Fic: Allegiance
My icon describes my plight. If you are kind enough to beta this fic, I'll return the favor with some fanart, which I'm actually ok at compared to writing. Takes place in some time floating around PW-era. More info (and fic, obvs.) under the cut.
Precursor: This fic was actually written because my English teacher decided to grade 20% of our semester grade on a single piece (and gave me the ok to write semi-raunchy fanfic). That being said, I took a lot of liberties with... just about everything both in IRL history and MGS canon so the story could be understood without prior knowledge of the series. Granted, this was a stupid idea since I'm terrible with history, have only played MGS 2 and 3, and haven't attempted a narrative since my 4th grade Mary Sue, but...
I can't turn back now, or I'll get a 10% penalization.
Since said teacher is a tough grader, I'd love a beta, and I'd totally owe them MGS (or whatever) fanart for it. <3
Allegiance
The offshore plant is on the Caribbean coast, and the air is so goddamn thick there, south of the equator. It catches at the back of your tongue and the humidity is a filmy second skin. You’re on the rooftop of the complex, and it’s the most tense you’ve been in ages. John takes a sip from the maté gourd before he hands it to you and sits down. He looks too calm for your liking. You’ve never had maté before, and you wince at the first sip. It’s bitter and grassy.
“Why are you here?” His voice is honeyed gravel, and when you look up from the drink, what you see there startles you. It’s almost scary how much John’s aged. The new lines and creases on his face come out at you at once, and you want to run your fingers over them.
“You defected, John. I wanted to know why, so I tracked you down.” He scoffs.
“Bet you got the intel from our friends at Langley.” You’re offended. You have better ways to track your prey.
“The CIA has nothing to do with it. An ocelot never lets his prey escape.” The quip makes John smile, but it’s terse. You know he’s evaluating you as you speak, letting his good eye drop occasionally to your holsters, your jacket, your neck. He lingers a while on the pendant there.
“So Adamska. What do you want to know?” He says your name like he’s tasting it- soft and cautious. Still, you’re glad he says it at all.
“Just wanted your story.”
“After Tselinoyarsk... it was the only thing I could do,” a pause, then, “This is ‘Mother Base’.” He motions idly to your surroundings.
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch a platoon training below. It comes to you suddenly- the fact that everything here looks too proper to be a ragtag fighting unit, even if the CIA assumes they’re some dubious vagabonds with guns.
“The name is ‘Militaires sans Frontieres’, isn’t it? Soldiers without borders?”
The soldiers have good form- nearly as good as John. You wonder if he trained them himself.
“That’s the idea. No borders, no nations, no ideologies.”
-no meaning?
“Mercenaries?”
“No.” The answer comes curt, like a door swiftly shut. You know John too damn well to accept ‘no’. But it would be kinder to leave it alone.
“The Cold War’s gonna end in a draw. We know that more than anyone out there. After all, politicians used us for some stupid game of imperialist tag. It’s wrong, but what you’re doing... is this really any better?” You say a lot of brash things that you shouldn’t, but you’re still surprised when it makes John fumble.
“Of course. That’s why I’m here. We’re not some politician’s toys. This place is a refuge and a military force.” His voice is stern, but the words... they’re the rhetoric of a man in denial.
The sound of footsteps makes you both turn, and a boy not more than fifteen comes from the stairwell. The soldier salutes John and he reciprocates.
“Vic Boss!”, he shouts, “Miller te está buscando. Necesita ayuda con los plesos en el bligantín.”
“Otra vez? Pues, ese boludo siempre ha sido demasiado blando. Dile que estoy ocupado. Llama a Strangelove. Ella lo puede hacer. Despedido.”
The kid leaves and you’re equal parts impressed and frustrated. The only other language you know is Russian.
“He’s Puerto Rican?”
“Yeah. You should hear the Chilenos talk. Can’t understand a damn thing. We should go somewhere else.” It’s not a suggestion.
“You dodging someone?”
“You could say that.”
The maté is in his hands when you walk down the stairs, and for a second or two, those pictures of Guevara in TIME flash through your mind.
“How old was that kid back there?”
“Fourteen or fifteen...I forget,” then as if he’s reading your mind, “but he’s on intel squad until he’s a man.” As if that’s any condolence. This kid’s gonna be raised on the battlefield just like you. You drop the subject anyway. As you follow John deeper into the complex, you come to realize that he chooses the deserted halls whenever he can. Maybe he doesn’t trust you nearly as much as you’d hoped, but the CIA doesn’t give a damn about this ‘pirate bay’, and you sure as hell aren’t here for intel. You’re here for John.
His back intrigues you as you snake through the empty corridors. If you look close enough, you can make out some outlines through his threadbare shirt. The slash on his left tricep was Volgin’s job, and the bullet wound on the forearm was a stray- you were aiming for his trigger finger. Freckles spatter across a broad shoulder blade, but those ‘freckles’ are the burns left after shards were extracted, and it hurts to think that you did that to him. It takes his turning around for you to realize that you’ve been staring. A grin is plastered on his face like the cat that caught the canary, and you immediately begin to scowl. The exchange is actually a pretty damn accurate summary of your encounters over the years even if the roles switch around every so often. But the nostalgia’s enough to coax a grudging smile.
