Chapter Text
When your mind tells you you're done, you're only fourty percent done.
An American would attribute that particular piece of wisdom to the Navy SEALs, but all special forces units - the GRU included - have their version of it. The percentage is immaterial, invented; by it they mean to say that when you're in pain, and in your mind you couldn't possibly go any further, your body still has most of its strength left and could go very far indeed. The sensation of pain is the body's way of signalling to the mind that it is injured or close to injury; the unpleasantness with which that sensation is perceived is intended to convince the mind to cease the action causing it.
When faced with consequences greater than injury for ceasing the action, however, the mind will overcome by switching itself off and in so doing reveal the body is capable of much, much more than it had been led to believe. Take the eponymous Marathon runner, for example, who ran himself to death to announce that the Persians had been defeated by the Greeks.
That's just a story, of course, and probably never happened. But aren't most of history's greatest hits the same way?
Even so, the principle is sound. These special forces units use grueling training camps to sleep deprive, starve, exhaust, freeze, and in the case of the GRU and other Spetsnaz, beat their would-be recruits to the point that their minds have long since told them in no uncertain terms that they are finished with this horseshit. Only those capable of overcoming their own instinct to quit make it through.
It's why the rate of injury among special forces units is astronomical. It's also why they can outmatch men who're stronger, faster, and tougher on paper. Those men are only working with fourty percent, not one hundred.
It's why, a few years from now, an SAS trooper will run three hundred miles from Iraq to Syria, through enemy lines, in combat boots and body armour, making poor Pheidippides' efforts look like a light morning jog around the park.
But I digress.
The Philosophers taught me that my mind was my most powerful weapon and that my body was little more than a flesh puppet cultivated to house it; the GRU taught me that the it was the mind that was weak, if the body was willing.
They're both wrong, of course.
My mind did break first, but not by so much as all that. In my defense, it didn't really get a fair shake: all of those carefully, delicately wrapped memories stashed away inside my head were intended to come out in order, slowly, one at a time. I clearly should've been more prepared for a combination of drugs and Kazuhira "Fuck It, I'll Just Run My Mouth" Miller to hobble on over kick over the whole stack.
I tried to shove them all back into place, quick as I could, like a harried mother late for morning practice trying to get six kids' worth of hockey bags back into her minivan--
John, have you ever seen a minivan? I think they came out while you were in the coma. You'll have to trust me on this one, I suppose: the image is apt.
--but then they ripped my fingernails out with a knife. Between that and the infection and the thirst I think I hit fourty percent right about then. I couldn't concentrate well enough to put them all back. I lost consciousness too many times. Miller wanted to chat; I think it helps him. Venom likes it too. There's a sensation some get when they hear low, soothing voices, speaking in monotone - I hear it's very pleasurable.
Or maybe I just needed to hold on to those memories of you.
I'm sorry.
I can't concentrate when I can't breathe.
I can't breathe because I don't have enough saliva left to swallow.
I'm sorry, you don't need to know this shit. I promise I'll edit it out in post. If I ever see you again I won't tell you I couldn't concentrate because they raped me, and I hate that almost as much as Miller seems to. It's nothing I can't handle but, you know, old wounds. It's something you're much better at enduring, I know. Maybe it's because I like to be in control - we both do - but you so readily accept chaos; maybe it's because I prefer to fight battles of the mind, and this method is oh so visceral. But it's something you'd never teach me. And I'd never ask you to. I'm not her and neither are you.
Fourty percent came and went a while ago. Where am I now? Eighty? Ninety? You always said gut wounds hurt the wor--
"--so are you a traitor to Cipher, or a traitor to the Red Army?"
--they really do, don't they
"Doesn't matter. And don't waste my time. You don't have very much time left, do you? We had reports from every unit on site, including air support: there were two. Big Boss, and another man. But you know that - you 'had to get the Boss out of that hospital' yourself after all."
--God. Fucking. Damn. It. Иди на хуй. Сука, Блядь.
