Live, and you can accomplish much more;

"To write more you need to read more," but what do I read?

oudeteron — Tue, 11 Oct 2016 00:00:30 GMT

Or rather, a better question is what do I want to read.

My relationship with mainstream publishing is strained, to say the least. I have about a million problems with the line people want to forcibly draw between "fan" and "original" fiction on the basis of little more than copyright law, and purchasing traditionally published books always feels subtly like buying into it. Also, there is a certain style in a lot of these published works that comes across as a little...pretentious? Uniform? Now, I'm not summarily calling a diverse bunch of writers bad. I'm saying that there's a certain style and a certain topic range that has a higher chance of being traditionally published, and most of the time that doesn't do it for me (anymore). I'm looking to be proven wrong.

Now in fandom, reading has always felt more genuine. I don't think I need to justify in an LJ post of all places why I think the traditional(ist) view of fandom sells it short, so I'll just focus on what the issues are, right now, for me. You see it used to be much easier to find things I at least moderately enjoyed, and on occasion enjoyed a whole lot, in fandom. It's gotten much harder recently. And again, I'm not making a statement to the effect that there's suddenly a lot of bad writers - there's not. In fact, the reason is me.

Ever since I had the amazing epiphany that in most canons, the characters didn't have to be cis any more than they had to be straight, I've changed how I approach reading and interacting with fandom media. (I also think everyone should have this epiphany to question their own assumption of cis being the default, but I digress.) There's some small acknowledgment of trans (I include nonbinary under that label) interpretation in fandom now, but it's all wrapped in condescending, double-standard rhetoric - particularly the term "headcanon", as if a legitimate reading of a character as trans or any other marginalized group were somehow more "in your head" than the mindless assumption that they all have to be cis, all the time. So that's already something that alienates me, because even when I do find an author or artist who portrays character XYZ as trans, 99% of the time they will preface it with something to the effect of "behold my headcanon. Sorry not sorry."

Maybe you should be sorry for treating trans readings as lesser or somehow intrinsically outlandish. But people prefer to apologize for doing it at all.

That's not even getting into the second, more obvious problem: trans fanworks are rare. Shockingly, disturbingly rare, and the few we get tend to come wrapped in a thick sheet of self-deprecation (often) and deprecation from the outside (almost always).

So nowadays, if I even want to go out looking for fics of my favourite characters, I have to resign myself to the fact that most of them will fail to align with my interpretation of them at the first hurdle. And sure, you "shouldn't" care so much about whether someone is trans or cis. And indeed if the numbers were even, I wouldn't. I'd just read anything indiscriminately, the way I used to back in the old ignorant days of not even realizing existing characters could be trans. But as it stands, with the numbers so overwhelmingly in favour of cis readings - so much that they're not even considered readings, they're considered fact - I can't.

But I'd like to read indiscriminately. I'd love to have that epistemic privilege.

In my primary fandom, if I find any trans fics, they're written by me, my lovely partner, and/or a few mutual friends of ours (as in, think single digits). For art, the number is even lower because unlike the rest of the aforementioned people, I can't draw. But even if I could, the point is that you shouldn't necessarily have to make it to have it. The thing should just be available.

Like most everyone, I get attached to my preferred readings. And when people just sweep through that first layer of interpretation, when they get to that "of course" moment when their interpretation of a character as invariably cis becomes the material of their fic or pic, after a while that kind of hurts. Stupidly, because it's not like they owe me anything. Or even produce their fanworks with a specific intent of distressing someone out there they don't even know. Obviously. Sadly that doesn't change my reading experience.

If I knew someone thought trans interpretation of a character was valid and just chose to write that character as cis on that particular occasion, that would be different. With strangers, though, it's much more realistic to assume that they've either never even considered it or would outright reject it. ("Assume" is probably the wrong word. We've been in enough fights to know people do reject it.)

There's also the fact that you won't have much of an audience if you go against the grain in this regard. I wrote my share of cis-assumed fics. In my main fandom, I eventually left a note at the end of those saying thanks for reading, I'm still happy with the characterization but could you check out my newer work with my current take on their genders? Can you guess which fics are still getting kudos after years and which sit there with a count that doesn't seem to budge?

And yet, and yet. It's not about the numbers or popularity. I don't think it's even particularly about me, in the wider context anyway. But it has resulted in this bizarre practice where I'm actually more likely to read fic for characters I don't care as much about as my primary faves, simply because it won't bother me as much when people immediately jump to the cis assumptions with them. Or I read in fandoms where I wasn't expecting it anyway, or was happier with the cis assumptions there (I generally have no problem reading about cis women because there's already so little representation for them as well, especially in fandom. Although that doesn't mean trans women shouldn't be represented). A nice way to broaden one's horizons perhaps, but no one should feel that alienated from their main fandom interests. No one should feel the need to actively avoid them outside of a specific circle of trustworthy people. And yet, here we are.

The final problem is one of content, and I freely admit I used to be like this myself. Too many trans fics are "about" being trans. Of course that gets boring fast. That's the same format over and over, and usually padded with the worst stereotypes too (alongside a heaping dose of misery). Of course many people wouldn't be interested in writing that. The thing is, neither am I - I want characters who are casually trans. Who do all the same things we've seen them do, only without the assumption that a cis person, usually a cis dude, did it. Who are known to be trans and aren't questioned. Who take a positive stance on it. Oh, and I want porn. I want the full range of moods and genres and plots and situations that have always been available to cis characters.

That's what I'd like to write (more of), and that's what I'd like more people to write. While it's infinitely more valuable to have such a fic written by someone as a labour of love, it would also be nice to live in a world where trans stories can come completely out of left field. And I just don't see the latter happening.

I want to write more. What do I read?

An updated summary of where I'm currently active

oudeteron — Tue, 15 Dec 2015 02:38:46 GMT

So, that fic masterlist up top is extremely outdated. I've written quite a lot in new fandoms that's not been posted here, so let's just go and make a new reference!

My fics on AO3
My Tumblr (less active than it used to be but I still go there occasionally)
Aaand ask me for my gmail/hangouts and skype details if you want. I shared my old AIM with some people here, but haven't used that in over a year because it got hacked (through no fault of my own; in fact I'd changed the password on it like the week before because of the heartbleed bug, but oh well).

Any other sites I should give a go? Where have y'all been?

WHAT IS HAPPENING

oudeteron — Sun, 13 Dec 2015 23:33:54 GMT

Yeah, what is this? A new post! Here! What the heck?!

Well, hi and hi. Yes, I'm using LJ again, as part of a conscious move away from Tumblr with a few others who also feel it's a crappy and stressful platform without essential features that would make using it enjoyable. I know I've made some posts in the past that I was coming back and then didn't, but well, I have been busy and somehow Tumblr always prevailed despite the ridiculous issues. But now I'm about ready to go back to this maybe unpopular, but at least usable platform and my 200+ icons I bought way back when.

