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Entry tags:

metal gear: kazuhira miller

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Who:

Thread 1: Harry Hart | Kazuhira Miller | Big Boss (Later)

Thread 2: Deacon

When:

Thread 1: Ambiguous

Thread 2: After their decontamination.

Where:

Thread 1: On the ship in the training simulation room

Thread 2: Bar

What:

Thread 1: Kaz decides that he wants to practice to get better with his new limbs and makes a very dumb mistake and lets out a secret

Thread 2: Drinking

Warnings:

Thread 1: Woops

Thread starters in entry. Monthly catch all.

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If they follow the rules we think, then I should be poison to her. [He admits.]

I'm the child of a comfort woman. I came out of the womb lacking purity and virtue.

[But he doesn't sound particularly ashamed of his mother.]

So I'm guessing a comfort woman isn't just someone who gives really awesome hugs.

[This isn't a term that he's heard or read before, although he can work it out from the context.]

But, hey, it's okay. I'm probably unicorn poison, too. If an army of invading unicorns attacks, we can totally run to the front lines and ward them off. And then people will call us heroes, the saviors of the people from the vicious unicorn invasion.

Prostitute. [He shrugs.] And business owner. Once she got some money, she opened her own shop. She did what she needed not only to survive, but to succeed.

[He's very proud of his mother, even if it had been obvious that a child had been a little much for her. Especially as she grew more ill.]

I would expect your world would have some mean fucking unicorns. No doubt about it. We could save the planet.

Sounds like she did pretty well for herself. I imagine that raising a kid alone is super hard.

[When Deacon thinks back on his own mother, trying to take care of tiny Deacon all on her own, he feels guilty for the hell he put her through.]

The unicorns from my world would probably have, like, three heads and six-inch fangs and spit radioactive poison and have a ravenous hunger for flesh. They'd be fucking terrible unicorns, and the people who went out and shot the unicorns in the face would be doing the world a favor.

[His gestures as he speaks are getting looser and larger. He taps two fingers emphatically on the table as he describes the hypothetical unicorns. Pause. Grab his glass to finish off another drink. Set it down. He doesn't order another right away.]

I should tell you that you're special, because, you see, tonight is the last night I'm going to drink for a while. So this is, like, the last dance and it's yours. Only instead of dancing it's booze. Dancing would be such a bad idea right now. I'd get totally wasted as a final hurrah before going dry, but I can't right here because this place is too exposed and, like, anyone could walk in and blow my head off so I need to be able to keep my aim straight. And one of my roommates is a psycho-robot who might slit my throat one day, so that's so not a safe place to pass out. But, yeah, this is the last time for a while.

[Ramble complete, he nudges his glass with one finger and watches it slide, leaving a wet streak of condensation where it passes.]

Which psycho robot?

[Because he knows a few, and he realizes, upon saying that, it feels commonplace and that shouldn't feel commonplace at all.]

Hey, if you ever decide to take it easy, Nomo deck rooms have couches. [Which means that he has one.]

God, I know, we have so many psycho robots around that it's hard to keep them all straight sometimes.

My psycho robot--android really--is a guy named Prometheus. He has blue hair and a triangle on his forehead and an ax-murderer smile. You can't miss him.

Are you offering me your couch?

When you're worried about the ax-murderer robot, then I'm pretty sure my roommates would understand, yeah.

[Seems like a simple enough offer. People looked out for each other, right?] Is this your first stint in a structured crew?

Oh yeah. I usually go solo. I mean, I check in with my HQ every few weeks, but HQ isn't exactly structured either. And staying in close quarters with someone for too long, it makes me kinda twitchy.

So...roommates...it's sure a thing. An awful, paranoia-inducing thing. Sometimes I want to go to the garden and just sleep in a tree or something.

Wouldn't want you rooming with someone that would encourage that bad opinion of your kind. [Indicating he still believed Deacon there.]

I tell you what, you try to do that, I'll sing you a lullaby.

[No one wants Miller to sing them a lullaby. Run.]

The bitch of it is, I want to help Prometheus. I mean, he hasn't killed me yet, so we're doing okay so far, right? I just don't ever want to be asleep in his presence, or in a place where he could feasibly sneak up on me.

[He grins at the idea of Kaz singing a lullaby.]

Is it the one that involves, like, babies falling out of trees and breaking their skulls open? Because that is a fucked up thing to sing to kids, even by post-apocalyptic standards.

They're all in Japanese. I don't really know any English ones, I'll be honest. They're called "cradle songs", though I think my favorite is about a young woman who is sold into work as a nanny for a rich family. She just complains about the baby camera.

You know, in that way you would complain in a sweet voice to someone who didn't understand you, when it was your only way to vent.

