An end was before him, one too long in the making.

Volke did not lessen his stride, one hand heavy against his left flank, the cloth of his mask scavenged to stem a wound gained through nothing but his own dysfunction.

Didn’t matter. He was functional enough to complete this task, no matter how the whole of him thrummed with exhaustion. The pedestal was even in his sight, the one piece of intel that hadn’t proven false in this idiot endeavor.

The chasm echoed with the rapid tread of his feet, silence ignored in favor of swiftness. The walkway was narrow, a darkness above and below beyond the scope of his sight. The light within was sparse, but the pedestal was so strangely distinct despite that. Something Volke hadn’t the attention to waste worrying on, lungs tight, every breath more an effort that it should be. Evidence that perhaps more than only his flank and shoulder had suffered bruising.

Still, unnecessary thoughts. Volke could spend his annoyance and aggravation mere hours from now, taking photographic evidence of Metal Gears and watching a better soldier than he function more like a real person than Volke could ever even attempt.

Just had to finish this. Just had to retreat, the relic now in his hand-.

Light burst from his fingers, sight gone, breath gone, the world bursting with color and sound and-.

The walkway was hard against his knees and palms, lungs working so swift and shallow. He-, he was so tired. His legs ached, his chest, a burn spreading behind his eyes as he forced himself to function, to look up at the pedestal, in case there was…

The was no pedestal. Was nothing like it at all, nothing but a-, but a man.

The alley was slick, his hair drenched, the frenzied tread of his feet disrupting every puddle. The water soaked through the ruined layers of his boots, frigid and startling, but Volke had not the time to care, to even attempt to step around.

Not when he was chased. When-, when he’d made a mistake, when papa would be retaken all because Volke had been incapable of keeping him safe, of remaining beyond the scope of all the terrible others intent on having him. On returning him to that terrible dominion, to the chair, even to the forever dreaded ice.

His eyes burned, vision blurred, so wretched a sound nearly given leave to pass his lips.

Hadn’t time to be so defective, to do anything but shoulder past the door of the blighted building they’d taken refuge in. It was dry here, and so barely warm through the torn and wrecked state of his gear, but Volke could take no pleasure in that. Not when he had to gather his father and retreat from this makeshift haven.

-

“У меня есть ты, папа,” Volke promised, papa’s right arm over his shoulders, drawn so tight and sturdy as he could when the whole of him felt moments from dysfunction, from faltering beyond a point of repair.

The scarred vehicle he’d taken possession looked no different in appearance, but if Volke could just get his stumbling father to its door and out of the rain, he was sure it would run. 

Superior stepped with variable purpose.

Volke was uncertain of what assumptions to make, as unfamiliar as he was with this man’s stride. The images and briefings at that strange place of pillars and non-combatants had given him little understanding of what to expect of a superior that evidently often walked in bright colors, armed with little beyond his strange round weapon.

Or so the walls of that pillar place had claimed. Superior was not garbed so at present as he approached Volke’s current perch, though to watch him silently from the rooftops was still accomplished with a long known ease despite the lack of stripes and helm. Recon was never truly a hardship though, no matter if his objective was dressed as non-combatant or otherwise. But to be seen, to conform to a new superior’s expectations, therein forever lied Volke’s difficulty. Already he was sure that the Shield would be wroth. That he would no doubt be displeased and on the cusp of violence to see Volke without his mask, no gear left but his blades and the ragged expanse of his uniform

The concrete of the floor is no different despite the years, is still known, coarse and rough against his face, his hands, scuffing the denim of his knees when they fling him within. He cannot catch himself, has not that coherence, still a frigid sickness in his blood, behind his eyes, evidence of some substance made for little beyond dominion.

There is nothing about this terrible place that has any function past such. No purpose beyond leashing, beyond control, little more intended than the forging of violence and weapons and-.

Has to stop. Has to think, to forget how worthless and defective he is to have been retaken, after so long untethered. 

Volke pushes up on arms that seem more like water than flesh, such a lack in his strength, in his balance. He can barely get to his knees, to move away from the front bars of this prison, pressing against the stone wall at the back. Can’t stop how his breaths go shallow, fright pulsing with each beat of his unnatural heart. It spreads so quick, so effortlessly, always has. Volke hates that forever dysfunction within himself and lifts a hand to bite at the crux of his thumb and finger. He cannot be silent, but he can try, can smother the heavy desperation of his lungs, the pain a white hot distinction from the roiling strangeness within.

Just has to wait, to give his flawed body time to act, to destroy the drug within. Can’t be much longer, not with how long it took the operatives to get him here, to force him into halls he’d never intended again to shiver within. 

