by StarWolf
9/30/2005
Title: Segue
Author: StarWolf (elendraug at yahoo dot com)
Fandom: Metal Gear Solid 2
Rating: PG
Genre: Suspense
Pairing: Maybe Dave/Hal, but I wrote this with general-fiction in mind.
Warnings: Stress? An implied scene from the game.
Disclaimer: Konami's, not mine.
Distribution: Please don't archive this.
Summary: Strike me down; give it everything you've got.
Author's Notes: For Kinneas. Summary from the Sneaker Pimps' "Lightning Field." Set between the Tanker and Plant missions.
New York has never seemed so threatening.
Hal's soaked and sluggish in the torrential rain of a storm to start all wars. Desperately searching the endless navygrey of the dulled horizon through droplet-covered glasses, he grips tightly to the sides of the small boat, hands slipping on the slick surface. He sinks to the floor, sopping wet and tempted to begin sobbing.
It's hopeless, it's hopeless, his codec stopped working an hour ago -- Otacon blinks furiously at the water dripping down from his forehead, sodden hair plastered to his face and blurring his vision even worse. But it's taken an eternity of futility to get this far into the harbour; no sense in giving up now.
The wreckage of the doomed ship looms before him, and it's a battle against misfortune as he scans the floating, hulking mess for any sign of life. Angry ocean water sloshes onboard and onto his already saturated jeans. The choppy movements of the waves further reduce his chances of spotting life.
When he sees Snake -- really, truly sees him, he's not just deluding himself this time -- he's straining to shout and stunned to silence simultaneously. Eventually he decides on the former, and even he can barely hear his own voice over the din of damp destruction. Dave is semi-conscious and floating awkwardly in the berserk, vindictive current. Hal leans dangerously far out of the boat and struggles to grip the skintight fabric of his partner's skullsuit. His glasses are slipping from his nose, he still can't see anyway, the noise is deafening, the boat's moving haphazardly beneath him oh shit oh shit he's losing his balance and with a frenzied, furious heave, he's dragged Snake with him onto the waterlogged vessel.
The sheer improbability of his success is still overwhelming, but he's a scientist: he can't afford to be distracted because Dave isn't breathing oh my god damn it DAMN it and he's dragging Snake backwards, tugging trying to gauge how to lay him down while keeping his head above water. Shucking his thoroughly useless jacket, oh shit it's so cold he wads it up and shoves it beneath Snake's head. Even so, his (dying!) friend's face is barely hitting the air; they're taking on more saltwater with each passing minute.
Hal sits astride his fellow Philanthropist, back aching, cheeks frostbitten and continually stricken with harsh blasts of wrathful wind. One hand over the other, he thinks. Push down into upper abdomen, continue sharp thrusting of hand-heel until liquid ceases flow from victim's mouth. Success? Continue with next step.
The intrusive ocean water impedes his movement as he shifts to kneel at his friend's side. Smoothing bandanna and bad haircut out of the way, Otacon supports Dave's limp, tilted-back neck with one palm and pinches his nose shut with the other. He leans down and seals his mouth over Snake's, forcing air into stubborn lungs; previously filled with fluid, they can now receive much-needed oxygen.
Repeat; bystanders save lives. Repeat. Anyone can be a hero. Repeat--
Snake jolts back to consciousness and barely has time to blink before falling shakily over once again. Otacon grasps his arms, jostling him, yelling over the cacophony and begging him to stay awake, be ready you do not know the hour when to literally flee for their lives.
Coughing and gasping for more air, Dave forces himself to sit up, awkwardly fumbling for purchase on something to keep his balance. Hal's supporting him within seconds, Snake's heavy arm slung over Otacon's shoulder as they both dazedly try to maneuver the doomed lucky boat.
Hal's steering, turning them around on the rough water just as quickly as Dave rushes to shove the excess overboard. Five strenuous minutes later, they're unsteadily but surely moving away from the dangerous, sinking remains of the ship. They can hear each other again.
"We have to get to the apartment."
"Yeah. There's still leftover pizza in the fridge."
"We can't let it go to waste."
"It'd feel left out."
The sun rises through smog and stormclouds, and for once, they hesitate to refute the optimism.