Liquid → 011
Who: Liquid Snake and Solid Snake
Where: Liquid's apartment in the Industrial District
Style: Either
Status: Closed
Notes: Backdated to 12/24
It was December twenty-fourth. To most people, that date meant nothing more than that it was Christmas eve and there would be plenty of presents to open up tomorrow morning given by, depending on your age and level of gullibility, either friends and family or jolly old Saint Nick. The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, the trees were lit and decorated, and there was goodwill unto men and all that bullshit.
Except for Liquid. Why?
Liquid Snake fucking hated this time of year.
There were a variety of possible reasons for this. It could have been because he disliked the petty, consumerist materialism that pervaded the season. It could have been because he had no family to celebrate the holidays with, and therefore subconsciously resented anyone who did (though this was a reason that he would vehemently deny). It was mostly because it was his birthday, and he despised anything that reminded him of the date when that miserable science project was completed and brought his wretched, inferior ass into the world.
Liquid Snake was thirty-three years old today, and he decided that, like every year, he was going to get absolutely shitfaced.
Somewhere around half a bottle of whiskey later, he had an idea. He wasn't the only person around here with a birthday on December twenty-fourth who probably hated that date, too. He did, in fact, have a twin brother who had as much if not more reason to despise this particular winter day. And, though his relationship with his dear brother was still rather rocky in places, he decided that he'd drank enough by now to hazard giving him a call.
Might as well not drink alone. Besides, he'd bought too much alcohol.
It was at this point that Snake would receive a call on his Dreamberry from his hated twin.
"Brother. I have a surplus of alcohol that I need to get rid of."
Quite frankly, considering the date, that should be all that he has to say.
Where: Liquid's apartment in the Industrial District
Style: Either
Status: Closed
Notes: Backdated to 12/24
It was December twenty-fourth. To most people, that date meant nothing more than that it was Christmas eve and there would be plenty of presents to open up tomorrow morning given by, depending on your age and level of gullibility, either friends and family or jolly old Saint Nick. The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, the trees were lit and decorated, and there was goodwill unto men and all that bullshit.
Except for Liquid. Why?
Liquid Snake fucking hated this time of year.
There were a variety of possible reasons for this. It could have been because he disliked the petty, consumerist materialism that pervaded the season. It could have been because he had no family to celebrate the holidays with, and therefore subconsciously resented anyone who did (though this was a reason that he would vehemently deny). It was mostly because it was his birthday, and he despised anything that reminded him of the date when that miserable science project was completed and brought his wretched, inferior ass into the world.
Liquid Snake was thirty-three years old today, and he decided that, like every year, he was going to get absolutely shitfaced.
Somewhere around half a bottle of whiskey later, he had an idea. He wasn't the only person around here with a birthday on December twenty-fourth who probably hated that date, too. He did, in fact, have a twin brother who had as much if not more reason to despise this particular winter day. And, though his relationship with his dear brother was still rather rocky in places, he decided that he'd drank enough by now to hazard giving him a call.
Might as well not drink alone. Besides, he'd bought too much alcohol.
It was at this point that Snake would receive a call on his Dreamberry from his hated twin.
"Brother. I have a surplus of alcohol that I need to get rid of."
Quite frankly, considering the date, that should be all that he has to say.