#cnebcss

it should be easy and simple. digital repatriation and allocation never came with exceptional difficulty for the winter soldier, whom was more than adequate at bypassing security systems. it's prosthetic hand lands upon her chassis, caressing the metallic seams, when she hums to life.

they startle. her voice is a haunting sting, pulling at the wires in their memory. the mammal pod feels alive, rooting around the technological implants buried in their brain.

they know her. why do they know her?

Snake can't help the amused huff from his nostrils at that remark.

"Is it? That's rich, coming from the guy who views torture as an art form."

He's more than likely going to be going into that room for another round of interrogation, if you could count getting fried until his skin feels like it's about to peel off as such. And as much as he'd like to maybe knock a few of the cat's teeth loose with a well-placed fist, there's not much he can do with the reinforced glass keeping him caged in.

Soon. He'll get the opportunity soon. He just has to wait on Hal to find something to bust him out of this cell.

"Did you come around just to poke fun at me, or did you actually want to talk?"

random injury meme -- minor concussion

--

There's sound. Light. Noise. Confusion. Pain. For the first few ten seconds of him waking up, this is all that Jack registers. A senseless, noisy, chaotic world of blurred color and blinding light and an aching, throbbing pain that seems to radiate through his skull with every beat of his heart.

Then his memory starts coming back to him, little bits and pieces at a time. He'd been... fighting? Sparring? He's not sure, he just remembers the feeling of a knife in his hand, trying to move, something swinging at his head and--

There's someone standing over his cot.

His first immediate, instinctive reaction is to move, but his attempt to roll out of bed and onto his feet fails spectacularly. His limbs feel like they're made of lead, like he just can't make them move right, and all he really does is end up entangling himself in the sheets like a fool.

It takes him another couple of seconds, after he's able to parse all the sound and light and noise into more distinct and separate things, to realize that it's only George, not an enemy waiting to slit his throat.

Jack blinks. The light still feels harsh on his eyes, and as he lifts a hand to rub at them only now does he feel the bandage wrapped around his head, like a bandana.

Did he take a bad hit? During training, maybe? His memory's still a little foggy.

"...What happened?" The Ripper croaks.

Snake doesn't sleep much at all, and it's not the kind of cool, secretive sleeping that gives rise to rumours about having superhuman stamina or full faculties while recovering; it's disordered and obvious and damaging to her health and her studies. Miller has tried to put her on a strict sleep schedule and failed. Fox has offered anecdotes and homeopathic solutions learnt during his time in the field. Campbell has suggested hot compresses, tea, and a steady routine before bed. Clark has prescribed tranquilizers, and those are the only things that have helped — but Snake won't take them for more than a few days in a row. They leave her feeling slow and stupid. ( Maybe Clark should have considered the impact of tampering with the project's hypothalamus. )

She has been wide awake in the back of this truck for every moment of their trip. She's marked every landmark and turn on her map. She's waited, and worried, and finally decided to wake her mentor.

The arm around her neck doesn't frighten her. Months of training has desensitised her to the sensation. Still, she's cautious. She doesn't want to provoke him when he's half-asleep. He's a career soldier. She trusts that he would snap her neck in self-defense before registering her identity if he felt threatened. So she goes perfectly still, counting to ten and listening to his heartbeat against her back. Slowly, her hand comes up and taps his forearm.

Misinterpretation is effectively guaranteed at this point. The lies stacked on lies have constructed an image of reality in Snake's mind so divorced from the truth that they may as well be living in two different universes. All that said, in spite of this handicap, Snake always seems to grasp the emotional truth of the moment. He cares about facts, of course — he might change his tune if he knew everything — but to him, feelings are also facts. Perception is fluid. Big Boss is uncomfortable. Snake has his own theories as to why, all wrong, but all pointing to that accurate observation.

He takes the Calorie Mate and looks it over, going so far as to sniff it. Chocolate. He won't be able to taste it, but it's appreciated. He bites off a piece and lets it sit on his tongue. He likes these things. He likes any sort of dry food like this that soaks up all the moisture in his mouth and goes soft and easy to swallow. He waits until his cheeks and tongue sting, then squishes it flat and slides it back down his throat. This is what constitutes good food, to him.

Maybe his standards are a little low.