Sight grows less indistinct before his thoughts will slow from their terrored pace. The cell is unchanged since last Volke was forced inside, but the rest of this dungeon is not. There is disturbed dust on the floor and webs hanging from the dark of the ceiling, rust clinging to the metal conduit that runs along the outer walls, orange and encrusted, as if this base has been flooded at some point. Still this place is frigid, a forever chill that even now passes through his torn shirt, though Volke never before recalled a draft here.

Not sure if that matters, but there is nothing else he can attempt at present, little but recon that can possibly slow the pace of his heart.

Should detach from the tether.

The thought was vague, ill formed. Made an immediate shame and disagreement flare in his chest. T8 knew better than to consider such, to even think it. Superior had cuffed him here and expected obedience, expected him to be there when she returned, lurking here by the back wall.

Wasn’t allowed to uncuff himself, but...

But base was not how it sound be. Alarms rang in the distance, a shouted fervor from the groups of operatives that had rushed past the armory door. There was a perimeter breach, something similar at least, and T8 knew he was supposed to be terminating the invading hostiles, knew it was his place. His function.

But Superior had chained him.

Hadn’t even cared that T8 was already masked, already geared to go. Alarms had rent the air, and immediately he’d been ordered to the wall, one arm forced through a metal cuff before Superior left, a strange procedure that the intermittent haze behind his eyes insisted was new.

His feet ached, from heel to the extent of his toes, a low pain that pulsed in time with the throb behind his eyes.

Volke wasn’t sure why, but they did. The same as his hands, his arms, a total tire the length of his body. His stomach churned, empty and aggrieved. Been so long since he’d successfully eaten, since he’d been able to keep anything his father insisted he eat down.

Everything lay sour in his gut, bitter on his tongue, and it took daily restraint to keep it all in until papa left.

Wasn’t forced to that today, no food to be had. Volke had been useful, had fought and bloodied his fists, no matter how terrible it always was to be surrounded by a ring of almost-hostiles, all so loud and brash, shouting at each dribble of blood. He’d done well though, had accomplished the objective, but the reward had been wrong. Had still been paper, thin currency, but not like he’d been used to, strangely colored. 

None of the supply or fuel buildings had taken it, had refused him water and sustenance and yelled so furiously in his face.

Shame curled in his chest again, closing his throat, even though papa had assured him he wasn’t defective. Didn’t know if that was true though. Didn’t think it could be. Not when his father was forced to go hungry, to exist on nothing but his own strength for the day.

Hurt.

Everything hurt.

Was like his blood was boiling, his bones replaced by fire and salt. Flesh trembled, terror a wet track from his eyes. Sight was something unreal, shapes and depth grainy and indistinct, blurred past the drying presence of tears.

Just felt raw, flayed open and left to rot.

Took a moment to breathe, to realize he already was, that the aching movement of his lungs was function, was necessary. A moment more and he knew himself, his legs, his restrained arms, the stabbing despair that pulsed from his skull, the memory of electric blue pain dancing behind his eyes.

But...but he was still here. Was still Volke. The pain had come, but the rest had not. He was still the same. Still terrified and hurt and defective.

There’d been a mistake. He knew not how, knew not even what, but the chair had failed. The chair had not taken him away from himself, and Superior didn’t even know. Superior was not here, not even a technician, the Workshop empty when Volke found the strength to tip his head forward, lungs still moving so heavy.

-

To move was terrible. Was not even allowed.

Everything Volke had the intention for was not allowed. Was...was maybe why Superior had forced him to the cage, where sedation was never avoidable. Couldn’t resist the chair then. Or anything that came after.

Didn’t matter. Not now. Not when Volke was before his father’s cell, tapping gently on the door, an old code. One that said he was alone, that there were none about. That papa should not be nervous when Volke hacked the lock and came within.

Not sure if he’s ever been collared before.

The length of metal circles his throat tightly beneath the dreaded mask, a constant presence all around. He can breathe, but not optimally. Still, function is not disrupted to a terrible extent, at least not enough that Superior had allowed T8 to be spared from this new tether.

The technician had activated it once before T8 was sent towards his objective. That had been horridly familiar, a surging of electric ache, fire in his bones and blood. Had never come from a collar before, or anything but the chair. Had not even been so encompassing as the chair, but still sudden. Still terrible. Had still forced the usual sick fright into T8′s chest, docility lowering his eyes and forcing a tremble to his hands.

The collar would come off, Superior had said. But only when he completed the objective. Only when he returned, the Soldier with him, be it terminated or captured. T8 hadn’t understood why he had to be collared, still doesn’t. Objectives are always to be completed. T8 exists for no other purpose, is coded for mission, crafted to be the long reach of the superiors. Already he is nothing, but to ever leave an objective undone would to be less, to be the extent of defective, of broke, of useless, of wrong.