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.

Challenge #16

Phrase: "Please just give me a little more time."
Word Count: 795
Rating: PG-13

Title: This Time Imperfect
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: Otacon is forced to deal with another death. MGS2, just after Emma's death.
Warning: Angst, death.

He finds himself kneeling on the tile and pleading for something he knows he cannot have. The others are standing above him, talking in low voices as not to disturb him, to let him know that life really must go on, and he finds it very thoughtful but unnecessary. He doesn't think he could hear them if he wants to, and he really honestly doesn't. He knows life must continue, he knows there's a lot that needs to be done. And once again, he has fallen to his knees with useless tears gathering at the rims of his glasses, knowing he is useless again, his pacifistic mind taking him to the back burner where he must simply /watch/ instead of /act/.

That's how it always is, isn't it? That's how he always ends up with something else he needs so desperately and could never have ripped away with a confession at the last second. A confession that he could have indeed had what he had needed if he had simply asked. And now, once again, he finds he hates himself even more. He is tired of standing in the background and watching others do the work for him, only to watch that which means most to him fall and he is tired of bloody corpses in his arms. He is tired of crying, and he doesn't know how to stop.

Always the survivor. And he doesn't know why.

Her blood is hot on his hands and her skin is cooling quickly, but he can't let go just yet. He thinks his hands shouldn't be numb this time, clutching death in his arms, but they are. Just like a similar day four years ago in Alaska. He is glad his hands are numb again with the stain of death. He wonders if your hands always go numb when you hold someone who dies. He doesn't think he wants to find out, not first hand anyway. Who will be the next to die, he wonders absently, and then he does not think about it any longer.

No, staying in the present will be much better than worrying about the future. And venturing into the past would have been more beneficial yet, despite the impossibility. Looking back only makes things worse, he reasons, and he still can barely look at her face. The blood spilled over the blue tile is anonymous, and the dead weight in his arms is unidentifiable, but if he looks at her face, he has to admit that it is in fact who he knows it to be. He must stay with her now, though, if only for the moment before they must stand up and go on, to finish this mission.

Now. Now it is time to go. There's no time left, no more goodbyes that can be said. He looks at her face, he reaches down and closes her eyes. He is okay now, because he has to be. He lays her body on the floor, but only because he can't hold her any longer. He stands up, and he doesn't think he remembers how to walk. But his legs remember for him and he can't even tell that his knees feel like jello, just like they must have last time. The bird still on the perch is calling his name, and he opens the door to the cage automatically, as though he meant to.

He doesn't know why he can't see the green bird flutter out of the cage, or why he can't feel it landing on his arm. He doesn't know why he can't hear the announcement over the loud speakers and yet he understands it anyway. He doesn't know how he manages to respond to the other two men in the room with him. There is no scientific explanation for any of this, but he's long since realized when someone dies, you go a little bit insane. And there is no science in insanity.

"We won't be able to get everyone aboard," Raiden points out, speaking of the hostages.

Snake cuts him off. There isn't time for idle chatter. "We'll just have to take as many as we can."

"My sister...," Otacon starts, and two sets of eyes turn toward him. He stops, and he realizes he doesn't know what he is trying to say. /Please...please just give me a little more time...,/ and he knows his thoughts are irrational. There is no time. There is need for action now. He can sense their impatience combined with a reluctance to interfere. He has no time to finish grieving now, he has a job to do. Perhaps for once he can do something other than sit on the sidelines and watch.

"...won't be able to come with us," he finishes.