It never felt manipulative at first: it was a natural progression, the nonlethal detainment and the subsequent increase of whispers that permeated enemy camps. This was how it worked, the parasitic nature of his name, his reputation. A man crawls from the bottom of a foxhole and trembles at the thought of the death he'd narrowly avoided, and his awe is passed on through exaggerations.
It never felt manipulative. It never felt as though he were perpetuating something right beyond his reach, or adding more nails into a coffin of his own construction. When Miller congratulated him (he's never seen Kaz so emphatic, white teeth reflected in sunlight and his walls drawn down the way they used to be way back when, back in—), when Ocelot spread his arms wide in a caricature of the world just within their grasp ("Let the legend come back to life"), it'd never felt like his cause was as cyclical as the nature of war.
But even Rip Van Winkle wakes up to know the consequences of time, and he sees it here, now, as plainly as if it'd been laid out to him, word for word. Even a simple extraction mission is an echo of the fire that'd been started in 1974. Monetization of bloodshed, a mad scrabble to fortify oneself against newer, stronger forces.
'Big Boss came back from hell, and we need to do what we can to survive.'
Eventually, Eli's tinny voice over his headset wakes him from his thoughts.
"—Looks like discretion's not gonna be an option." Stealth is for people with time to spare; they haven't any. Linger for too long, and they'll be burnt to ashes by unforgiving air raids. "If you've secured the target, take him and start heading back to our original LZ. If anyone finds you—"
Uncharacteristically, his conviction wavers. There is white noise, interrupted by the thunder of motors, which prompts Venom to finish his sentence.
"—Use your judgment."
As much of a permission to kill if she must. His breaths taste like ashes from his throat, but there's no time to dawdle— he kicks off from his perch in the grass to rendezvous with his charge, engaging in combat with two frenzied soldiers who clumsily hold grenade launchers which are half the length of their bodies. They can't be more than 16, 17 years old.
They lie with their faces in the dirt when Venom is done with them, and he has a fleeting notion that they'll die here, on this day. He clamps down on the emotions that threaten to leaden his feet at the revelation.
He takes one of their weapons as a tribute, and speeds through the jungle to find his companion.
no subject
It never felt manipulative. It never felt as though he were perpetuating something right beyond his reach, or adding more nails into a coffin of his own construction. When Miller congratulated him (he's never seen Kaz so emphatic, white teeth reflected in sunlight and his walls drawn down the way they used to be way back when, back in—), when Ocelot spread his arms wide in a caricature of the world just within their grasp ("Let the legend come back to life"), it'd never felt like his cause was as cyclical as the nature of war.
But even Rip Van Winkle wakes up to know the consequences of time, and he sees it here, now, as plainly as if it'd been laid out to him, word for word. Even a simple extraction mission is an echo of the fire that'd been started in 1974. Monetization of bloodshed, a mad scrabble to fortify oneself against newer, stronger forces.
'Big Boss came back from hell, and we need to do what we can to survive.'
Eventually, Eli's tinny voice over his headset wakes him from his thoughts.
"—Looks like discretion's not gonna be an option." Stealth is for people with time to spare; they haven't any. Linger for too long, and they'll be burnt to ashes by unforgiving air raids. "If you've secured the target, take him and start heading back to our original LZ. If anyone finds you—"
Uncharacteristically, his conviction wavers. There is white noise, interrupted by the thunder of motors, which prompts Venom to finish his sentence.
"—Use your judgment."
As much of a permission to kill if she must. His breaths taste like ashes from his throat, but there's no time to dawdle— he kicks off from his perch in the grass to rendezvous with his charge, engaging in combat with two frenzied soldiers who clumsily hold grenade launchers which are half the length of their bodies. They can't be more than 16, 17 years old.
They lie with their faces in the dirt when Venom is done with them, and he has a fleeting notion that they'll die here, on this day. He clamps down on the emotions that threaten to leaden his feet at the revelation.
He takes one of their weapons as a tribute, and speeds through the jungle to find his companion.
"Talk to me."