I'm not drunk enough to sing it yet. [He goes for another whisky.]

In that case, you totally need to drink more. And then sing it to me. I'll make baby noises if it helps set the mood. Or pretend to be a baby camera, either way. I bet I could do a great impression of a baby camera.

I think you'll have surpassed any redeemable level of drunk if you reach the point of making baby noises.

[Just what he needs, Ocelot coming in on him singing terribly to some older man literally acting like an infant.]

Nah, noises are nothing. If I strip off all my clothes and sit in my whitey tighties and pretend that they're diapers, then I'm irredeemably drunk.

By the way, let's not do that. Don't let me do that.

I have a tranquilizer gun. [He lifts his shot towards Deacon, generally gesturing at him.] I absolutely am not afraid to use it.

[But for once, Kaz looks like he's having a good time. Which happens next to almost never.]

You're a pal. It takes a real friend to shoot a buddy with a tranq to save them from humiliation, instead of just pointing and laughing and possibly taking pictures for future blackmail.

[He leans on his elbows on the table. Deacon feels relaxed, almost safe right now, the paranoia only a soft hum in the back of his mind, easily ignored. It's nice.]

I didn't say I wouldn't take pictures. I said I would do it before you ended up in your underwear.

Believe me, I've done worse, when I was younger. Used to be a guy ready for a fun time. All the time, really. [And there he goes, right back to his whiskey because he needs it. But it's starting to reach his head.]

[Deacon looks over Kaz with an assessing gaze, slightly muzzy from the drinks.]

Yeah. Yeah, I could see you being Mr. Fun. Do you miss it?

Yeah, I miss it.

Don't have it in me anymore, but I miss it. I am... a terrible singer. I'm awful. But I didn't care then.

I would happily sing at the top of my voice. But now... I don't know. Not really shame. Just don't have it in me to sing anymore. [Because that sort of singing, singing for the joy of it, takes a lot of effort.]

Maybe it'll come back someday. Like, sure it'll never be total rainbows and sunshine and glitter again, 'cause you can't ever totally go back, but maybe you'll get to reclaim at least some of it. Because it's not fucking fair if they took away forever not just your home, your comrades, your friends but your...you as well.

Or you can do like me and just fake it so hard that you fool everyone, including yourself, into thinking that you aren't fucked up.

[Maybe he needs another drink after all.]

I faked enough in my life. Might as well be honest about being a terrible person.

[He says it like he believes it, but he's accepted it and knows that he is. He sacrificed all of his idealism for revenge.]

But if you're faking it at least still be on my side.

[He's drunk enough that he won't clearly resemble saying this later.]

See, you're not a terrible person. You're just a guy who did stuff, tried to do the right thing, and sometimes made mistakes. That's not terrible, that's just, like, human. You're a human person.

But I am on your side. Even faking shit, I'm still totally on your side...or side, front, back, anywhere you want me.

[Once the words fall out of his mouth they do not sound like what he meant to convey. The first two times that happened it was semi-controlled: let the brain-to-mouth filter open up and spill out something outrageous to lighten the mood. He may not have known what he was going to say until he heard the words, but he knew he was letting it happen. But this time, that really did just fall out with a thud, like opening an overfilled cabinet. He must be more drunk than he realizes.]

Uh, that last part? Unicorn box.

[Miller turns on his stool, leans on the bar, and gives Deacon the smarmiest look that he can dredge up from the pits of his youth.] With all the things you're putting in the unicorn box you're making it sound like I would have a pretty good time going home with you.

[He mostly wants to see how Deacon will react to that, more than anything.]

[The fresh drink he'd ordered came and he's holding it and thank God he wasn't drinking from it yet because he sputters a surprised laugh.]

Twenty...ish years ago we could have had an awesome time. Not to blow my own...whatever...but I was good.

These days, though, seriously out of practice. I'm sure it's just like riding a bike. Don't do it for a long time and when you try to pick it up again you're fucking terrible and after you're done all your muscles hurt in peculiar places.

[He thumps Deacon's shoulder clumsily.] Don't worry. Even if you could get on the bike I think we are getting to the point we couldn't ride it at all. We'd get pulled over.

[He rocks loosely from the friendly push to his shoulder]

Yeah, right now I don't think I'd be up for riding anything tonight, even if I could anymore. I'd probably fall off or something.

I'm gonna take you up on that couch offer, though, if your roommates don't mind.

I'm sure. Yeah.

And hell. I trust you in my bed if worse comes to worse. Figure you're not the frisky type.

[And there's a special ways that drunk guys can fall asleep in uncomfortable positions and not even be aware of each other.]

If it comes to that, just don't drool on my shirt. It's totally vintage. [aka "two hundred year old, threadbare trash"]

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