Liquid Snake | 'James Moriarty' (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
liquidouroboros) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
towerofanimus2013-01-24 09:29 pm
liquidouroboros) wrote in towerofanimus2013-01-24 09:29 pm
Entry tags:
⚕ // way to fall
Characters: Liquid and anyone in the Tower
Setting: The workshop and the library
Format: I'll try to match.
Summary: New (old) uniform, same sarcastic jerk.
Warnings: None yet.
[floor fifteen]
[Liquid was rarely an easy man to find in the Tower. Being a stealth operative by nature led him to make himself scarce; being highly paranoid led him to stay that way. He was rarely seen anywhere but the network, and even then only when someone amused or bewildered him enough that it was deemed a necessity to speak up. While he tended to speak loudly and at great length, there were few people these days that Liquid deemed worth the effort of speaking to at all.]
[Addressing his little 'gift' from the tower was something that took quite some time to call 'worth the effort' as well. It was something he'd discarded years before, something which held only what one could call 'sentimental value'.]
[Hatred was a sentiment, right? Then yeah, sentimental value.]
[But if that was the case--which Liquid repeatedly assured himself it was--then why bother wearing it? The old FOXHOUND uniform was nothing special: fatigues, combat boots, and a long dark brown trenchcoat. (No shirt, of course, because Liquid was the kind of man who spent around sixty percent of his time without one.) The coat was the only part worth notice; he recalled having once worn it proudly as a commander, and it was almost depressing to see what it had become. Bloodstained, singed, and with several bullet holes in it, this was definitely no longer the uniform of a commander.]
[So for reasons that perplexed even Liquid himself, he had found his way to the fifteenth floor workshop. He had nothing better to do, and simply burning the damned thing seemed impractical.]
[That was the story of how a 6' shirtless soldier with a snake and sword on his left arm came to be sewing up bullet holes in a trenchcoat he would never admit he might have still been attached to. Just a little.]
[floor three]
[It was strange to be wearing his old uniform once more; strange enough that Liquid made a mental note to just throw the damned thing back into his trunk later and never spare a thought to it again. The trenchcoat had a nice dramatic flare to it, but even the melodramatic former commander was regretting not having gotten rid of it immediately.]
[Scowling, Liquid focused on the bookshelf in front of him; there was nothing specific he was after. His current criteria was 'anything that could serve as a distraction'.]
[Damn could this place get boring sometimes.]
Setting: The workshop and the library
Format: I'll try to match.
Summary: New (old) uniform, same sarcastic jerk.
Warnings: None yet.
[floor fifteen]
[Liquid was rarely an easy man to find in the Tower. Being a stealth operative by nature led him to make himself scarce; being highly paranoid led him to stay that way. He was rarely seen anywhere but the network, and even then only when someone amused or bewildered him enough that it was deemed a necessity to speak up. While he tended to speak loudly and at great length, there were few people these days that Liquid deemed worth the effort of speaking to at all.]
[Addressing his little 'gift' from the tower was something that took quite some time to call 'worth the effort' as well. It was something he'd discarded years before, something which held only what one could call 'sentimental value'.]
[Hatred was a sentiment, right? Then yeah, sentimental value.]
[But if that was the case--which Liquid repeatedly assured himself it was--then why bother wearing it? The old FOXHOUND uniform was nothing special: fatigues, combat boots, and a long dark brown trenchcoat. (No shirt, of course, because Liquid was the kind of man who spent around sixty percent of his time without one.) The coat was the only part worth notice; he recalled having once worn it proudly as a commander, and it was almost depressing to see what it had become. Bloodstained, singed, and with several bullet holes in it, this was definitely no longer the uniform of a commander.]
[So for reasons that perplexed even Liquid himself, he had found his way to the fifteenth floor workshop. He had nothing better to do, and simply burning the damned thing seemed impractical.]
[That was the story of how a 6' shirtless soldier with a snake and sword on his left arm came to be sewing up bullet holes in a trenchcoat he would never admit he might have still been attached to. Just a little.]
[floor three]
[It was strange to be wearing his old uniform once more; strange enough that Liquid made a mental note to just throw the damned thing back into his trunk later and never spare a thought to it again. The trenchcoat had a nice dramatic flare to it, but even the melodramatic former commander was regretting not having gotten rid of it immediately.]
[Scowling, Liquid focused on the bookshelf in front of him; there was nothing specific he was after. His current criteria was 'anything that could serve as a distraction'.]
[Damn could this place get boring sometimes.]
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I'll protect you with my life.
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I do not intend to lie to you.
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...Congratulations, that's the most terrifying thing I've ever heard.
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[It most certainly doesn't have anything to do with sending her son to his death in her own world, nope.]
This does not mean I will go easy on you, Liquid.
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[She'd be a hypocrite if she did, after all.]