I've fucked this up. I'll be the one who pays for it, though, don't worry. I won't say a--
"He vanished. We've been tracking him ever since. Didn't have a damn clue to go on. Until... You know who recognized you? The Man on Fire himself."
I didn't think this was about you. I didn't know. I didn't know. I didn't know. I don't know anything. "I don't know a-anything... w-wh... hnngh..." He choked out through strangled noises in the back of his throat.
"Oh, hello. You're back." Hitman patted his cheek. Held it while he drove the knife into Adam's belly again and twisted it around in his intestines.
He had no strength left to scream. He spasmed and shook and pawed the other man's arm, curled in on himself, around the mind-splitting agony in his gut, panting incoherent whimpers.
Please please please please stop stop stop
It was the worst thing he'd ever felt in his life. He would much, much rather die than feel it again. A choice: gun in his hand? He'd blow his brains out, right now.
Ssh, ssh. Miller, stop crying. These are fatal. There's no coming back from this. He'll hit an artery and I'll bleed out. Just a few minutes more. You have nothing he wants. He'll kill you quickly.
But he didn't. He cut like a surgeon and, "It'll be hours," he promised. And raised the knife to do it again.
No no no please don't please don't
Adam's eyes rolled back.
He's glad he got to see it, before he died. Row on row of the finest soldiers the world has ever produced, flocking to your name. The finest engines of war ever crafted. You stand above them all in your new nation. They cheer for you: invincible now that you've disarmed the rest. Lulled your enemies into a sense of security by the greatest trick the Devil you he ever pulled.
He's up there with you, but not at your side. He's behind you, out of sight, in the shadows.
The day is yours. The night is--
"You know, I've always wanted to fuck someone while they died." Hitman's lips on his ear, his knife still buried to the hilt below his navel. "Might as well be you, huh? That's Big Boss's bitch, right?" He cocked his head toward Miller. "So you're, what - his whore? He keeps him at home and rents you out? Or do I have it backwards?"
He ripped it back out again, the blade violet-black with blood and shredded organs. Adam's weak spasms pressed him against his chest. "Bet I could reach right in there while I fucked you," Hitman murmured, breathless, while his fingertips ghosted over the gaping wound. He slipped two in past the severed muscle and Adam trembled involuntarily. "Feel myself. Hell, I bet I could jerk myself off. Wouldn't that be something. Might need a bigger hole though..."
He brought the knife up to Adam's neck and scraped it soothingly across his throat. "Tell you what. I am going to slice you open and fuck your body. No matter what you do now, it's too late. I am going to fist my own cock right through your guts because I bet you'll be a little too loose for me. A little too wet, too - that's a lot of blood." He smiled expressionlessly; Adam could feel his rapidly hardening shaft against the inside of this thigh. "If you survive it, I'll pull your intestines out and fuck you again. On your knees, so you can watch."
John, he means every word of this
Kill me
"But if you're very good, and you tell me everything you know about him, I'll cut your throat before I do. Just the artery." He knicked it, voice and touch so, so gentle. "You won't even suffocate. Almost painless. Over in seconds. Then you'll feel nothing."
Hitman paused.
Adam said nothing.
Hitman started sawing a deep trench between Adam's pelvic bones and Adam's mind collapsed.
He opened his mouth, but no one could hear him. Miller was shouting. Face dark red and eyes moist and his jaw set in that way that Adam found adorable but right now it was terrifying, snarling. Snapping. Flecks of saliva on his chin.
Hitman shoved the knife into his mouth to shut him up.
Too late. Boots banged in the hall; they'd heard Miller, Hitman'd gone behind his boss's back to do this, she wasn't happy. Good Cop he would have stabbed, but he wouldn't kill her. Too bad for him. Miller fainted but Adam couldn't blame him; he dragged himself over to his side and cleared his airway for him with his fingers while their captors fought outside.