You’re so on edge, but you get there eventually. He leads you inside the room, locks the door, and the air is dry and clean with the smell of gun oil. A row of beds line the back- the quarters? That’s about all you have time register before he slams you into the nearest wall. He’s got fistfuls of your lapel and the all you can do is wait. There is the hollow thunk of the mate gourd on the ground, and then things fall silent. Your reflection is pitiful in the black of his eye, and heavy breaths pull his chest uncomfortably close. In fact, you don’t even realize what’s happened until you taste copper welling from your bottom lip. He tastes like smoke and coffee. As soon as you get up to speed, you let your jaw go slack and he licks his way in. It wouldn’t be proper to call it a kiss... it’s too aggressive for that. But even though you’re fighting for dominance, you just can’t break his grip and you’re pretty damn sure that fucker gave you a fat lip. When he finally lets go, his mouth is pink and swollen, and he’s just staring at you with this crazy look you can’t place. Words have never been much between you two, so you should’ve anticipated things ending like this. You wait until his grip slackens before you press right on back into the cigar-taste and stubble scratch. As you fist your hand into his hair, you feel the weight of the years and you can’t help but wonder if in these past few you’ve matured at all. He slips off your scarf.
John’s always been methodical.
Your jacket. He’s missed you too.
Your holster. He needs this just as much as you do.
“Shit-” you crash onto a bunk and he tumbles after you . The way he looks at you then, you can pretend that this is Russia and you both are still naive and virtuous. You spend a long while that night catching up and relearning what makes him tick.
It doesn’t strike him as cliche to smoke afterwards. He has a Cuban between his teeth even as you two fix fresh sheets on some poor bastard’s bunk. You take it from him, rolling your eyes, but it’s disgusting and it makes you cough. John smirks. He informs you that the soldiers get to mess hall in 1900 hours, so you begin making your way there at 1800. The halls of Mother Base are concrete, iron, and halogen lighting- but you’ve rarely seen something so lively. It must be the weather. Even summers in Russia can nip at your skin, but this place is warm with olive fatigues and drunken laughter. You know the expression on the men's faces- wore it long ago when you first met him. The soldiers are well trained and well fed. There are two men with M16s at the door. There is a sickbay and a practice range and an outpost.
They call themselves MSF for short, and the Nicaraguans call each other ‘compas’. John has made an army out of the scraps of nations. He turns to you.
“Are you with us, soldier?” And you’ve never been able to deny him.
“I’m with you.”
Precursor: This fic was actually written because my English teacher decided to grade 20% of our semester grade on a single piece (and gave me the ok to write semi-raunchy fanfic). That being said, I took a lot of liberties with... just about everything both in IRL history and MGS canon so the story could be understood without prior knowledge of the series. Granted, this was a stupid idea since I'm terrible with history, have only played MGS 2 and 3, and haven't attempted a narrative since my 4th grade Mary Sue, but...
I can't turn back now, or I'll get a 10% penalization.
Since said teacher is a tough grader, I'd love a beta, and I'd totally owe them MGS (or whatever) fanart for it. <3
Allegiance
The offshore plant is on the Caribbean coast, and the air is so goddamn thick there, south of the equator. It catches at the back of your tongue and the humidity is a filmy second skin. You’re on the rooftop of the complex, and it’s the most tense you’ve been in ages. John takes a sip from the maté gourd before he hands it to you and sits down. He looks too calm for your liking. You’ve never had maté before, and you wince at the first sip. It’s bitter and grassy.
“Why are you here?” His voice is honeyed gravel, and when you look up from the drink, what you see there startles you. It’s almost scary how much John’s aged. The new lines and creases on his face come out at you at once, and you want to run your fingers over them.
“You defected, John. I wanted to know why, so I tracked you down.” He scoffs.
“Bet you got the intel from our friends at Langley.” You’re offended. You have better ways to track your prey.
“The CIA has nothing to do with it. An ocelot never lets his prey escape.” The quip makes John smile, but it’s terse. You know he’s evaluating you as you speak, letting his good eye drop occasionally to your holsters, your jacket, your neck. He lingers a while on the pendant there.
“So Adamska. What do you want to know?” He says your name like he’s tasting it- soft and cautious. Still, you’re glad he says it at all.
“Just wanted your story.”
“After Tselinoyarsk... it was the only thing I could do,” a pause, then, “This is ‘Mother Base’.” He motions idly to your surroundings.
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch a platoon training below. It comes to you suddenly- the fact that everything here looks too proper to be a ragtag fighting unit, even if the CIA assumes they’re some dubious vagabonds with guns.
“The name is ‘Militaires sans Frontieres’, isn’t it? Soldiers without borders?”
The soldiers have good form- nearly as good as John. You wonder if he trained them himself.
“That’s the idea. No borders, no nations, no ideologies.”
-no meaning?
“Mercenaries?”