So anyway! If you're reading this and still using this site, please do say hi and let's catch up! I have no idea who's still here or not right now, sorry. Remember back in the day when I made a sticky post and dated it forward, thinking it was so far in the future it couldn't possibly be a concern? Well, that date was 3rd December 2015. Joke's on me, but at least now we apparently have a sticky feature. Nice.

Another reason I procrastinated returning here is the fact that there's a lot of old bullshit from the 00s that doesn't sit right with me anymore, but I suppose we can leave that behind and turn over a new leaf. Reassuringly, what I found out in the past several years are pretty nice things. For one, it is possible to move countries. It is possible to find new relationships that completely redefine what seemed good in 2009. It is possible to be trans without either dysphoria or any surgery. These are pretty general statements so who cares if they're public - basically, ignore every terrible emo statement I inflicted on my poor audience here in the past. There's more to life than that and sometimes it helps to get a little "old" and see it.

That said, I do feel old typing this post, like what does this website even look like. But oh well!

Most posts will be friendslocked in the future, with the exception of fics/meta/general public interest stuff. I'm happy to keep existing people and add new if asked. I'm also on hangouts pretty much all the time, so let me know if you want in on that.

A short fic for a fandom I picked up during my LJ hiatus

oudeteron — Mon, 24 Jun 2013 18:45:15 GMT

It's been on AO3 for a while, but I figured I might as well add it to my personal archive here too. On the off-chance anyone happens to be in this fandom, feel free to point me towards comms if any exist. XD (You should be in this fandom. It's epic. I have two other WIPs for it but I guess they're temporarily on hold now that my feels have been hit by Metal Gear to the extreme again. Anyway, here goes.)

Title: Killing Indecision

Fandom: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)

Characters: Kono Kalakaua/Adam Noshimuri

Rating: SFW, no warnings

Summary: A cramped hospital room is no place to make big revelations.

Notes: Set right after Kono’s last conversation with Adam in 3x23. It was a little speculation fic while waiting for the season finale, and I'm pleased the finale didn't throw it straight into "that makes no sense now" territory. (Granted, I copped out of that risk mostly by not giving it a definite ending one way or the other, BUT OH WELL.)

Disclaimer: I’m selling nothing; no copyright infringement intended.

Killing Indecision

And then his phone rang. His phone rang in stereo.

Curiosity turned into a cold-edged sense of betrayal as Adam took a step toward the source of the sound, disregarding privacy, disregarding everything for a few seconds except the desperate urge to find out. He surprised even himself by how calmly he held the twin phones next to each other, evaluating. No tremor in his hands, but he guessed that the well-practiced look of calm appraisal he’d normally wear regardless of whether or not he actually felt it was slipping.

“We need to talk.”

Adam had never liked that phrase—it signaled trouble, usually trouble he would be stuck resolving. But as he processed those matching numbers, he figured that, clearly, this time he was not the only one who had to make adjustments.

Make amends.

He’d been making amends for months now—about “the business,” his father’s legacy, his brother’s criminally frustrating stubbornness that was just starting to be a bit too literal for comfort. Then there was his own inability to ever be direct about what he was attempting to do, except in transactions with people who only made him appear more suspect to Kono and her friends. What leg did he have to stand on, if the rest of them had this much reason to think he was Yakuza still?

Kono must have been worried enough about that particular scenario to investigate further, and got herself shot because of Adam no matter how anyone tried to slice it. She had thought it necessary to look. Was it surprising she’d done some research before launching what amounted to a rogue covert op?

The phones fell silent in Adam’s hands, synchronized. He stared at them for a long moment as though willing them to disappear, then reluctantly dropped Kono’s right back among her things.

He didn’t blame her, not really. Or at least not only.

Still…

Asking him to start explaining himself was a tall order now there was physical proof that he hadn’t been the only one with secrets. It was almost amusing how much this reminded him of police procedure where a discovery like this would normally be reason to celebrate—a case closed, a puzzle pieced neatly together. Truth to be told, Kono’s recent behavior around him, tense and on a perpetual lookout, made perfect sense in this double-edged context of being both the concerned partner and the inventive spy. In a way, it was almost a relief to know why.

But the sleuthing could have been on an assignment. What if the whole thing…

He shut that thought down with a force usually reserved for regrets about the family and stuffed it into the same mental black box. No way that was it. Back when they first got involved, Kono had believed he was cleaning up his act, or was at least trying. These suspicions were recent and far from unprovoked. The rest couldn’t be that obvious, that…instrumental.

Or he wouldn’t still be here, mulling over it all and feeling so damn helpless.

“Don’t leave, okay?”

He wasn’t going to, was he?

aaah I feel like the flakiest flake to ever have flaked

oudeteron — Sun, 16 Jun 2013 22:48:18 GMT

People. PEOPLE. I've become so bad at this LJ thing that at this point all I expect is for you to kick me, but in case anyone still wants to have anything to do with my sorry ass, please do not hesitate to check here! (And if you follow, let me know who's you unless you have the same username.)

Now. I had a bad case of guilt trip about LJ these past months, irrational as that sounds. Basically...my former method of LJing no longer feels productive to me, blogging the way I used to. I used to mainly need textual introspection (and, accordingly, this blog became more and more private) - but I got progressively more busy with my current uni and freelancing and activism and whatnot, and writing about all those things in that much detail after dealing with them from day to day just started to feel like a chore. So I went over to Tumblr, which operates more along the lines of "post whatever comes to your goddamn mind, silly or deep, short of long, add your commentary or don't, create the post from scratch or add onto something else, no specific format required." This has felt massively beneficial to my random schedule, but also my current state of mind. I still do introspection, but I seldom feel the need to write it coherently out like I usually did here. To be honest, I'm kinda done introspecting about things I could as well say in public and make a difference by saying them outside of a private circle. Tumblr lets you do that, if that's your goal. Tags are easy to track.

The thing is, LJ has been part of my life for a long time, and I started feeling guilty about not posting here. Which, of course, I resolved by avoiding this place, because that's what you do when you have anxiety related to your own blog/writing. And this is where the unintentional asshole part comes in, because even if my writing habits have changed, I've been basically ignoring everyone who hasn't moved to Tumblr. Not to mention every comm here, if they're still even active.

So, if there are still people watching this space, I'm really sorry about disappearing and I still care if you're here. I also seem to have worked out the underlying issue I've had with LJ in the past couple...months, so chances are that I'll start BEING HERE again, even if mostly to comment and sometimes cross-archive things. Definitely not deleting.

yes tl;dr HI FOR REAL?

Nemesis mine~

oudeteron — Sun, 11 Nov 2012 00:40:12 GMT

Yet again, I've been running between school and queer workshops/events/lectures to the point that I've only been home to sleep most days. The tiredness and constant lack of time no thanks to the added transportation conditions are beginning to get most annoying, but I've been enjoying it all a lot otherwise. Not going to get into more detail in a public post, but it's good!

Also, spending so much time watching powerful films is reawakening my creativity in that lovely for-its-own-sake way. So here's something I started ages ago, then procrastinated on, then reread and procrastinated again, and finally felt capable of pulling off now. Enjoy!

