In which Niki can't write a damn thing without tl;dr'ing all over the place...

[warisallweknow]

It was perhaps the last place Fox had expected to find himself during his exploration of the nexus. In hindsight, that was probably foolish of him. But it was strange, to find FOXHOUND's HQ-no, merely a clever replica of it-just as he had left it some two, three years ago. The same, but also unusually empty, like a husk, like the shell of some dead

Comments

[fancy_shooting]

[None of the cigars Fox had been hoarding will be missing, but the same scent of smoke is wafting in the hallway.]

[In an entirely cocky manner, with grandiose sweeps of his arm and wrist, Ocelot lifts a cigar from one of the Big Boss's stashes to his lips, pulls a mouthful of smoke, and gives it a flick to shake ashes off of the glowing tip. He's been practicing, or just copying; he savors the smoke without choking on it, as Big Boss would.]

[warisallweknow]

[The smell of cigar smoke was distinctive, too familiar, and he follows it carelessly- straight to someone who definitely wasn't Big Boss. He'd let himself get too hopeful, too sentimental, like a damn fool. Should have known better.

It's probably too late by now to make himself scarce before he's noticed, so instead he approaches. Better to keep control of the situation. And he'd be lying if he said this man didn't interest him. Those mannerisms were also familiar, if exaggerated.]

Good choice of cigar. Cuban, right? [Just a hunch.]

[fancy_shooting]

[He thought he was alone. That little interruption throws off his concentration enough that he inhales a bit of smoke. For a moment, he stiffens, and looks like he might turn green, but then manages to exhale in a controlled sigh.]

[He glances at the cigar, rolling it between gloved fingers, before he bothers looking over the stranger; someone he's never met, not even in duplication, but perhaps he's heard of him.]

That's right. Only the best.

[He moves closer to the man, sizing him up with sweeping looks.]

Good for relaxing. Looks like something you could use yourself. I'm guessing you're a soldier, right?

[warisallweknow]

[Nice save, kid. But don't think he missed that. There's the faintest flicker of amusement in Fox's eyes, but it's gone by the time Ocelot cares to look at him. His gaze is drawn to the floor at the clink of spurs as Ocelot moves towards him, before trailing up to the holster at his belt. Was that-

Interesting choice of weapon.]

What tipped you off?

[He meets Ocelot's eyes coolly. There was no point in denying it; his clothes (and his scars) clearly marked him out as military, though he'd left behind his jacket with its incriminating patches.]

[fancy_shooting]

You're built like one. Simple exercise doesn't make a body like that. And you move like one... the soldiers are the tensest men here.

[The cigar isn't completely used up, but Ocelot flicks it away and grinds it out with his heel.]

What name do you go by? Or codename, whichever.

[warisallweknow]

[Tense? He supposes he is. Alert tense. Mission tense. Trapped-in-a-magic-building-with-who-knew-who-else tense. Fox's body is steel and coiled wire, ready to move at a moment's notice. Ready to fight, or flee if it proved necessary. It was more instinct than habit, and it was how he had survived for so long.

The soldiers are the tensest men. So what did that make this kid? The uniform was unmistakeable, but he was anything but tense.

Green, Fox concludes. The kid might be good-might be damn good, you never could tell-but he was still young and cocky and hadn't had that swagger beaten out of him yet. Not too much of a threat. Not physically, at least.]

Me? I have no name.

[You never could tell.]

[fancy_shooting]

[Beating doesn't take the swagger out of this one. It just turns him on and drives him into obsession.]

No name? Just like Clint Eastwood's character, huh? Should I call you "Joe"?

[Ocelot flicks his wrist out, pointing at Fox with fingerguns. He's far too amused with himself.]

[warisallweknow]

[Fox is kind of amused with him, too, but for different reasons. He's also eyeing those fingerguns. What even, kid?

He's heard of Clint Eastwood (who hasn't?), but the reference flies right over his head. Guess who isn't a watching movies kind of guy?]

If you like. It's as good a name as any.

[fancy_shooting]

...Very well then, "Joe".

[He boldly pokes Fox in the center of his chest, then loosely shrugs.]

Call me....... Ocelot. [And out comes a gun, twirling twirling twirling.]

I know I haven't met you. But I'm sure someone here probably knows you. Just how long have you been here?

[warisallweknow]

[Ocelot. This dumb kid was the same person as that sly old bastard?

Fox's expression is carefully neutral. He watches the spinning revolver for a moment-such a strange temptation to slice that hand right off-before his gaze shifts back up to meet Ocelot's.]

Not long. About a week now. I take it you've been here longer.

[fancy_shooting]

Just a few years. A bit longer than a week.

[He starts circling Fox, slowly moving around him in leisurely strides, admiring him from different angles.]

Settling in well?

[His focus drifts towards the door Fox came from.]

[warisallweknow]

[Fox doesn't move, only turning his head to follow Ocelot's movements. He's not sure what puts him more on edge: being circled by the man most likely to stab him in the back, or the idea that he could be stuck here for years. That was no good. He was needed elsewhere.

He ignores the question-he had no intention of "settling in" at all-instead responding with one of his own.]

That doesn't bother you? That you've been here for years.

[fancy_shooting]

[Ocelot stops pacing for a moment, considering the question.]

One world is as good as any... I'm not bored here.

It's just too bad that this place lacks ambitious people.

[Nobody he can use...]

[warisallweknow]

[World? Strange choice of words...]

I imagine the ambitious ones all found their way out of here a long time ago.

[fancy_shooting]

Heh. Maybe. I think it takes a little more than ambition to make an escape from here, though. Something called "luck", I'm guessing.

[Twirl twirl...]

What's waiting for you back home?

[warisallweknow]

[What's waiting for him? A few things. Family. Duty. Purpose. Private things he'd never trust with the likes of Ocelot, dumb kid or not.]

My life. [One hand flashes out to catch that revolver, to hold it still.] What's left of it.