A/N: Three of seven: GREED. I feel a little shaky and giddy writing this one, 'cos I know that the second it's done, we get to enjoy LUST. Mmm... LUST... Lemony, tasty, LUST... Roach is back in this one, and he's crazier than he was in ENVY. o.o
GaaraGirl2020: Awh. I'm glad you liked it. And that just seems like Ghost's personality, to piss Soap off so much. :3
Cam: Thanks. :)
Nadilee: Lol. Yeah. Kira is actually pretty close to how I am, lol. And I thought the full names would just help illustrate how comfortable they were with eachother outside of work.
yeah-bled: Bahaha. That would be awesome... Maybe send an email to iW and be like, "Look bitches. I have one hell of a following. Give me permission to bum-raep your characters and we'll all make hella cash." XD
xania: Yeah, Kira was John's twin. I couldn't decide who to make older, so I went with twins and gave Kira a tiny edge, lol. I worked really hard on keeping Ghost in character. He strikes me as the type of person to be completely irritating away from the 141. I wanted Kira's rules to be a little personalized towards the two of them, and the jokes were born. Your English is fine, so don't worry about it. And as long as you credit me as the original author of the work, you can put it in any language you'd like and post it anywhere you choose. :D
MissPumpkinHead: I kind of enjoy the whole sado-masochist thing (probably because I'm seriously masochistic myself), but I really thought it would work for these guys. And the whole irritated Soap thing is largely a sibling thing. We don't like people flirting with our brothers/sisters, even without a relationship in the mix in any sort of way. ;)
wolfdemon22: Du-nu-nu. Here's more. :D
Tonnerre: /slap. SKEPTIC!!! And now that we have that done, I'm glad I did it right, and I'm glad you enjoy them. I have a special place in my heart for "converts". XD
Avaritia: Latin for Avarice. Synonyms include Greed and Covetousness. A sin of excess; applied to excessive desire and pursuit of wealth, status, and power.
When I joined Task Force 141, it was because I was trying to prove something. Once I was granted a position within the one-four-one, I continued trying to prove myself.
Of course, most people would call me greedy for that alone, just because I've already made a statement and I continue to demand more attention, but that's a long running problem of mine.
My father, James Michael Sanderson, wasn't much of an affectionate guy. It was difficult to wring a "decent job" from the man, much less "I love you". I don't think I ever remember him saying that. I had two older brothers growing up, Eric and Nicholas, so attention from Dad was in short supply all around. Eric was the smart one. He was the one who was captain of the chess club, and the sciences club and the engineering club... When he was fourteen, he built a robot that could be programmed to make four different cocktails. Nicholas, for a while, was the brawny one. If it was a sport, he played it, and he was good at it. But the stereotype always catches up to us. Just like Eric was alienated by the cool kids, Nick eventually got slammed at a party and ended up hit by another drunk leaving the same party a few miles down the road. Completely lost one leg and was paralyzed in the other. It was his third year in college on a lacrosse scholarship that he lost.
When I told Dad that I wanted to join the military, we'd been standing in the garage where he worked. He was elbow deep in the grimy engine of a 2004 Mini Cooper and trying to figure out just why it rattled when it kicked up to second gear. He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye and grunted some sort of non-comittal response.
"Why don't you go to college?" He asked me.
"Because we can't afford it." I was replacing a timing belt on a car nearby, mostly so I could avoid making eye contact.
"You can get a scholarship."
"I'm not smart like Eric and I'm not good at sports like Nick was."
"There's always loans."
"If you don't want me to join then say it." I threw the wrench to the ground and my dad stopped rummaging around in the mess of steel and grease. He straightened and wiped his hands on a rag that was almost as dirty as the inside of the engine.
"Watch your tone, Gary. I'm not going to tell you about that again. Just make sure it's what you want."
"I know what I want."
"If you mother were still here, she wouldn't want you to--"
"She's gone, dad. She left years ago. We haven't even gotten a Christmas card since I entered junior high school."