“No.” The answer comes curt, like a door swiftly shut. You know John too damn well to accept ‘no’. But it would be kinder to leave it alone.
“The Cold War’s gonna end in a draw. We know that more than anyone out there. After all, politicians used us for some stupid game of imperialist tag. It’s wrong, but what you’re doing... is this really any better?” You say a lot of brash things that you shouldn’t, but you’re still surprised when it makes John fumble.
“Of course. That’s why I’m here. We’re not some politician’s toys. This place is a refuge and a military force.” His voice is stern, but the words... they’re the rhetoric of a man in denial.
The sound of footsteps makes you both turn, and a boy not more than fifteen comes from the stairwell. The soldier salutes John and he reciprocates.
“Vic Boss!”, he shouts, “Miller te está buscando. Necesita ayuda con los plesos en el bligantín.”
“Otra vez? Pues, ese boludo siempre ha sido demasiado blando. Dile que estoy ocupado. Llama a Strangelove. Ella lo puede hacer. Despedido.”
The kid leaves and you’re equal parts impressed and frustrated. The only other language you know is Russian.
“He’s Puerto Rican?”
“Yeah. You should hear the Chilenos talk. Can’t understand a damn thing. We should go somewhere else.” It’s not a suggestion.
“You dodging someone?”
“You could say that.”
The maté is in his hands when you walk down the stairs, and for a second or two, those pictures of Guevara in TIME flash through your mind.
“How old was that kid back there?”
“Fourteen or fifteen...I forget,” then as if he’s reading your mind, “but he’s on intel squad until he’s a man.” As if that’s any condolence. This kid’s gonna be raised on the battlefield just like you. You drop the subject anyway. As you follow John deeper into the complex, you come to realize that he chooses the deserted halls whenever he can. Maybe he doesn’t trust you nearly as much as you’d hoped, but the CIA doesn’t give a damn about this ‘pirate bay’, and you sure as hell aren’t here for intel. You’re here for John.
His back intrigues you as you snake through the empty corridors. If you look close enough, you can make out some outlines through his threadbare shirt. The slash on his left tricep was Volgin’s job, and the bullet wound on the forearm was a stray- you were aiming for his trigger finger. Freckles spatter across a broad shoulder blade, but those ‘freckles’ are the burns left after shards were extracted, and it hurts to think that you did that to him. It takes his turning around for you to realize that you’ve been staring. A grin is plastered on his face like the cat that caught the canary, and you immediately begin to scowl. The exchange is actually a pretty damn accurate summary of your encounters over the years even if the roles switch around every so often. But the nostalgia’s enough to coax a grudging smile.
You’re so on edge, but you get there eventually. He leads you inside the room, locks the door, and the air is dry and clean with the smell of gun oil. A row of beds line the back- the quarters? That’s about all you have time register before he slams you into the nearest wall. He’s got fistfuls of your lapel and the all you can do is wait. There is the hollow thunk of the mate gourd on the ground, and then things fall silent. Your reflection is pitiful in the black of his eye, and heavy breaths pull his chest uncomfortably close. In fact, you don’t even realize what’s happened until you taste copper welling from your bottom lip. He tastes like smoke and coffee. As soon as you get up to speed, you let your jaw go slack and he licks his way in. It wouldn’t be proper to call it a kiss... it’s too aggressive for that. But even though you’re fighting for dominance, you just can’t break his grip and you’re pretty damn sure that fucker gave you a fat lip. When he finally lets go, his mouth is pink and swollen, and he’s just staring at you with this crazy look you can’t place. Words have never been much between you two, so you should’ve anticipated things ending like this. You wait until his grip slackens before you press right on back into the cigar-taste and stubble scratch. As you fist your hand into his hair, you feel the weight of the years and you can’t help but wonder if in these past few you’ve matured at all. He slips off your scarf.
John’s always been methodical.
Your jacket. He’s missed you too.
Your holster. He needs this just as much as you do.
“Shit-” you crash onto a bunk and he tumbles after you . The way he looks at you then, you can pretend that this is Russia and you both are still naive and virtuous. You spend a long while that night catching up and relearning what makes him tick.
It doesn’t strike him as cliche to smoke afterwards. He has a Cuban between his teeth even as you two fix fresh sheets on some poor bastard’s bunk. You take it from him, rolling your eyes, but it’s disgusting and it makes you cough. John smirks. He informs you that the soldiers get to mess hall in 1900 hours, so you begin making your way there at 1800. The halls of Mother Base are concrete, iron, and halogen lighting- but you’ve rarely seen something so lively. It must be the weather. Even summers in Russia can nip at your skin, but this place is warm with olive fatigues and drunken laughter. You know the expression on the men's faces- wore it long ago when you first met him. The soldiers are well trained and well fed. There are two men with M16s at the door. There is a sickbay and a practice range and an outpost.
They call themselves MSF for short, and the Nicaraguans call each other ‘compas’. John has made an army out of the scraps of nations. He turns to you.
“Are you with us, soldier?” And you’ve never been able to deny him.
“I’m with you.”