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“Back when I was a kid one of my instructors, big Ukrainian with a bad leg- courtesy of Stalingrad, or so the rumour went- took me out to the mountains. We were stationed in Siberia at the time, for survival training…”
Adam trails off, his mind wandering across serene plains of white snow, jagged pillars of stone jutting from the earth like knives. Nature, too, spoke the language of violence. He remembers cupping his hands over his mouth in a vain attempt to warm them.
“Sergey points to this big rock, about fifty feet tall. He says, ‘Climb to the top.’ No rope. No gear. I tell him I’m not doing it, and he asks why.” Adam pauses, scoffs at the absurdity of it. He hadn’t found it nearly as funny at the time. “‘What do you mean, why, sir? If I fall, I’m dead.’ He asks me, how does it play out in my head? I don’t know, I freeze, lose my footing. A stone comes loose. Lots of ways it can end, right?”
The steady bleeping of the heart monitor is the only response he gets.
“So Sergey pulls out his gun. I know it’s loaded. He flags me and says, ‘Okay. Now climb.’ And that really… recalibrates your perspective. I’ve got two choices: up or down. I don’t remember how long it took me to get to the top of that goddamn rock. I had scrapes all over by the end, but I didn’t feel a thing. And up there I find a rope anchored to the stone so I can rappel down. Old Sergey puts a hand on my shoulder and says, ‘I knew you’d make it, Adamushka. Wouldn’t have brought you out here if I didn’t.’ Then he asks what I want for lunch. The local tavern didn’t offer much choice, so I had borscht. Best one I’ve ever had. Still is, to this day.”
He leans back in his chair and breathes in slowly, watching dust motes dance in the sunlight filtering through yellowing curtains. He frowns. A hospital ought to have higher standards when it comes to cleanliness.
“Why am I telling you this old story, huh? It’d bore you to death.”
In the periphery of his vision, the man on the bed lies as still as a corpse. In Adam’s mind, a different scene unfolds every time he looks at him: a single blue eye blinking open; his name whispered in a voice he hasn’t heard in long, painful years. Thoughts scatter like spilled ink, forming a thousand possible realities that exist only in his head. Hope and fear are two sides of the same coin, he’s come to realise. Both have to be reined in if one intends to keep moving forward.
He rarely removes his red gloves, but he wants to feel John’s warm skin beneath his palm. Still living. Still fighting. Gaunt and diminished though he may be - a saintly figure straight from the icons the babushkas with covered hair would bend to kiss in church.
“I am scared” he whispers his confession in the sleeping man’s ear. “What will I do if you don't ever wake up, John?”
With his other hand he carefully, reverently, combs through his hair - would that frustrate him, he wonders? or would he welcome it? He once had many such questions, all withered now and lost to time.
“And if you do wake up…I am scared of what must follow”.
____
Zero’s plan, his recipe for a doppelganger is not just a chimaira; it is an entirely different type of monster, nurtured on years of research and experimentation. He, like Ocelot, has moved in the right circles long enough to know that in their trade, there is no shortage of people who like to play God. They’ve done half of the work for them already. So Ocelot gets to studying; he has strong foundations and a treasure trove of data at his disposal- all courtesy of the American taxpayer. He conducts his own research too, of course. As the GRU’s chief interrogator in Afghanistan, he has a steady supply of bodies to play around with.
Shalashaska is feared for many reasons but only those who’ve been intimately acquainted with his work know where the true horror lies. In his domain, he is God; there is no hiding, and no free will. His is the hand that gives and the hand that takes. And sure, his prisoners may get to keep all their limbs when he’s done with them, but they don't ever leave intact.
There is always something missing- a black hole they carry around with them for the rest of their days. They come to recognise it eventually: when they look at their mother’s face and find a stranger staring back; when they stand on a ledge and the darkness beckons them forward; when they wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, and they realise that they’re still in that cell, that they never left at all.
Then of course, he doesn’t spare himself the same treatment. When the time comes, he will carry the greatest secret of all. He can resist interrogation better than most, but in the end he is still just a man. Adam might once have been too cocky for his own good, but he has since learned to recognize his limits. Wasn’t it under his watch that John suffered the fate he did? All the intelligence in the world - all the planning - cannot fully account for human error.
So, he tries it all: the EEC only manages to make him sick, and he is close to immune to the effects of most commonly used barbiturates- he’s got the Philosophers to thank for that. LSD, opioids, benzodiazepines; He concocts different cocktails, a few of which earn him a trip to the ER. When he establishes a workable baseline, he figures he’s owed an honorary degree in chemistry.
Unexpectedly, it is the tapes that end up being the gamechanger. He records instructions to himself, to be played back in a sedated state. It’s the easiest form of self-hypnosis he can achieve- meditation just won’t do it for him. He knows he is getting results when he catches himself acting odd without cause - when he becomes convinced, for instance, that all the food in the mess hall has been poisoned, refusing to have a single bite for an entire day. He checks the last tape he listened to and sure enough, it was a suggestion he himself had planted.
At first, he’s exhilarated. He’s making progress.
Then one day he finds a miniature bottle of vodka tucked between his clothes and tosses it in the bin. He’s in the middle of an interrogation when the memory resurfaces.
Virginia, 1965 - the first time they met on American soil as allies; John had pulled that little bottle of vodka from his jacket and awkwardly handed it to him.
“I picked it up from the plane” he’d said, somehow always a little too naive, too innocent for his own good. “It’s imported from Russia, I was told. Thought you might appreciate it more than I would.”