Title: Flow Unbroken
Theme Set: Epsilon at 1sentence
Characters: Takeda Shingen/Uesugi Kenshin; mentions of Naoe Kanetsugu
Summary: Being but fifty passing moments of one rivalry without hostility.
Rating: Slightly NSFW for amazingly vague references to war, drinking, and sexual-ish subtext?
Notes: Shingen and Kenshin, the best historical alliance that never was. I'm drawing upon an alternate-history take on the two of them as told in their respective stories in Samurai Warriors 2, where they eventually join forces. ("Nemesis" is Kenshin's customary address for Shingen in the English release of the game.) The sentences themselves are all loosely connected but not arranged in any set chronological order. Any feedback is loved and put on a pedestal.
Thanks to cherrytruck and shinigami_yumi for testing out whether this whole thing even worked outside my own head.
Disclaimer: Samurai Warriors belongs to Koei.

»01 / Motion
Kenshin is capable of sitting still, biding his time; it's what separates him from his young apprentice who is visibly itching to best the man Kenshin has begun to refer to only as his Nemesis.

»02 / Cool
The air over the battlefield is chill at night, but not enough to stop Kenshin from hovering just outside the encampments—from there, he can gaze across the river, and he chooses to do so more than once that night, trying in vain to gauge how Shingen makes it through these dawdling hours.

»03 / Young
“Don't worry, kid, you'll get there!” is likely the last item on the list of things most would ever dare to shout Kenshin's way, but Shingen dives right in and even earns a smile for his candour.

»04 / Last
The fourth battle at Kawanakajima should be their decisive one, but—for all the mighty talk of settling the score coming from both sides—neither can imagine a rivalry such as theirs could be concluded so easily.

»05 / Wrong
As Shingen sits subdued on the ground, hands bound behind his back, he awaits the blade's hot touch on his neck peacefully enough, but all that comes is the snap of a rope that sets him free.

»06 / Gentle
They hurl challenges at each other whenever their paths cross, and every time, it is Shingen whose comments are merely teasing, even as Kenshin's voice rises in vehemence.

»07 / One
“Now I want us to fight together,” says Kenshin after that last bout, before they join hands on a cup of wine.

»08 / Thousand
Kenshin can only conclude that Shingen is too humble in his taunts towards Nobunaga, because to surpass his Nemesis, an enemy would require not one, but at least ten centuries of preparation.

»09 / King
“Even as allies, they compete to see whose abilities are greater,” Kanetsugu remarks during their joint campaign, and neither Kenshin nor Shingen manage to come up with a single thing that could cast doubt on the obvious.

»10 / Learn
They purportedly meet to develop in strategy, as if the art of studying each other in itself held no appeal at all.

»11 / Blur
The warrior is a whirlwind no one can seem to halt, racing across the downtrodden grass straight to Shingen's main camp and straight for him.

»12 / Wait
Kenshin wants Shingen, wants past the generals, past the pointless swirl of featureless soldiers who can only dream of sweeping him aside with their puny force, and so he regrets nothing when he charges forward alone.

»13 / Change
They think they know, but whenever they meet face to face, something previously unnoticed between them stirs the atmosphere.

»14 / Command
Even after the truce, Kenshin makes a point of keeping himself aloof—“I am not yours to command, Nemesis”—but those protestations last only about as long as it takes for his resolve to melt into comfort before his former arch rival, and after that, it's all unspoken.

»15 / Hold
Kenshin brings his sword down on Shingen's war fan, but the latter endures while Shingen's eyes remain fixed on this indomitable, obsessive fool.

»16 / Need
Shingen is generous with the thanks whenever Kenshin is there to help out after their union; Kenshin isn't sure if the other needs him that much, or if it's just his old age that has made him dangerously frank with friend and foe alike.

»17 / Vision
Shingen had once considered Kenshin but a naive man with no real ambition, too absorbed in his inner world and in the rush of the battlefield, but times have changed indeed.

»18 / Attention
Exchanging enmity for something warmer is no excuse to trade alertness for something duller.

»19 / Soul
For warlords, they devote a great amount of energy to the spiritual—perhaps that is another good reason for never speaking of the other with outright disrespect.

»20 / Picture
Surveying the enemy is necessary; examining the commander's movements as if the precise way he lifts his hand or tilts his head could decide the outcome of the battle, not so much.

»21 / Fool
It is only through cooperation that they can prove how much of a fool Nobunaga is, thinking he can take down both Tiger and Dragon just like that.

»22 / Mad
His men do what he says, but sometimes—and they'd better not insult him by assuming he fails to notice—it is as if they found Kenshin's ideas too daring, as if only their honour dictated that they follow their lord regardless.

»23 / Child
Once, they were young; never had they been children.

»24 / Now
All the time in the world is theirs before daybreak, and there is no reason to use it any less passionately than they would enjoy any other friendly skirmish.

»25 / Shadow
As they should, they try to leave a mark, if only by letting indelible shadows fall across the land, the years.

»26 / Goodbye
It is always too early to part with a Nemesis well loved, which makes Kenshin follow his new ally's movements closely despite himself, watching out for any and all persons of base principles.

»27 / Hide
Shingen orders a castle built in the contested spot—not for concealment, he rationalizes, but to use the element of surprise to his advantage just when Kenshin begins to get smug.

»28 / Fortune
The heavens smile upon them, that much is clear; once the dust settles over this last campaign a land of peace will be nearer than ever, forged by two long-time rivals who have only ever had too much in common.

»29 / Safe
They stand side by side when needed, revelling without saying as much in the certainty of continuation.

»30 / Ghost
On quiet mornings, when the dew has barely left the stalks beneath his feet, it is all Kenshin can do to convince himself the whisper on his robes is just the autumn breeze.

»31 / Book
Though tactics must be adaptable to succeed and following one strict guide could easily prove fatal, Shingen still finds it impossible to imagine either his army or his thoughts without the wisdom of The Art of War.

»32 / Eye
The look Kenshin gives him across the blade's edge is enough to drain the blood from Shingen's face; luckily, there is no way Kenshin can take note of his most unbecoming consternation before he is drawn back into the fray.

»33 / Never
Some things are not meant to be replaced, let alone some rivals.

»34 / Sing
Though he knows the harmony of war with all its utilitarian cadences, a softer music assumes a temporary reign whenever Kenshin makes a change of instrument for the evening, whenever he swaps sword for harmless strings.

»35 / Sudden
Everyone feels their amicable settlement is unexpected, except for the young yet eerily perceptive Kanetsugu.

»36 / Stop
Ending one feud starts everything else anew.

»37 / Time
“When you're old and decrepit like me,” Shingen declares with a laugh, and Kenshin swallows the reply that if anything, the passage of time has refined Shingen to a startling degree rather than having worn him down.

»38 / Wash
Warfare and wine is all Kenshin needs: he washes down the battle with one long, luxurious sip, and keeps his head clear enough to offer a toast to his Nemesis as well, just after paying his customary tribute to Bishamonten.

