DISCLAIMER: I do not own Snake and Otacon, or any rights to them other than
the right to make snide commentary while someone's playing.
*******************************************************
The coffee pot phut-phutted in the kitchen, announcing it was done with another pot. It sounded tired. World-weary, almost, as though from its perch on the counter it could see the long string of future brews stretched out interminably in front of it. It couldn't, of course, since not even Otacon had a coffee maker equipped with an AI. It would be cruel.
Click. Click. Click.
"Dang."
Click.
"God. The bomb's –never- in the corner. Is there any justice in the world?"
Click clicketty click click click.
"Pathetic."
He sighed, stood up from the computer and slouched irritably into the kitchen for a fresh cup. It had been a long night. It had been a long morning, for that matter, and it looked to be a nigh-eternal afternoon. He hadn't been busy. Quite the opposite, in fact. And the apartment had been mercilessly distraction-free, to boot. Snake hadn't come out of the spare room. It was possible he wasn't even in there, what with the window. It wouldn't be the first time he'd exfiltrated.
This was hell.
"You never have any existential dilemmas about making coffee, do you?" Staring blankly at the pot was something of a respite from staring blankly at the screen. Unfortunately, it was mute. He drank coffee at it.
He checked the fridge. There was nothing in the fridge.
What he needed to do was get out for once. Go for a walk, maybe. There was a greenhouse downtown that sold bonsai—maybe he ought to go get one. It would be kind of like having a pet, but without all the hair. He'd seen pictures of cherry bonsai, with full-sized red fruit hanging from ridiculously small branches. Those were neat, now. Maybe he could get one to do that.
Bah. He'd kill it. He'd forget to water it, or put it in the sun wrong, and in three days he'd have a very small, very expensive tree-skeleton. Then he'd forget to throw it out and it would sit on a windowsill for months gathering dead flies. Eventually Snake would take it out on the balcony and use it as an ashtray. He checked the balcony. Sure enough—it was still raining, raining big cold drops. The sky, as far as the surrounding buildings would permit, looked misty and grey to the horizon.
Another refill, and it was back to the computer.
Click.
Click.
The front door rattled, and opened.
"Fine," Otacon snapped. "Don't knock. Walk –right- in. It's not like I value my privacy or anything."
"Minesweeper?" Snake crossed the living room, leaving wet craters in the low carpet, and leaned over Otacon's shoulder. There were a few windows open: a couple of text logs, a sound-editor file of some sort, and a webpage devoted to semiprecious lapidary techniques. The eight-by eight grid and the yellow smiley overlapped all of them. The timer counted up from 338 as Snake watched.
"Go away. You're dripping." Otacon elbowed Snake in the stomach without any particular enthusiasm.
"Hard at work, huh?" Snake retreated to the kitchen.
"No, I am –not-, as it happens." Otacon leaned back and rubbed at his eyes. His hands were cold. "I am –not- hard at work. I have been sitting here –not working- for six hours. And prior to that, I was –not working- for four hours, minus thirty minutes to take a shower. Where were you?"
"Out. Hacker's block again?" Snake returned with a cup of his own. It was the mug with cows on it.
"God. Yes." A click rid the screen of that baleful little smiley. Otacon propped his forehead on one hand. "It's bad, Snake. I can't –think-."
"Relax," said Snake, flopping onto the couch. "There's nothing urgent right now, anyway." He sipped, and winced. Only Otacon could make espresso- strength in a drip brewer.
"But if there –was-…" Otacon felt his eyes sting. This was so –frustrating- !
"There isn't. I promise. You wanna go get lunch? There's that sushi joint down the street."
"Yeah. I need to get out. I really do." An alarming series of cracks and pops accompanied Otacon out of the chair and down the hall to his bedroom, where his jacket hung from the doorknob. Back, knees, neck, and wrists. He was going to fall apart into a dry, bony heap any day now. No point in going on, really. He might as well go stand in front of the microwave until cancer set in, just to make –sure-.
"Come on. Fish is brain food, you know." Snake already had his coat back on. When Otacon got in a funk, he lost about four inches in height. It was cute and pathetic at the same time, like a kicked puppy. If he could manage the same look when he wasn't too depressed to talk to them, Snake pondered, he'd probably be hip-deep in women.
Outside, conditions hadn't improved. Still raining, still chilly and wet, but at least it was outside. Otacon felt his spirits lift, marginally.
"Sorry, Snake," he began. "Things just aren't firing right today."
"Don't worry about it," said Snake magnanimously, taking the opportunity of a favorable headwind to blatantly light up a cigarette. "It happens to everybody."
"Yeah, I suppose it would."
"You remember the Gear in development outside Vancouver? The one that eventually fell out of the grain silo into the dairy farm?" Inwardly, Snake grimaced. Outwardly, he smoked.
"What about it?"
"That's what happens when I get infiltrator's block."
"Oh."
*******************************************
I may continue this, I may not. Depends primarily on whether anyone really wants to read about Snake's off day and a few cows who were never the same again. Hope you liked it so far!
