Beach Games [CLOSED]
Who: Solid Snake, Big Boss
When: Late afternoon, after Big Boss is done with Light.
Where: Crow's Head Beach
Summary: Snake ponders over something he shouldn't have read.
Warnings: TBA
In retrospect, Snake thought it may have been more practical to remove his boots. It was normal to take your shoes off when you went to the beach; how else would you enjoy the warm sand under your feet, wedged between your toes, and the ocean's cool water lapping against them? It was a pretty image, but it never held up to reality. Truth was, he hated the scratchy, itchy feeling that came with having sand stuck to any part of the body, much less toes; and while the sea surrounding the small port town was indeed cold, he'd decided that he could do without the discomfort of having salty, potentially frigid water wash over his feet as he sat on the shore, legs tucked, hugging his knees, staring out into the vast gray horizon where a blurry spot of light that was the sun hid behind the clouds.
The climate here wasn't quite seasonal (understatement of the year, he thought; not even a middle ground for something so pointless as the weather existed in this city), but being chilly from the newest gust of wind carried in by the waves was the least of his worries. The most he did to acknowledge the goosebumps forming on his arms under his shirt's sleeves was to rub absentmindedly at them as he thought about what he had just read, how it had most certainly not been intended for his eyes. That didn't bother him much either; the agreement between him and Big Boss was for a truce of sorts in that he'd try his best not to start any arguments if the other man did the same. As far as keeping tabs on him? That wasn't ever elaborated upon, was it? There was nothing wrong about having a healthy sense of caution, after all.
And he'd be the first to tell you about that, too.
Mainly why he couldn't really find it in himself to regret his current actions. Would you rather have had me tie you up in the basement was a very convincing argument, even if the context here was different.
He fingered the pinkish surface of a broken seashell, holding Big Boss' image in his mind's eye. It was not surprising that the other was only starting to feel the weight of his time in Siren's Port. Hell, it had taken Snake a while to accept the fact that his stay within the pseudo Lovecraftian pit would be a little more indefinite than he would have preferred, but that was alright because, whether he liked it or not, he had business here that needed tending to. Places to see, people to greet, conspiracies to unravel -- the usual. It was disconcerting at times and upsetting more often than not, so he could understand where Big Boss was coming from in the encrypted part of his entry.
Well. Formerly encrypted, that was. And the more he considered it, the more Snake began to regret his curiosity. It was more difficult to admit that he saw pieces--chunks, even--of himself in Big Boss' words, in his worries, his frustration that seemed as poignant as lava brewing beneath a volcano's surface and twice as deadly. Once upon a time, he had been in such an uncertain situation, only it didn't take an otherworldly port town to get him to change his views on companionship. Conflict bred allies in uncertain times, that was true; it was when you allowed yourself to admit that maybe, just maybe, having that company was better than being alone that you ran into a crisis of logic and morals and everything that had a mind to drive you insane from second-guessing yourself. He couldn't begin to list the could've's and what-ifs that had plagued him during the days and nights that followed Otacon's phone call about the non-profit organization he and Nastasha were cooking up. Not even very long after--
After Meryl left. After I was no better off than I had been in 2000.
That's what he'd thought initially, at least.
Thinking of how his former commander must have been feeling now was giving him a headache. He distracted himself by chucking the seashell out into the water, throwing it as if he were trying to skip stones over a river's surface. Predictably, it sunk below the waves and was carried out to sea. He envied it in a pathetic way; it would travel a greater distance within 10 or so minutes than he ever had within his two hopeless months here.
When: Late afternoon, after Big Boss is done with Light.
Where: Crow's Head Beach
Summary: Snake ponders over something he shouldn't have read.
Warnings: TBA
In retrospect, Snake thought it may have been more practical to remove his boots. It was normal to take your shoes off when you went to the beach; how else would you enjoy the warm sand under your feet, wedged between your toes, and the ocean's cool water lapping against them? It was a pretty image, but it never held up to reality. Truth was, he hated the scratchy, itchy feeling that came with having sand stuck to any part of the body, much less toes; and while the sea surrounding the small port town was indeed cold, he'd decided that he could do without the discomfort of having salty, potentially frigid water wash over his feet as he sat on the shore, legs tucked, hugging his knees, staring out into the vast gray horizon where a blurry spot of light that was the sun hid behind the clouds.
The climate here wasn't quite seasonal (understatement of the year, he thought; not even a middle ground for something so pointless as the weather existed in this city), but being chilly from the newest gust of wind carried in by the waves was the least of his worries. The most he did to acknowledge the goosebumps forming on his arms under his shirt's sleeves was to rub absentmindedly at them as he thought about what he had just read, how it had most certainly not been intended for his eyes. That didn't bother him much either; the agreement between him and Big Boss was for a truce of sorts in that he'd try his best not to start any arguments if the other man did the same. As far as keeping tabs on him? That wasn't ever elaborated upon, was it? There was nothing wrong about having a healthy sense of caution, after all.
And he'd be the first to tell you about that, too.
Mainly why he couldn't really find it in himself to regret his current actions. Would you rather have had me tie you up in the basement was a very convincing argument, even if the context here was different.
He fingered the pinkish surface of a broken seashell, holding Big Boss' image in his mind's eye. It was not surprising that the other was only starting to feel the weight of his time in Siren's Port. Hell, it had taken Snake a while to accept the fact that his stay within the pseudo Lovecraftian pit would be a little more indefinite than he would have preferred, but that was alright because, whether he liked it or not, he had business here that needed tending to. Places to see, people to greet, conspiracies to unravel -- the usual. It was disconcerting at times and upsetting more often than not, so he could understand where Big Boss was coming from in the encrypted part of his entry.
Well. Formerly encrypted, that was. And the more he considered it, the more Snake began to regret his curiosity. It was more difficult to admit that he saw pieces--chunks, even--of himself in Big Boss' words, in his worries, his frustration that seemed as poignant as lava brewing beneath a volcano's surface and twice as deadly. Once upon a time, he had been in such an uncertain situation, only it didn't take an otherworldly port town to get him to change his views on companionship. Conflict bred allies in uncertain times, that was true; it was when you allowed yourself to admit that maybe, just maybe, having that company was better than being alone that you ran into a crisis of logic and morals and everything that had a mind to drive you insane from second-guessing yourself. He couldn't begin to list the could've's and what-ifs that had plagued him during the days and nights that followed Otacon's phone call about the non-profit organization he and Nastasha were cooking up. Not even very long after--
After Meryl left. After I was no better off than I had been in 2000.
That's what he'd thought initially, at least.
Thinking of how his former commander must have been feeling now was giving him a headache. He distracted himself by chucking the seashell out into the water, throwing it as if he were trying to skip stones over a river's surface. Predictably, it sunk below the waves and was carried out to sea. He envied it in a pathetic way; it would travel a greater distance within 10 or so minutes than he ever had within his two hopeless months here.