I remember that was the first reaction my father had really shown in our conversation. He almost winced, but it looked more like a tired shrug. If he had one weakness, it was Mom. He loved her up until she left and even after that. He never got over it.
When I wrote to him during boot camp, I told him how I was the best at everything they threw at us. I was half expecting him to send me a letter back telling me he was proud of me, or that I was doing a "decent job". That would have made all of the verbal and mental abuse the D.I.s put me through worth it. I instead got letters from Eric and Nick telling me that dad was back to working all the time now that I wasn't in the garage anymore. The way they worded it, I don't even think he read half the letters I wrote. Knowing him, they were probably tossed on the kitchen table until Eric found them under a pile of bills or Nick decided to "stop being useless", as he put it, and "do something helpful" by cleaning up.
The graduation ceremony brought more disappointment. Eric showed up with his fiancee. Nick had physical therapy. He was able to move a few of the muscles in his left calf and the doctors were suddenly hopeful that he'd gain some degree of movement. Eric didn't have a reason for Dad's absence, though he swore up and down that Dad was proud of me in his own way.
When Task Force 141 picked me up from the ground-pounders, I sent a quick letter back to Dad. He sent me a letter saying Gram wanted to know if I was going to be home for Christmas dinner and a picture of him in front of the garage shaking hands with a man I'd never seen before. He'd sold the garage and retired. No mention of my achievements.
So I made it my mission to make rank as quickly as I could. I wanted to be better than everyone else. I wanted him to smile at me, just fucking once. He smiled at Eric when he was accepted to MIT at fifteen. He smiled at Nicholas when he got into Harvard on a full scholarship for lacrosse. It seems he only grimmaced in my direction.
Being on a special operations team, it was easier to pick up rank and collect accolades like no one else could. I wrote home everytime it happened. I got more letters from my brothers. It wasn't enough. I'd have to be a General or some fucking world leader for him to bother writing to me. I had to try harder. I had to rank up as fast as I could.
It started off with just cozying up to Ghost. I did what I was told. I never complained. I did things I wasn't ordered to do if they needed to be done, just because he was the closest thing to an XO our operation had and everything went through him. I don't know when it started, but I eventually started cozying up to the Captain, tried to make it into his good books. I'd pray every night for a transfer to a high-profile unit that guaranteed promotions every few months.
Needless to say, the transfer never came. But the team dynamic changed. I don't know how the conversation between the Captain and the Lieutenant went, but things between the three of us changed again.
I was stuck in Chile with Ghost playing security detail for some pathetic fucking HVI. We were in some crumbling hotel waiting our turn to take over watch when he looked at me and said something about missing MacTavish. Next thing I know we're fucking like bunnies and trying to keep the noise down. I have to admit, Riley's a bit of a natural when it comes to figuring out what a guy likes.
A month later, I was in Vladivostok with the Captain, secretly looking in on a massive shipment of plutonium that was due in. MacTavish's favorite informant, Nicholai, had us set up in a house near the base and gave us a way in. We were in the house waiting for the ship to dock when Captain MacTavish mentioned I had the same anxious habit as Ghost; I was digging the tip of my knife into the wooden windowsill over and over, occasionally stopping to carve something. I think there were five minutes between comment and penetration.
It was a few months after "The Vladivostok Encounter" when I realized what I'd become. I was whoring myself out for rank and prestiege.(1) Worse, I was okay with it. I had to do what needed to be done. I knew what I had to do. I had to gain as much power as I could and then I had to write home about it. I had to earn what was rightfully mine...
When I picked up Sergeant a hell of a lot faster than I probably should have, I wrote to Dad about it. I got a letter from Eric saying Dad had pneumonia and it wasn't looking good. I requested a week of leave to see him. The Captain rushed the request through and by breakfast the next morning, I had my answer; but I knew ahead of time it would be approved.