*******************************************************
The coffee pot phut-phutted in the kitchen, announcing it was done with another pot. It sounded tired. World-weary, almost, as though from its perch on the counter it could see the long string of future brews stretched out interminably in front of it. It couldn't, of course, since not even Otacon had a coffee maker equipped with an AI. It would be cruel.
Click. Click. Click.
"Dang."
Click.
"God. The bomb's –never- in the corner. Is there any justice in the world?"
Click clicketty click click click.
"Pathetic."
He sighed, stood up from the computer and slouched irritably into the kitchen for a fresh cup. It had been a long night. It had been a long morning, for that matter, and it looked to be a nigh-eternal afternoon. He hadn't been busy. Quite the opposite, in fact. And the apartment had been mercilessly distraction-free, to boot. Snake hadn't come out of the spare room. It was possible he wasn't even in there, what with the window. It wouldn't be the first time he'd exfiltrated.
This was hell.
"You never have any existential dilemmas about making coffee, do you?" Staring blankly at the pot was something of a respite from staring blankly at the screen. Unfortunately, it was mute. He drank coffee at it.
He checked the fridge. There was nothing in the fridge.
What he needed to do was get out for once. Go for a walk, maybe. There was a greenhouse downtown that sold bonsai—maybe he ought to go get one. It would be kind of like having a pet, but without all the hair. He'd seen pictures of cherry bonsai, with full-sized red fruit hanging from ridiculously small branches. Those were neat, now. Maybe he could get one to do that.
Bah. He'd kill it. He'd forget to water it, or put it in the sun wrong, and in three days he'd have a very small, very expensive tree-skeleton. Then he'd forget to throw it out and it would sit on a windowsill for months gathering dead flies. Eventually Snake would take it out on the balcony and use it as an ashtray. He checked the balcony. Sure enough—it was still raining, raining big cold drops. The sky, as far as the surrounding buildings would permit, looked misty and grey to the horizon.
Another refill, and it was back to the computer.
Click.
Click.
The front door rattled, and opened.
"Fine," Otacon snapped. "Don't knock. Walk –right- in. It's not like I value my privacy or anything."
"Minesweeper?" Snake crossed the living room, leaving wet craters in the low carpet, and leaned over Otacon's shoulder. There were a few windows open: a couple of text logs, a sound-editor file of some sort, and a webpage devoted to semiprecious lapidary techniques. The eight-by eight grid and the yellow smiley overlapped all of them. The timer counted up from 338 as Snake watched.
"Go away. You're dripping." Otacon elbowed Snake in the stomach without any particular enthusiasm.
"Hard at work, huh?" Snake retreated to the kitchen.
"No, I am –not-, as it happens." Otacon leaned back and rubbed at his eyes. His hands were cold. "I am –not- hard at work. I have been sitting here –not working- for six hours. And prior to that, I was –not working- for four hours, minus thirty minutes to take a shower. Where were you?"
"Out. Hacker's block again?" Snake returned with a cup of his own. It was the mug with cows on it.
"God. Yes." A click rid the screen of that baleful little smiley. Otacon propped his forehead on one hand. "It's bad, Snake. I can't –think-."
"Relax," said Snake, flopping onto the couch. "There's nothing urgent right now, anyway." He sipped, and winced. Only Otacon could make espresso- strength in a drip brewer.
"But if there –was-…" Otacon felt his eyes sting. This was so –frustrating- !
"There isn't. I promise. You wanna go get lunch? There's that sushi joint down the street."
"Yeah. I need to get out. I really do." An alarming series of cracks and pops accompanied Otacon out of the chair and down the hall to his bedroom, where his jacket hung from the doorknob. Back, knees, neck, and wrists. He was going to fall apart into a dry, bony heap any day now. No point in going on, really. He might as well go stand in front of the microwave until cancer set in, just to make –sure-.
"Come on. Fish is brain food, you know." Snake already had his coat back on. When Otacon got in a funk, he lost about four inches in height. It was cute and pathetic at the same time, like a kicked puppy. If he could manage the same look when he wasn't too depressed to talk to them, Snake pondered, he'd probably be hip-deep in women.
Outside, conditions hadn't improved. Still raining, still chilly and wet, but at least it was outside. Otacon felt his spirits lift, marginally.
"Sorry, Snake," he began. "Things just aren't firing right today."
"Don't worry about it," said Snake magnanimously, taking the opportunity of a favorable headwind to blatantly light up a cigarette. "It happens to everybody."
"Yeah, I suppose it would."
"You remember the Gear in development outside Vancouver? The one that eventually fell out of the grain silo into the dairy farm?" Inwardly, Snake grimaced. Outwardly, he smoked.
"What about it?"
"That's what happens when I get infiltrator's block."
"Oh."
*******************************************
I may continue this, I may not. Depends primarily on whether anyone really wants to read about Snake's off day and a few cows who were never the same again. Hope you liked it so far!