»39 / Torn
There is nothing missing in Kenshin's army, starting with provisions and ending with capable students, and yet his loyalty to all these cannot prevent him from seeking Shingen out too many times, appreciation cloaked in the guise of battle.

»40 / History
History will remember them much too separate.

»41 / Power
The soldiers crash on the field in waves; the commanders could never be mistaken for a reed in the tide.

»42 / Bother
Theirs is a repetitive, difficult strife—but they would sternly reprimand any valued general who would have displayed such audacity as to brand it a tiresome one.

»43 / God
Kenshin is mortal but he makes it a trifle, a forgettable detail.

»44 / Wall
The encampments are intended to keep the enemy out—so why is it so tempting to imagine, even for a moment, Nemesis striding right in past the flimsy walls?

»45 / Naked
“Do you never expose your face, even to friends?” Kenshin asks on the third evening after their truce, and Shingen lets out a chuckle as his hands dart to his headpiece all too knowingly.

»46 / Drive
Shingen drinks in moderation, not sharing the other man's penchant for imbibing as much as humanly possible while still maintaining a dignified front—but it is impressive how seriously Kenshin takes even his drinking as he lifts the cup, all his actions driven by the same fervour.

»47 / Harm
Some advisors insist they should fight to kill; instead, they fight to impress.

»48 / Precious
When Kenshin says that—“I treasure each of our battles together dearly”—there is not a smidgen of politeness in his tone, and it is that which makes the confession ring all the truer.

»49 / Hunger
They wage their war with weapons, tactics, with resolve and with feeling—not with rations.

»50 / Believe
“Come, Nemesis” is all that needs to be said before the showdown; the rest shall all follow, one step at a time.

WIN WIN WIN

oudeteron — Wed, 07 Nov 2012 18:50:13 GMT

Honestly, I'm not saying Obama's perfect in every way ever, but he is immeasurably better than everything and anything R-money represented. So relieved this turned out well. So gleeful all the butthurt bigot rallying we've seen in the past months meant shit-nothing to the actual outcome of this election after all.

Also, more US states legalizing marriage equality! Spain reaffirming it! Weed being legal in more US states now too! I would look for news sources to link here but unfortunately I have assignments to do! You can party it up on ontd_political if you want, though. JUST A GOOD DAY ALL AROUND.

Now excuse me, watching that glorious trollface some more. XD

ETA: OKAY ALSO ALSO you need to all watch this. And rejoice that a brilliant parody is where it ends!

...ETA II: And this. adfghjkl; HAHAHA

You won't believe it's not more procrastination!!

oudeteron — Mon, 01 Oct 2012 18:35:53 GMT

For cherrytruck, LORD OF THE BIRDS. /bricked

I'm sorry, my dear, that this was supposed to be done by your birthday and now it's kind of nearer the actual Sekigahara anniversary. ~~Well, sometimes DAHT'S LIEF, HAAAUGH?~~ I hope it's worth the wait I put you through.

Originally, I thought I'd write something about Mitsuhide and Nobunaga for this occasion, but 1) the idea I had with them was depressing and somewhat creepy so not the best birthday gift (but I'll still write it another time), and 2) Che then joined me on the Mitsunari/Sakon bandwagon, so that's what this fic is. And it's going to be ridiculously upbeat, because what's the point of creating historical time paradoxes when you can't even give your favourites a happy ending? :P

Title: Beyond the Fog
Characters: Ishida Mitsunari/Shima Sakon; other cameos
Rating: Slightly NSFW, no specific warnings
Word Count: ~2,600
Summary: Mitsunari and Sakon make themselves at home in Ieyasu's fallen stronghold.
Context Notes: Based almost exclusively on SW2 canon, which, as anyone who has played the game as Mitsunari or Sakon can attest, means alternate history. The change: Mitsunari's Western Army wins the battle of Sekigahara, then proceeds to run the Tokugawa out of Edo castle (which is where this fic is set when it's all over). Also, Sakon's gun injury is treated, so they both survive. I have nothing against poor Ieyasu but I just like Mitsunari and his unbelievable horde of ~romantic friendships~ despite his apparent unpopularity among most others better. And I just feel so bad that the main reason he lost was because half his allies in that battle were either flakes or holding grudges. My favourite part of SW2 is messing with that part of history and making these guys win instead. XD
Stages serving as the background to this fic: Yukimura's Dream (because it includes both the victory at Sekigahara and Sakon's gun accident), Mitsunari's Dream (contains the siege of Edo and his unique fan). Well, I had to add Sakon to the latter level here. I never let him die at Sekigahara in the game (once it happened and I got so furious I replayed the level immediately TO MAKE IT GO RIGHT), and I assume he survives in such a case and Koei was just being careful about putting him in a later level in case the player doesn't salvage him. The environment and weather conditions in the fic are lifted from SW2 as well.
Other Notes: My first completed fic after months mostly taken up by academic writing. If it shows, blame that blasted degree I had to prevail over.
Disclaimer: The Samurai Warriors series belongs to Koei.

“So, what do you plan to do now you've won it all? Not give yourself up to pleasure and lose all sense of direction, I hope.”

“Coming from the man I had to bribe into abandoning just that kind of lifestyle”—Mitsunari smirked, aligning himself more closely with the other man, catching his breath—“that is quite the bold statement to make, Sakon.”

“Was that just bribery to you? I'd consider it an arrangement that has resulted in benefit on both sides. A sound strategical decision.”

“Mmm.” Being so close to Sakon was enjoyable, but also utilitarian—snow had blanketed the castle, in places still tarnished with the debris of battle: broken arrows, gunpowder, blood. Of this last element there had been entirely too much until now, as they'd fought to ram home the victory that, by all estimates, should never have been theirs to take.

Mitsunari closed his eyes, still seeing the treacherous faces that had come to the forefront during the past years whenever he wasn't expressly focused on something in the corporeal world. And yet, the darkness let him feel out his own vital signs in a way visual stimuli only detracted from. Then he concentrated on the wind howling muffled around the castle, his own heartbeat, and lastly on the expanse of patched-up skin of Sakon's torso. Mitsunari ran his hand over it, blindly yet carefully.

“My lord, you're dreaming again.”

“Shut up,” Mitsunari countered benevolently, snuggling up closer, not opening his eyes as he pressed the side of his face to Sakon's cheek. He wasn't wearing his headpiece now, of course; the fact that Sakon's hair was still tied back in his customary style made Mitsunari feel more exposed by comparison than he would necessarily have liked. He ran his hands up Sakon's back, up to his hair to loosen it, threading through the strands as soon as they fell free.

Sakon sighed, leaning into the touch. “Charming as always. And there I thought you'd be celebrating tonight.”

“Aren't I?” Mitsunari's tone was just a touch dangerous in that way only his friends had really learned to decode.

Mitsunari pulled away, looking properly now. “This is a celebration by my standards. I apologize for the lack of drink and music girls.”

