#spctsnaz

                      “There’s--been a bit of a problem.” 

              Setbacks always seemed to be the downfall of scientists under the control of Evil. Never mind the fact that the ‘problem’ wasn’t so much his work, but that he was being forced to finish it for this terrorist group in the first place. But, semantics. Maybe he wasn’t taking this as seriously as he should (let blame be placed on his misguided adoration for a certain sniper). Then again, the longer he remained in the presence of this particular man, the more anxious he felt. 

Attractiveness:

repulsive || hideous || ugly || not attractive || unappealing || not unattractive || meh || no preference || ok || mildly attractive || nice looking || cute || adorable || attractive || pleasant on the eyes || good looking || hot || sexy || beautiful || gorgeous || hot damn || would tap that || perfect || godlike || holy fuck there are no words

Personality:

grating || irritating || frustrating || boring || confusing at best || awkward || unreasonable || psychotic || disturbing || interesting || engaging || affectionate || aggressive || ambitious || anxious || artistic || bad tempered || bossy || charismatic || appealing || unappealing || creative || courageous || dependable || unreliable || unpredictable || predictable || devious || dim || extroverted || introverted ||  egotistical || gregarious || fabulous || impulsive || intelligent || sympathetic || talkative || up beat || peaceful || calming || badass || flexible

How likely they would have sex with them:

not if they were the last person on earth and the world was ending || fuck no! || never || no way || not likely || not sure || indifferent || I’m asexual || maybe || probably || it depends || fairly likely || likely || yeah sure || yes || would tap that || hell yes || fuck yes! || wishing that could happen right now || as many times as possible || we are already having sex

Level of Friendship:

never in a million years || worst of enemies || enemies || rivals || indifferent || neutral || acquaintance || friendly toward each other || casual friends? || friends || good friends || best friends || fuck buddies || bosom buddies || practically the same person || would die for them || true friends || my only friend ||

First impression of them:

I hate them so much || I don’t like them || I don’t trust them || they annoy me || they’re weird || I’m indifferent || meh || they seem alright || they’re growing on me || truce || I think I like them || I like them || I’m not sure if I trust them || I trust them || they’re cool || they’re genuine || I think we’re going to get along || I really like them || I think I’m in love || oh fuck they’re hot || I love them

Current impression of them:

I hate them so much || I don’t like them || I don’t trust them || they annoy me || they’re weird || I’m indifferent || meh || they seem alright || they’re growing on me || truce || I think I like them || I like them || I’m not sure if I trust them || I trust them || they’re cool || they’re genuine || I think we’re going to get along || I really like them || I think I’m in love || oh fuck they’re hot || I love them

How good of a kisser:

“Hold it like this.” Snake said, guiding other’s hands. “Yes, good. Remember to rest it against your shoulder like this... Good, good... I’ll take some of the recoil on myself, don’t worry.”

3.Your muse suddenly grips my muse’s hair.

Day seventeen of willing captivity. His journey had brought him to Tselinoyarsk, halfway across the world from Chicago, Illinois, home of the ever effervescent Jack Stone. He had wandered into an occupied military base, called out the commander, and allowed himself to be captured. He could easily escape at any moment, and his life was not in danger, this was simply for amusement. Millenia of travel between dimensions and worlds and universes had worn thin on his already nonexistent sense of self. 

The sun rose. Morning. His holding cell, damp and filled with overgrown nature, had begun to smell of death -- he had been accompanied to this imprisonment with two others, but they gave in to death quickly. They were good soldiers, they could handle the captivity itself, but the torture. It was a man called Ocelot that did them in, eventually. He reminded Red of that man, and it was for that reason that his face twists into a smile when Ocelot saunters into his cell. 

Red is chained to the wall, he hangs there like a lost tarot card, he has given his body the appearance of a lost, starving man -- all bones, no skin. He raises his head, face gaunt, eyes sunken in. He’s dead, death, dying. Lips chapped, flesh dry. He’s everything the textbook description of a dying man is, and somehow more.

“Приходите, чтобы собрать информацию, которую я уже охотно махнули рукой?” the accent, the voice, it all comes naturally to him. He is Russian. 

“Почему вы дали себя?” Ocelot’s comes even more natural. Red may be the textbook description of death, but Ocelot is the abstract. His eyes dart from the corpses back to Red in a matter of milliseconds. A fighter’s eyes. “Запах вас не беспокоит?”

Red doesn’t answer the second question. It’s small talk, words with an edge to them. Answer them, and they have the truth. It’s a game he’s all too familiar with. “Почему я не должен? Там не было никакого выхода для меня.”

“Бред сивой кобылы.” A curse on Ocelot’s lips is heaven to Red’s ears. That tinge of rage bubbling up, he could use it to his advantage. Ocelot steps closer to Red, careful, slow steps that show just maybe, maybe he’s playing Red, too. “Вы не солдат. Солдат боролись бы, как и они.” he gestures to the bodies, somehow less skeletal than Red.

Red laughs, an empty, hollow sound. “Кто сказал, что я был солдатом?”

Ocelot’s face contorts, and that tinge of rage is blown into full on anger. His hand moves faster than Red can follow and, briefly, Red is impressed. His knuckles slam into Red’s face with surprising force, and a substance like blood flies out from his mouth. “Тогда что ты !? ЦРУ? ФБР?” He composes himself, straightens his stance, offers a small, brief clearing of his throat. “Гребаный турист?”

“Мужчина.”

“Мужчина?” here, Ocelot laughs, hearty, full of life and love. “Человек не говорит, что он человек.”

“Сожалею. Ты прав. Я демон. Дьявол в маскировке.” his smile only spreads, showing teeth, fangs bared against God.

There’s silence between the two for a few minutes, and somewhere outside, Red hears the chatter of two guards. Something about Ocelot -- something about a snake? He isn’t sure. He doesn’t bother asking, it isn’t worth his time. And, just when he is about to speak once more, Ocelot hunkers down in front of Red. His hands, gloved like Red’s own, grab hold of Red’s hair with a firm, authoritative grip. It does not hurt, does not sting, instead, it is relief. 

To Ocelot, however, it is commanding. It is the truth. Red could respect that. “Ты не дьявол. Я видел дьявола. Он ...” He pauses, and this is curious. Ocelot’s gaze shifts from Red to the corners of the cell, and then, he leans forward, lips pressed firmly to the side of Red’s head. A whisper works its way into his ear. “Мы увидим, что вы во времени. Мужчины не переживет этого, они были людьми. Дьяволы не позволяют себе быть захвачены. Вы ни.” He pushes away from Red, stares at him for a few moments, and then turns to walk away.

“Hell is empty. And all the devils are here.” Red intones, and his head falls back down, hair lapping in waves. 

Ocelot stops for a few seconds, turns his head, and then, leaves the cell and the devil behind.