Adam had grinned and informed him that he didn’t actually like vodka. But of course he took the bottle, and kept it for over a decade. It was the only gift John had ever given him.
He storms out to empty his stomach onto the dry Afghan soil, citing heatstroke as an excuse for his concerned comrades.
—
In the middle of the Indian Ocean, the noise fades. His back pressed to metal still warm from the day’s sun, Ocelot watches the sky burn red, then soften into violet. His limbs feel like lead; he couldn’t move if he tried. And why would he? His senses float in a warm haze. All he has to do is remain still a little longer.
The light has nearly died when metallic footsteps clang against the ladder. A familiar face enters his field of vision, bright blue eyes perpetually hidden behind a tacky pair of aviator shades.
“You really are up here” Miller notes dumbly. “You missed dinner, but I had the cooks set a plate aside for you”
Ocelot smiles as the other man crouches next to him.
“What’s the matter?” Miller lowers his glasses to study Ocelot’s face. It doesn't take long for him to discern what the matter is. “You high or something?”
He would know, wouldn't he?
“Mmm” Ocelot hums in affirmation, knowing full well he's up for a lecture.
Oddly, the outburst never comes. Miller lets out a defeated sigh like he’s already played out the scene in his head and takes a seat next to Ocelot prone form. He doesn't like him - Ocelot is under no delusion. He needs him. They are symbiotes, tangled together in the shadows; they need each other to reach for the light.
“You know, I thought it was strange you gave such short notice" Miller notes. "Usually I expect your visits weeks in advance.” He waits, giving Ocelot room to fill the silence. When he doesn’t, he asks, “What did you take?”
“Midazolam” Ocelot replies, his worlds dragging. “And a little morphine”.
Kaz turns to look at him. “Something to take the edge off, huh?”
“Mmm”
“That a habit of yours? As the XO I need to know”
Ocelot can't even be mad at him right now. “Miller…wouldn't you know by now?”
He watches the other man bite his lip, like he's holding back a retort.
“Would I?”
Seven years, give or take. Miller should understand that what he sees is all he will ever be allowed to see.
Ocelot sighs. “I wouldn't ever-”
“No. You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t compromise this project of ours,” Miller finishes for him. “Forget I asked.”
So he does understand at least that much. Miller’s gaze lingers; Ocelot feels its weight even through the amber lenses.
“What’s the occasion then?”
Now that's a question he doesn't feel like answering. It’s an intruder, an agent from a world he’s trying to hide from, just for a few blessed hours. The effects of the drugs must be wearing off too, because he's increasingly aware of the chilly evening breeze brushing the upper levels of the offshore platform.
“You've been to see Snake lately?”
A dark cloud creeps in from the east- yet another tropical storm gathering. Preferable to Afghan dust, perhaps, but he could do without the humidity.
“Ocelot?”
Seven years and two months; familiarity is a Trojan horse. It leaves weaknesses exposed. A thumb strokes along his cheekbone; it comes away wet.
“Nevermind” Miller says, his voice soft.
He's removed his glasses now and Ocelot averts his gaze. There's something of John in those eyes; or maybe it's something different altogether; the sort that makes one's mind wander, lose sight of what really matters. Miller peels his eyes away from him, fixing them in the disappearing horizon line at the far distance.
“Oh, by the way, I made you a mixtape”
“What?” Ocelot asks, genuinely confused.
“You said you’d never heard of Japanese blues the last time we talked. Had to fix that. I do have some national pride, you know?”
Ocelot strives to make out the details of his face in the thickening darkness. He bets there's a small smile playing on his lips; warm, self-assured. He knows Ocelot is going to love that tape.
“Kazuhira” Ocelot calls his name, the foreign syllables easy on his tongue. “Do me a favour. I’ll listen to the tape, and then I'll give it back to you. You keep it, okay?”
Kaz takes a moment too long to respond. “Sure” he says, but he's not stupid. This is no ordinary request; he can tell something is off. So before he tries to probe any further Ocelot changes the subject.
“It's getting cold”
“You're only wearing a tank top, no shit it's cold” Kazuhira chides, as expected. “Let's head back in”
“About that… don't think I can stand just yet”.
It's not that he physically can't, he just struggles to summon the effort. On a different occasion, Kazuhira would begrudgingly hand him his jacket and leave. This time he shrugs his shoulders and says:
“Well then, guess I’ll have to carry you”.
“Huh?”
That, he certainly hadn’t anticipated. Kazuhira stands up, extends a helping hand. There is no need to do this; there's no need to be making mixtapes for him either. Familiarity is a blade that cuts both ways. It's mutually assured destruction; so long as the scales remain balanced, he is allowed this deficiency.
It should be mortifying for a grown man to be hoisted onto someone's back, but Ocelot finds he doesn't mind at all - quite the contrary actually. He wraps his arms around Kazuhira's neck and rests his head against his shoulder, eyes closing as he is carried around mother base with ease, like a child claimed by sleep at a gathering.
He breathes in the scent of the man’s overpriced, tacky perfume. It's a comforting scent, like a bowl of borscht in the frozen Siberian plains. It conjures the image of Kazuhira Miller on a small fishing boat, sunburned but in high spirits, sailing towards the iron behemoth he and his men would soon call home. He turns, pulls Ocelot close, and plants an exaggerated, audacious kiss on his lips. Ocelot hates that he still thinks about it weeks later.
He likes it here, surrounded by thousands of metric tons of water. He is nowhere and he is right where he wants to be.
That too, is something he will soon have to forget.