He rather suspected that Sakon shared his tastes this time, only wouldn't give him the gratification of making that conjecture fact. Like it or not, the man was still recuperating, and when Kanetsugu and Yukimura had both declared they would spend the night feasting on any provisions available—Kanetsugu making a teary-eyed mention of Lord Kenshin and how much he would have enjoyed the wine, Yukimura promptly joining in with lofty salutations to Lord Shingen—Mitsunari gave each of them a genuinely-felt embrace and pleaded tiredness. It hadn't been a lie, not quite. He hadn't specified whose tiredness it was that needed attending to.

As soon as he had excused himself, he'd found Sakon sitting on a flat tree stump with the persistent snow covering dusted off, looking every bit as exhausted as Mitsunari had claimed to be himself.

“Sorry,” Sakon had said without preamble. “Fighting's not quite the same after you take a bullet to the gut.”

So they were celebrating on what amounted to a sick bed, adamant though Sakon was about calling it anything but. He'd helped Mitsunari undress with a kind of reverence that he only permitted himself to show when he thought Mitsunari would not notice once they had made it to a private chamber in Edo castle's main keep, and refused when Mitsunari made to do the same for him. Some kisses and a benign struggle later, they were finally holed up under some hastily-found covers on the fancy tatami. Compared to their earlier sojourns in the much less ornate rooms of Sawayama castle, this was undeniable luxury, even though they had no idea where anything was and couldn't be bothered to find out before dawn.

With a covert smile, Mitsunari pondered the idea of luxury not being limited just to decoration.

Sakon thought similarly, it seemed. “So what now? Are you going to give me this castle?”

“You mean you've changed your mind about rewards? Oh, just give it to someone else,” Mitsunari intoned, as Sakon gave a chuckle, “like something as unimaginative as a castle was all I planned to give you when I said that. I'm glad you were misunderstanding—well. You better have been.”

“Oh, Mitsunari, I'm sure the whole land is dying for your kisses. They taste like acid and overdone ambition.”

“Sakon!” Mitsunari restrained himself from jabbing the smug bastard in the ribs, suddenly hating long-forgotten Kuroda for depriving him of that satisfaction for all these bickerings to come when he fired those rifles Sakon's way and left him with a chronic ailment. But what was done was done, and so he settled for a well-placed smack on the head. It wasn't like he was endangering anything in there.

“Hey, hey.” Sakon caught his hand, pulling it to the side. “My apologies.”

“You're lucky I think you're worth more in one piece.” Mitsunari remembered the day Lord Hideyoshi had used a similar rhetoric of benevolence—affected or genuine, it was ever hard to tell with him—to accept a surrender that would benefit them in the long run. That was strategy, but Mitsunari could hardly dismiss his continued affection for Sakon as just that. Hideyoshi hadn't been such a fool. “You know the saying, after all,” he continued, stroking Sakon's hair, “about the two things greater than Mitsunari himself. The castle I could do without, but you, Sakon—”

“Actually,” Sakon trailed his hands up and down Mitsunari's spine, “the real saying concerns the two things Mitsunari doesn't deserve.”

Mitsunari's hand stilled. “You never quit playing around, do you.”

“On my honour,” Sakon declared, sounding like a poorly-executed parody of Kanetsugu but no less earnest than the real deal, “it's just that I never corrected your misapprehension when we were still struggling for power. You know where your head would have gone if I'd told you then. But now we've come out on top, it's time for you to learn the truth. My lord,” he added hastily, though failed to conceal the smugness in his voice.

Mitsunari fixed him with a stare that could have dispelled what little warmth they had in the room altogether, wondering where on earth Sakon had learned to turn his voice subtly derisive just so. Not to mention why he hadn't set a bomb on his blasted face yet. There was only so much patience a man with a temper could exercise. “And you tell me this now so I know I've won a land that laughs the moment our backs are turned?”

“Well, my lord”—Sakon smiled this time, pressing the palms of his hands against Mitsunari's shoulder blades as if anything so understated could soothe that burning passion—“it seems you'll have your work cut out for you. Prove to them we're both where we belong.”

“That may be difficult,” Mitsunari replied without missing a beat, climbing on top of Sakon as he spoke. “How do I prove someone as headstrong and arrogant as you belongs under anyone else?”

“Why, someone so headstrong and arrogant could only belong under someone who blows his own rudeness and arrogance out of the water.”

“You enjoy pushing your luck, strategist.”

“It's what got you this far, my lord.” They both laughed. Further exertion was not worth it for now, but Mitsunari would be damned if he didn't make the best of whatever he still had the energy for after this endless day. So much he'd brought about by sheer force of will. He closed his eyes and actually managed to relax this time as Sakon returned a kiss, the verbal ripostes momentarily forgotten. There were more indulgent ways to settle a score.

And it would have been worth it, after all. No one else would have been so uncompromising about having Sakon saved after he had been shot half-dead at Sekigahara. No stranger to going to extreme lengths, Mitsunari had begun his reign straight away; having won that decisive battle, there were no doctors he couldn't talk, intimidate, or bribe into devoting the care they would otherwise have not bothered to give to his indispensable strategist.

He propped himself up on his elbows so as not rest his whole weight on the other man, letting their lower bodies align in a smooth slide of skin and cloth. Another kiss and both were panting a little, though it was nothing compared to being winded from running outside in command of an army. Mitsunari looked up just at the right angle to appreciate his last spoil of war: beside Sakon's head, with stray wisps of hair softening its edges, lay a gilded fan so beautifully crafted that he had wasted no time jumping into the heat of battle for it, just to be able to carry it out of the castle in victory. He reached out and ran his fingers along its contours; this object was truly marvellous.

Sakon's hushed voice drifted into his ears. “Careful.”

“Think it's too good for me?” Mitsunari returned wryly, snapping the fan open just next to Sakon's head; the fine metal made a sound as it singing. Sakon's eyes met his over the cool edges that were perfection, before Mitsunari laid the weapon down beside Sakon's head on the mat. He surveyed both, his eyes sliding half-shut, smiling a little again despite himself.

Willpower and reward. He had salvaged his luxuries, where no one else would have been so stubborn.

Sakon's stare on him was tangible as the man replied, altogether too calmly, “No. I was just worried for a moment I have outlived my usefulness.”

“Idiot,” was all Mitsunari could spare, more hissing than saying the word as he braced himself above Sakon more securely, hands and knees planted firmly on either side. He was encouraged when Sakon took the cue to begin caressing him, up and down, and soon Mitsunari was lowering his posture further, using his elbows for support as his hands slid into Sakon's hair, under his head to lift it slightly into another kiss. A little longer and he'd be drunk on that. He started rocking back and forth, unable to keep himself from resting more and more of his weight on Sakon's body directly, and he wondered how much of his dignity it would cost in light of their previous bickering if he asked Sakon to just flip them over. To compromise—for once—he shifted on to his side next to Sakon, pulling the other man over to face him. The haphazard covers they had heaped on themselves before were beyond hopelessly dislodged by the time their legs tangled together instead.

