The spirit of the warrior.
Who: Ocelot, Big Boss
When: May 10, early evening
Where: the beach shack
Summary: Ocelot discovers Big Boss's real ghost
Warnings: none yet
The spiritual visions were getting worse.
Ocelot was always a keenly perceptive man. That was part of the problem; it made intentionally ignoring details difficult. With the distraction of the "other side", his perception of things that mattered suffered.
Still, he didn't take the day off from either of his jobs. But with the shifts over he had nothing to do he could concentrate on. He sat on the floor in the beach shack, rolling an unopened bottle of vodka between his hands. The real sound of the glass base scraping the wood floor helped pull his mind from the unearthly mumbles of the dead, their voices a drone composed of something beyond sound, making them impossible to block by covering his ears.
Sometimes it seemed like they wanted to suffocate him. In rare cases it even seemed like a few wanted to reach inside him, but found themselves shut off by his unease.
He sighed cold, and drew one hand back to brush fingers against the hilt of the knife sheathed at his side... Big Boss's knife, lifted from Light and replacing his own.
It wasn't Darkness yet, but the snow on the windows made the room dim. He wasn't sure how many of them were haunting the beach shack at that moment, maybe two. Not a lot, some places had dozens. He refused to let them pull his attention from the bottle, as he twisted the cap open.
When: May 10, early evening
Where: the beach shack
Summary: Ocelot discovers Big Boss's real ghost
Warnings: none yet
The spiritual visions were getting worse.
Ocelot was always a keenly perceptive man. That was part of the problem; it made intentionally ignoring details difficult. With the distraction of the "other side", his perception of things that mattered suffered.
Still, he didn't take the day off from either of his jobs. But with the shifts over he had nothing to do he could concentrate on. He sat on the floor in the beach shack, rolling an unopened bottle of vodka between his hands. The real sound of the glass base scraping the wood floor helped pull his mind from the unearthly mumbles of the dead, their voices a drone composed of something beyond sound, making them impossible to block by covering his ears.
Sometimes it seemed like they wanted to suffocate him. In rare cases it even seemed like a few wanted to reach inside him, but found themselves shut off by his unease.
He sighed cold, and drew one hand back to brush fingers against the hilt of the knife sheathed at his side... Big Boss's knife, lifted from Light and replacing his own.
It wasn't Darkness yet, but the snow on the windows made the room dim. He wasn't sure how many of them were haunting the beach shack at that moment, maybe two. Not a lot, some places had dozens. He refused to let them pull his attention from the bottle, as he twisted the cap open.