Liquid did not smoke.

It wasn't for reasons of personal taste. He'd always loved the smell of cigarettes, to the point where, as a child, he's sneak into the researchers' break room and drink in the second-hand smoke, sharp and hot right down into the bottom of his lungs. It was entirely for reasons of health. After all, he was already forever inferior – why set out to deliberately make himself worse? No, he would have to learn to resist it.

The old man used to smoke, usually expensive Cuban cigars – which fitted his character perfectly; arrogant, poseurly and unnecessary, claims of refinement and promise and splendour spoilt entirely by the fact that he was ultimately damaging. Liquid had never met a cigar-smoker that he even vaguely liked, and he had never been too sure if it was merely negative reinforcement from the old man or a whole mindset attached to cigars that had made up some of Big Boss's flaws.

Whatever conceits Liquid had about his healthy, he had tried cigarettes – tried enough to know that he really rather liked them. He supposed that it was genetic. He came from a long line of nicotine-dependant circus freaks, the half-admired half-mocked strongmen in the ring showing off their muscles. The task of stealing packs of cigarettes from his captors had proven a game that kept him sane; the danger, the brains and prowess involved and the prize itself, illicit and unhealthy and proof of a genetic code Liquid wanted rid of and yet so perfect, the danger making it all the more sublime, a welcome distraction in that pit they kept him in.

Once, he'd wondered what part of his genetic code spoke of a craving for tobacco, and even allowed himself to consider if the Fight Gene and it were one and the same, but he dismissed the theory in the end as being baseless and ridiculous. Big Boss had probably deliberately told the scientists to keep the smoker gene intact, give it pride of place, just as a joke from that underdeveloped sense of humour he prided himself on.

At least there was the satisfaction of knowing how his brother must crave smoke as well.

The security footage from the dock cheered Liquid – the hidden camera clearly depicted his brother, slightly slimmer but such a carbon copy, curled up on the concrete edge, curling the lower half of his face-mask, gulping down handfuls and handfuls of cold, sickly sea-water, before unceremoniously jamming two fingers down his throat, retching the fluid straight back up, trickling through his hands, until his fingers found something and he relaxed in stance, retching straight onto the floor.

Liquid realised straight away that the brine was simply lubricant to help him bring up something stored in his stomach, and his mind buzzed with ideas. Some secret weapon? Maybe the missing PAL keys?

When his brother tore apart the packet, drew out a cigarette, and lit it with a lighter which had been taped to the outside of the packet, Liquid had thrown back his head and laughed long and hard.

At least in the respect of self-control, Liquid thought, he was superior.