He could no longer produce tears; his shuddering sobs of relief were dry and silent and he smiled the whole time. He reached for Miller's hand and squeezed it gratefully.
He'd stay awake long enough to tell Miller he'd won. For both of them.
Static. Not harsh radio static. Gentle television static. Humming. Spots. White and grey. Go to sleep, his mind said, you're done.
"John's coming."
He is...? Adam could hold out for that. Even if it was only for a few seconds; even if he died in his arms. Wouldn't that be a way to go? He tried digging his fingernails into his palm to keep himself awake, then remembered that he didn't have any. Panicked, because he felt nothing. Then remembered that he was holding Miller's hand.
He rolled onto his broken arm instead.
It worked. The pain returned. And with it, misery. Abject. Crushing.
"I'm sorry, John, I can't..." Tell him I'm sorry. I should've been more careful. I should have killed myself when I suspected what he was really after. I was overconfident. Wasn't that what you told me not to be, the first time we met? "Enjoy your heaven, Радость моя. I'll wait for you in hell."
Hah.
You bought that, did you?
A fine note to end on, but
As ever, I leave the sentimentality to you.
I have other ways of expressing myself.
And I am no good to you dead.
Something broke. Some pretense or other. It no longer mattered, at that point.
When Kaz handed him a weapon, Ocelot found the strength to grip it.
Fourty-one percent.
How do I know when I'm really done, then?
Oh, you'll know, Adamska. You'll know.
His mind was long, long gone. His ability to plan, think remember, form words; that intricate, finely honed work of art The Philosophers the CIA the KGB Zero you he himself had painstakingly sculpted over decades lay smashed to pieces under the reality of blood and brutality. All that was left was what the GRU made.
Killing was as easy as breathing for Ocelot. Just an animal; retract his claws, play dead. If his prey shot them it'd be quick and clean, but he won't. He'll finish what he started. He'll stalk and and Ocelot will lunge and cut deep, saw deep, right past his jugular while he wastes his time attacking a lame dog on a chain, ignoring the real threat in the room because Miller makes more noise.
No, no, a little higher. There you go.
He was dimly aware of the fact that he'd saved Kaz's life. That the other man could now make a run for it and would most likely succeed. "Run" used figuratively, of course. Go on - at least my last words were something cool. Dimly aware that the other man had raised him to his feet instead. Was using him like one of his equally shoddy prosthetic limbs. Expected Ocelot to walk forward on his broken and shot ones.
Good; the pain kept him awake. Wasn't quite accustomed to the angle his feet held without the slight heel of his boots - when was the last time he was barefoot, save getting up in the morning or going to sleep at night? - couldn't remember. Didn't matter. His legs were brusquely informed that they were going to function until he died.
He would walk up those stairs even if it meant dying on the landing. Miller was too smart for that, though.
Clever girl, Ocelot thought as he realized that was not where they were going. Are you really a samurai, or a samurai's wife - defending the home for your master? This is your territory.
No, he probably didn't think that; his mind was a fog of oxygen deprivation and a sludge of blood loss, his thoughts were little more than breathing, walking, reloading. He probably added that later, because he liked the image. Kazuhira and his naginata. In a kimono. Out for revenge, like Lady Snowblood. Futile for Ocelot, at this point, but he had to admit that it would feel so very good. Their captors would have assault rifles and they had a single revolver with six shots that Miller was terrible with and Ocelot was half-blind and weak as a kitten. But Miller liked that kind of thing: going down together, in a blaze of glory.
Romantic idiot.
Ocelot kissed his knuckles anyway.
They were halfway up the lift when Ocelot realized that Kaz was doing this to save his life.
охуеть, when was the last time someone had tried to protect him?
When was the last time someone had tried to help him?
Never?
He would make every shot count, he decided. He would make this a blaze of glory, but his own kind, not Miller's: an effective one. One that won the battle. He would keep aiming and firing until the last synapse stuttered cold. He knew the angles of the rooms upstairs well enough. He knew which walls and doors were metal and would ricochet. He would muster up a performance that would make you proud.