I gathered up every ribbon and medal and took them to his hospital room; every award they'd given me in my military career, all stuck in a box. I laid them out for him and waited for him to smile in my direction. He only asked how I got them as a mechanic. I told him I traded Jeep parts for bullets and he shook his head. My every achievement laid out infront of him, and he couldn't do anything but shake his head. I packed everything up and told him I promised to visit Nicholas in a few minutes. He shrugged and waved me away.
I didn't use the entire week of leave. I was back on base after three days. I decided I was going to have to sleep my way to the top of the fucking food chain. There was no other way. I was going to gain as much power as I could, and then there would be no way the old man could be anything but proud of me. I think the only reason I wanted the wizened old bastard to pull through was so I could rub an impossible rank in his smug fucking face.
Never got the chance. Almost a month later, I got a letter that was written in mostly-smudged ink from Nick, telling me Dad died. I went to the funeral. I stood over his casket with the stoic expression he always showed when he was around me. I wish I could say I was choked up about his death. I was just pissed that he'd died before praising me even once. I think I might have glowered a bit as the casket was dropped.
I remember sitting at home with Eric and Nick while we waited for the lawyer to show up and read the old man's will to us. I sat on the old, threadbare couch Mom had picked out years ago and stared at the stained armchair that was Dad's. Eric and Nick kept asking if I was okay. I kept telling them that I was fine and they didn't need to worry about me.
The lawyer finally showed up half an hour after we did. He read through the will. The house was left to Nicholas. The old cars in the back were split between my brothers, with an old Chevy Impala going to me. He left most of his money to Eric. I didn't care. Eric was expecting twins soon. He needed the money more than I did. Nicholas needed a way to cover his physical therapy. He could take what he wanted.
I got next to nothing. That was fine with me. I never expected the old man to leave me much. Eric and Nick were the favorites. The bastard was dead now. No point in getting worked up. Though I have to admit, I was a little surprised when the lawyer handed me the address and key to a storage unit a few miles from the house.
I insisted on going alone, expecting to find a bunch of used-up car parts and greasy engine rags. Maybe the shell of some piece of shit car. Imagine my surprise when I found a '67 Mustang sitting under a tarp in damn good condition. In the backseat was a uniform that looked like it had seen better days forty years ago.
I sat on the seat and ran my hands over the faded ribbons and medals honoring my father for wars that were forgotten everywhere but the textbooks. The rank and buttons were tarnished beyond repair and I found a slightly yellowed envelope in one of the pockets.
"Gary, I hope you've forgiven me by the time you've got to read this, because the only way you're reading this is if I'm dead. Your mother had nothing to do with me wanting to keep you out of the military. That was all me. I'd traveled that road once, in case you've forgotten, which is likely. I don't like talking about those years I spent running from hiding spot to hiding spot with a bolt-action sniper rifle and waiting for that one shot... I was hoping you'd avoid that road if you could. It's not that I wasn't ever proud of you for joining, but the fact of the matter is that I was afraid to tell you I was proud of you because I wanted you to do something a little less damning. For what it's worth, I'm proud of you Gary. Always have been. I love you."
I wish I could say that was the end of my problem with obsessing over gaining more power. It made things worse. Now I had to live up to the expectations of a dead man. Now I had to work twice as hard to make sure I didn't ruin the pride he had in me before he died.
Christ, I don't even know why I'm writing this anymore... I'm headed back to Russia with the Captain first thing tomorrow; The sneaky bastards got their hands on an ACS module and we have to go and get it back. Maybe I'm paranoid or just losing it, but I don't feel like I'll have the chance to explain myself after this. Man, I hope I'm wrong...
A/N2: Awh. Poor Roach. =/ This one is kinda sad, and the slash is more of an allusion than an out-right statement, but I figured it worked. I couldn't figure a way to work greed in any other way... I think it sucks... But trust me. Lust... Mmm... If you don't have to worry about a nosebleed, check your pulse. ;)