The heat they were generating themselves was enough to be glad for. Mitsunari took up the fan again and folded it, then pushed it farther away from their spot on the floor. He almost didn't snort when Sakon looked up and asked in a conversational tone, “Precautions?”

“You'd smudge it up,” Mitsunari quipped without explaining how.

“With my hair? Come on, it's not that awful yet.”

“What about that smell of gunpowder, grease and gore?” And now of Mitsunari's fingers as well, retaining, under all the grime, the barest hint of a whiff of tea.

“At least it's poetic.”

Mitsunari ignored the comment in favour of Sakon's neck. He kissed it, followed by a light bite, all the while balancing himself precariously on one side, though he was sure that sooner or later, Sakon would tell him off for being so fussy. He gave up briefly to use one had to smooth the much-criticized hair back from Sakon's face and focus his gaze there.

He'd never asked about that scar before, and wasn't going to now. Instead of a finger, he traced it with his lips. Between him and the floor, he could discern slight tremors.

“We all need our secrets, I suppose,” Mitsunari said then, as though extracting a conclusion.

Sakon shook his head. “Aw, there's nothing much to tell.”

Mitsunari's fingers dug into his side slightly as he spoke, “I shall trust you to be the judge of that.” Hey, he'd never claimed he wasn't possessive. The only reason Sakon's habit of flirting around failed to bother him was the fact that Sakon turned into a babbling fool who could hardly hold any of his unfortunate victims' attention for five minutes whenever he launched one of his ludicrous pick-up lines. So Mitsunari let him indulge without reproach, secure in the knowledge that Sakon's ability to pick up women was far inferior to his ability to fascinate him.

What that said about himself, Mitsunari scarcely wanted to ponder. This same man was a strategist he'd been willing to give up half his stipend for. Not to mention he was one of the few people in whose company Mitsunari delighted. (He wasn't going to say delighted the most, because the number of those he felt any delight with could be counted on the fingers of one hand, in itself enough of a distinction.) Whether Sakon was even truly trying when it came to his ostentatious but almost uniformly fruitless flirting was a question well on its way towards puzzling Mitsunari for the rest of his life.

They kissed again, gliding together slowly. Sakon was the one to speak up next in a hushed voice, “Well, look at you. Turning me away from a life of indulgence to a life of early rest and tea. My lord, sometimes you make me wonder.”

Mitsunari chuckled, felt rather than heard his own voice crack with pleasure. “We can have a tea ceremony in the morning.”

“That's what you call a—”

“You have a problem with my idea of a good time?” Mitsunari supported that with a long shove of his hips against Sakon's, riding the ambiguity. He'd never say out loud how amazing it felt to be able to do that without an immediate danger looming over them; maybe it didn't need to be pointed out at all, anyway. He was closer to finishing than Sakon, that he could tell, but there was no way he'd hold back from anything—not tonight, not anymore. Lifting himself on one elbow to relieve his weight a little, he kept grinding, pressing closer until even his face was nuzzled into Sakon's neck. At least no one else was ever seeing him like that.

He came gasping, and before he knew it he was taking advantage of his position to kiss everywhere he could reach without moving, not to mention lending his free hand to Sakon, as it were. Mitsunari slipped to the side, keeping only one of his legs draped over Sakon's thighs; it may have been uncomfortable to remain twisted in such a way, but now he wouldn't abandon that post for the world. Good thing Sakon's body language was so straightforward. He listened to the way Sakon's breath grew ragged as his own hand picked up its pace and, for a while, that was enough.

This was enough.

Lying together moments later, both lulled into a state of exhausted insomnia that should not have been as comfortable as it was, Mitsunari allowed himself a remark that didn't cross his lips often.

“Sakon?”

“My lord.”

“I owe you my thanks.”

And the land around them slept.

The return of horribly TL;DR reviews

oudeteron — Wed, 08 Aug 2012 21:39:07 GMT

Well, I've been obsessed with the Sengoku/Warring States era lately. My obsessions usually involve consuming and comparing lots of media. I'd like to review my favourites properly sometime because I usually don't bother enumerating why I like something if I like it, but first, I think I'll launch into some criticism. There's this popular game/anime series, Sengoku Basara. I wanted to find out what exactly makes it so popular, so I plunged right in some time ago.

Basara is...oh dear. I went into it fully prepared to accept an alternate interpretation, but nothing could have prepared me for what it actually was like. It may seem weird it's me saying that, when I'm usually the person who is all about reinterpretation (it'd be hypocritical to pretend my favourite series of the moment, Samurai Warriors, doesn't involve reinterpretation on some pretty major levels). Why the problem with Basara?

Because they've reinterpreted everything so much there's nothing left. And it is not done in the kind of brilliant way that would make that sort of thing not only workable, but awesome. I was going to write a huge paragraph of examples, but actually...let me just elaborate on the biggest ones and then assure you that there's a lot more where these came from. This is all from the first season of the anime. I'll rephrase that: this is all from twelve episodes, which is probably how I managed to plough through them all. Well, me and the unwitting victim of my suggestion to watch this, Che. I would like to publicly apologize for making her go through all this with me and for being such an annoying bastard about it. (I'd also like to direct you to her own totally awesome review.)

And now. Some of my issues with this series, illustrated:

Exhibit 1: Honda Tadakatsu. He's a giant robot. Yes, I know the height in weaponry at that time was rifles, but Basara routinely shows machineguns and robots. Like, seriously. Our authentic reaction here:

cherrytruck: OK SERIOUSLY
cherrytruck: SERIOUSLY AM I WATCHING FEUDAL JAPAN WITH
oudeteron: ...OKAY THAT'S OOC
cherrytruck: ROCKET ENGINES
oudeteron: LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL
oudeteron: I LOVE HOW WE'RE LIKE
cherrytruck: WHAT THE
oudeteron: YOU: ROCKET FUCKING ENGINES
ME: Well that's OOC

cherrytruck: I MEAN COME ON I CAN HANDLE A LOT OF RIDICULOUS, LOOK AT SW
cherrytruck: AND DW
cherrytruck: BUT THIS XD
oudeteron: BUT SW IS LIKE
oudeteron: ACADEMIC COMPARED TO THIS
cherrytruck: FFFFFFFFFFF SORRY I CANNOT GET OVER THE HI TECH TRANSFORMER HONDA XD
cherrytruck: SDFJKSHDFSDF
oudeteron: THAT DRILL
cherrytruck: AHAHA
cherrytruck: AT LEAST IT'S NOT...*THE* DRILL SDFJK

*The Drill from Neon Genesis Evangelion. DON'T ASK.