It turned out to be a shooting gallery. They weren't even ready. These were shots he could have made when he was ten.
He still missed the last one.
He was getting very cold and could no longer see. The pain that kept him focused was gone. Miller, he's dead. Miller, stop firing. Miller I need help.
That old GRU instructor was right: he did know. He fell and in his head he was falling through the floor, right into the ocean. The pain was gone and so was the sensation of Miller's arm around his waist and he called desperately for his attention - Kaz...
Miller was calling for a trauma team, but that would come far too late. It would take minutes, and after a few minutes without oxygen there would be irreparable damage to his brain. He might survive, worthlessly. Venom might not want to pull the plug if that happened, but Miller would most definitely have the guts to do it.
And here's to you, for that.
John was kissing him.
It wasn't really John, he knew. It was an image evoked by his mind by the massive flood of serotonin released by his dying brain, to comfort him. No lights, no floating sensation: he knew himself well. Not damn bad, as these things went. He could really feel the warmth of your lips. The scrape of your stubble.
That was interesting: you'd shaved. You had both eyes. You were young. Not how he usually thinks of you, but he went with it. Nostalgia, perhaps. What else? You had a gas mask dangling loose around your neck, under the kevlar throat guard of your body armour. There was an automatic shotgun slung across your back but he couldn't see it well enough to tell which model; only that you carried metal slugs, not shot. Just what are you trying to breach and clear, John? My heart, he chuckled, but probably didn't. He hadn't moved since he'd collapsed on the floor of the signals room to die.
You came prepared for a close quarter fight. You have an MP5; not the vanilla version but the brand new, next generation variant developed for the US Navy with the collapsible stock and tritium front sight post and suppressor with specialized subsonic ammunition, ambidextrous trigger and pistol grip. Gucci kit, plain and simple. Still, it did provide a tactical advantage over the Diamond Dogs' jury rigged equivalent, and when the Combat personnel had heard about it they'd had to have it, practically tugging Miller's loose sleeve, pleading. When he'd shot them down cold they'd come to Ocelot to intercede on their behalf because Mother Base's mom (dad?) was just too mean. He wasn't a fighter and he just didn't understand.
Ocelot had reassured them that he would. He'd waited until the Boss had planned to take a few days of leave and Miller'd been almost happy he'd been so excited. But wouldn't you know it, every single form the Intelligence division submitted for the month's acquisitions was filled out wrong. It would take Miller days to sort it all out, not to mention the money that they'd lose if operations ground to a halt if he didn't. Ocelot could fix it all himself, but it wasn't really his job.
Fine. Miller'd growled and thrown the whole stack at him, scattering papers to every corner of the room. I'll buy your fucking gun.
"That's it, sir. That's right. Keep breathing."
That wasn't John, that was the assault team's medic. Of course. They would have been standing by. He could have run up here in seconds. He would have a bare minimum of equipment: just morphine and coagulants and a few blood bags and his own mouth for when Ocelot stopped breathing, but it would be enough. For a few minutes, it would be enough. The trauma team would arrive with their respirator and surgeons and Ocelot would survive this, after all.
Miller'd won. He'd won, and he'd saved Ocelot's life, at the risk of his own.
That left Adam with some interesting questions. Holy hell was there a fire in Miller when he needed to summon one. Neither John nor Zero had mentioned it to him, which meant that they didn't know. They'd told him that, by himself, Miller was nothing more than sound and fury, signifying nothing. Maybe it was a new development. Maybe clipping his wings and casting him aside hadn't hobbled him, after all. Maybe it had pruned withered limbs away, leaving the new ones to flourish in their absence, nurtured with resentment. Maybe they genuinely did not realize that there were more than two ways to win.
There were two men who would kill Kaz if Adam told them about it. And one who would kill Adam for keeping it from him.
We're even, Adam thought, and sealed that realization away behind those words. To be triggered by himself only.
We're even.