I was so weak that I couldn't even cry anymore." He stirs his coffee with his spoon, watching the steam rise up and dissipate in the air in front of him.

The man in the trench coat sighs and takes a drink from his cup. "You need to stop coming here. You're only making things worse for yourself." The cup hits the table with more force than was needed, but none of the contents splash over the sides. "Jack. You know what you need to do," the man says, and goes to remove his hat, but his companion stops him. The man sighs again and lowers his hand. "You know where you need to go."

"I don't want to go back there," he whispers, and his hands are cold.

The man stands up. "I'm leaving now. I'm not coming back." He can't stop the man from going, and he doesn't know why. The white haired waitress looks at the table, and he watches the man walk out the door, while he sits helplessly in his booth with an empty coffee cup and a sense of being lost.

And he remembers that there is no diner on the corner of Riley and 72nd.