[...]

oudeteron: IS THAT A FUCKING MACHINE GUN
oudeteron: I MEAN NOT THAT NO [Nouhime] WOULDN'T BE BADASS WIELDING ONE BUT OH GOD
cherrytruck: HAHAHAHA SERIOUSLY
cherrytruck: I'M TORN BETWEEN "WOO BADASS" AND "WHAT THE HECK IS A MACHINE GUN DOING IN FEUDAL JAPAN"
oudeteron: SDJKFGSJKDGSDGJK
oudeteron: MACHINE GUN? HOW ABOUT A FREAKING ROCKET LAUNCHER
cherrytruck: LOL SERIOUSLY
oudeteron: NUKES?!!1
cherrytruck: Also what's with No attacking Ieyasu and Honda, I thought they were like buddies xD
oudeteron: Yeah, I dunno XD
cherrytruck: WELL IN THIS ANIME I DO NOT KNOW ANYTHING
cherrytruck: STILL, I'D TAKE NO WITH A MACHINE GUN OVER TRANSFORMER HONDA
oudeteron: AT LEAST SHE'S STILL HUMAN
cherrytruck: I CAN NEVER GET OVER TRANSFORMER HONDA XD
oudeteron: AND LITERAL DEMON ODA
oudeteron: ACTUALLY THOUGH
oudeteron: LET'S CALL THIS SERIES HONDAM WING

[...]

cherrytruck: IS THIS GONNA DERAIL INTO COMPLETE HISTORICAL INACCURACY? XD
oudeteron: PFFF I MARKED THAT MOMENT WHEN ROCKET ENGINES APPEARED
oudeteron: LOLOL I
cherrytruck: WELL OKAY THAT TOO BUT XD
oudeteron: I DIDN'T REALIZE THEY WERE BEING LITERAL IN THE INTRO
oudeteron: IT SAYS THE COMBUSTION ENGINE ROARS
cherrytruck: LOL
oudeteron: EXCEPT THAT ONE SEEMED NUCLEAR
cherrytruck: THIS IS SOMEHOW MORE RIDICULOUS THAN GUO HUAI CARRYING A MACHINE GUN IN ANCIENT CHINA

[...]

oudeteron: POKEBALLS MAKE MORE SENSE THAN THIS

[...]

oudeteron: THIS GUY IS JESUS
oudeteron: ...THEY'RE ALL JESUS

Back to Honda in this series: how can you take a general so bone-chillingly awesome that he's said to never have sustained a single injury in combat, who had a spear that halved dragonflies for merely sitting on it, turn him into a giant robot, and have the end result be LESS badass than the original? I mean, like, come again??? Being a giant chronologically-impossible robot could have been used to "explain" the fact that he was never injured in battle, but when you blow up that robot twice, then it just serves no purpose to write him that way in the first place, does it? Aside from shooting everyone's suspension of disbelief to the moon.

Exhibit 2: Oda Nobunaga. He is introduced as evil. Then he stays evil. Then the series finishes and he's going on about evil. In-your-face evil, shoot-sister-on-sight evil, mass murder evil, ominous music plays evil (the music isn't that bad by itself), can't-talk-without-an-evil-growling-drawl evil, drinking-from-skulls evil (which IRL he did but some accounts say it was "out of respect", which I admit is pretty idiosyncratic but at least it's not one-dimensional villainy, which is all Basara ever delivers). It's clear the people who made this series thought that driving the point home repeatedly would make it stick and we'd all think "oooh, he's so evil". But, newsflash: it was plain overdone to me. Basing an entire character on how evil he is and simplifying him down to that does one thing: it makes any character development impossible. It makes tension impossible (unless it's the tension of "who he's gonna kill off next"). To a huge extent, to me, it makes giving a crap about the character impossible, because when someone's this flat and boring, it's not engaging at all. He had one funny moment where he punishes Mitsuhide by pouring sake on his head and another where it looks like Mitsuhide's boosting his morale, but those were one-off scenes and that was that. Almost at the end of the season, Yukimura informs us that Oda is pure evil. Dude, you don't say, we didn't notice! It's not like that's the fucking extent of his character here or anything!

cherrytruck: SERIOUSLY IT'S LIKE
cherrytruck: THEY MADE HIM SATAN
oudeteron: LOOOOOL
oudeteron: EXCEPT HE'S FROM HEAVEN
oudeteron: NOW HOW DOES THAT WORK
cherrytruck: LUCIFER?!
oudeteron: ...YEAH XD
oudeteron: WELL BUGGER

[...]

oudeteron: TL;DR THEY'VE MADE HIM BAD
oudeteron: THEY MADE HIM WORSE THAN THE BAD ROMAN EMPERORS SONG

[...]

oudeteron: AH WELL
oudeteron: LET'S RENAME THIS SERIES
oudeteron: TO "SENGOKU DEVIL ODA WEARS PRADA"

[...]

cherrytruck: OUR ODA IS LIKE
cherrytruck: LIU BEI COMPARED TO BASARA!ODA

[...]

oudeteron: BUT REALLY YOU KNOW WHAT I MEANT
oudeteron: IN THIS [Samurai Warriors] THEY CALL ODA A DEMON BECAUSE HE'S SUCH AN ASSHOLE
oudeteron: AND HE REMAINS AN ASSHOLE TO THEM
oudeteron: WHILE ALSO REVEALING HIS HUMANITY
cherrytruck: YEAH XD
oudeteron: THAT'S WHAT MAKES IT POWERFUL ;A;
cherrytruck: PLOT TWIST: ODA'S ALSO HUMAN!1!!1!
oudeteron: XDDDD
oudeteron: OH GEEZ IN BASARA HE'LL PROBABLY BE KILLED WITH A SILVER BULLET ON A PIKE
cherrytruck: IS THAT SO

Exhibit 3: Characterization in general. It's kind of one-size-fits-all. Everyone (or almost) yells. All the time. About everything. Sometimes it's done in a way that works - for example, while I'm not entirely sure about Shingen yelling all the time, at least his friendly shouting-matches with Yukimura are cute. But most of the time, it's gratuitous and just screams laziness instead of giving the characters distinct voices. Let's use a comparison with my fave, SW2, which has pretty cheesy voice acting a lot of the time, but all the characters sound like themselves. You don't confuse them with one another, because they're not all given generic tough guy shouty voices. (You know what happens when you're operating in overdrive non-stop? People forget that it's supposed to be overdrive.) For instance, Kanetsugu is very soft-spoken in SW2, and I think he raises his voice during one fairly late stage in the whole game. That's what makes it stand out, that's how you can tell shit just got real. In Basara, he appears once, generically yells, then displays a flurry of incompetence and disappears. The exact same treatment is given to Kotaro as well. Later on, Yoshihiro just gets killed off in about three seconds, and that's his first appearance. That is a lot of overly-fast doing away with characters who should be interesting, memorable, and competent.

Exhibit 4: Mori Ranmaru. Not only do they make him nonsensically young in the year Honnoji happened, they don't even hint at any sort of relationship between him and Oda ever. Which, you know, I don't particularly want to ponder at that ridiculously young age they gave him, fair enough. The problem is, they shouldn't have made him that young. And another thing? They gave him a freaking Hollywood ending.

oudeteron: IT'S WHAT YOU NEED IF YOU SERVE LORD SKULLDRINKER
cherrytruck: OBVIOUSLY XD
cherrytruck: I'm interested to see how he treats Ranmaru though xD
oudeteron: FFF THAT BOMB XD
oudeteron: And is Ranmaru even in this XD*
oudeteron: ..........
oudeteron: I READ THAT AS "SHIRTLESS"
oudeteron: THE SHIRTLESS ARMOUR OF TAKEDA

*He was, and then we wished he hadn't been.

There are no Hanzo, Sakon, or...well, you get the picture. People who should enter into it sooner or later are inexplicably missing. But on the other hand, Basara invents characters. Oh, how it invents them.

Exhibit 5: Kasuga. Now, I'm not claiming that a character having boobs is bad. Actually, I'm not even going to say fanservice as such is bad. It can shine when it, you know, makes sense for the character. When it's someone who loves showing off their body, like Kaz in MGSPW, it's not even ridiculous when you're taking close-ups of their speedo-clad crotches. Because you can tell the attention is enjoyed. Or to use an anime example, Neon Genesis Evangelion comes to mind where the boob-service is mostly limited to Misato, who is 1) older than the main trio, 2) unfazed by people ogling her, and 3) still a full-fledged character with a personality and so on. But, unsurprisingly, when you make up a character with the sole purpose of 1) pointing out that she has big boobs, 2) accentuating said boobs with a historically-impossible latex suit, 3) literally making her jizz from being talked to every other episode, and 4) giving her a token het romance with the resident god of war, I think it's safe to say you're being supremely fucking lazy.

(There's an awesome thing about Kenshin in this series: they didn't shy away from making him look beautiful, as he supposedly was, instead of macho. They even gave him a fairly androgynous voice, and to be fair he seems like he doesn't uncritically return the Token Het Romance [but then again, we all know not everything has to happen on screen, so moot point]. I love the fact that they actually did use his possible gender nonconformity. This is what got the series the three stars I gave it, and it's a testament to how disappointing the rest of it was that this didn't catapult it to an instant favourite with me.)

Anyway. The audience is hammered with the fact that Kasuga's only purpose in this story is to look like sex on legs repeatedly. Even her sparsely distributed badass moments are immediately countered with moments of comic relief and/or disaster, informing us over and over again that klutzy, high-strung eye candy no one really takes seriously is all her character was created for. She's talking? Look at boobs. Kenshin's talking to her? Look at boobs almost falling out of the physically impossible suit. She's fallen to the ground? Look at boobs/ass. She's crying or actually for once allowed five seconds of introspection? Hey, look at that ass conveniently placed right in focus instead of something boring like her face!

If I were the editor for the writers of this series, I'd take a red pen and write "space out the gratuitous boob/crotch/ass shots and at least make them fucking contextual. Let her do something now and then." Especially with how she's coded as a somewhat shy, too-clumsy-for-a-ninja character, the constant in-your-face fetishization crosses right over to creepy. There's an ever better way to exemplify all that's trainwrecked about this character: all the other ninjas are dressed somewhat like you'd imagine a ninja to be. She's a ninja and you wonder how she can move. The guys wear clothes primarily designed to do shit in; Kasuga wears clothes primarily designed to look at (even though they're historically impossible). Ponder that for a minute.

Exhibit I-lost-count: Takeda Shingen. He's one of the few characters in this who didn't come off as one-dimensional, but that doesn't help much when he had almost no rivalry with Kenshin. Like, seriously, it was barely hinted at, and it should have been important. His relationship with Yukimura was nice, but yeah.

oudeteron: LOL SHINGEN YOU CREEP
cherrytruck: LOL
oudeteron: SAY IT YUKIMURA, SAY IT
cherrytruck: JIHJKHASDFDF

I could've dealt with some of these drawbacks if the story had been genuinely compelling. But as things went, I was just sitting there going "it has to get good now...now...NOW?" and it never did. There are a few bright moments, but that's it. I've even checked out some footage of the game, in case the anime was seriously misinterpreting it and I was looking in the wrong place, but then I saw Mitsunari also yelling and being a murder machine and...yeah. I should stop expecting so much.

So, I watched Basara to find out why it seems to be more popular than SW. The result of this experiment is...I still don't understand. Most of the characters are more on the side of caricature, but they're too similar to one another for it to be much fun. There are a few moments that stand out to me, e.g. I LOL'd endlessly at that scene where Mitsuhide gets sake poured over his head from a skull. He licks it up gladly; they didn't even play up his abstaining habits. Because that would be characterization. (SW devotes several separate convos to him being a teetotaler and how it makes him interact with characters who drink/ask him to drink, but such petty details are beneath Basara.) I'm sort of glad I watched it for the trainwreck and the lulz, but I don't think I'm even going to follow the second season unless I'm feeling super masochistic. Even then, though, I might as well cover myself in bees if I want to feel pain that bad.

I wanted to include more Sengoku-related reviews here, some of them being of things I actually like, but Che bullied me into posting this one separately, so enjoy this giant grudgepost. On the other hand, we saw this in June or something, so it may be for the best I finally wrote it down. M'BAD. I'll still do the others as well; it might just take some time. They're Samurai Warriors 2 (A+), Mirage of Blaze (5/10), Musashi manga (6/10), Sekigahara documentary (7/10), Fuurin Kazan series with GACKT AS KENSHIN (8/10), Shogun: Warlord Edition if I manage to play it without losing all the time, and Tenchijin if I manage to watch more than two episodes soon enough. THEY WON'T ALL BE AS LONG AS THIS POST, I promise.

...I might have forgotten something.

TROLOLOL, HAPPY BDAY, BREAK OUT THE SAKE AND LET'S BEGIN THE POURING

oudeteron — Thu, 26 Jul 2012 22:37:13 GMT

Che! I know this isn't what you asked for, and you are going to get your longer Mitsuhide/Oda fic when I can actually get it done, but for now, here's something. Just a tiny little thing. As in, a legit drabble. Exactly 100 words. (Spot the words I asked you to pick first for no apparent reason!)

“Love and honour form the basis of all strength!” Kanetsugu declares pompously, passing his set of charms from one palm to the other, as the last enemy crumples to the ground.

Mitsunari rolls his eyes. “If only Lord Kenshin could see you, tarnishing his memory like that. What benevolence. Where's your war, your wine?”

"At least I have my nemesis,” Kanetsugu counters without missing a beat. “I knew I could count on you, Mitsunari."

And as Yukimura joins them, for great justice, Mitsunari resolves to keep his comments down. In the silence, a small smile breaks through.

♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

I think "out of nowhere" pretty much suits this

oudeteron — Sat, 21 Jul 2012 21:15:33 GMT

So, about that fic drought. It lasted for a while. I do have a few things started, but not finished yet - let's hope they move over to the "finished" pile eventually. But I wasn't in the greatest fic-writing spot for the majority of this year plus last winter, as a glance at this LJ could probably show.

Then this happened.

In MGS4, the character of Drebin was among my favourites. I'd never really written about him, though, because his sort of detached-from-everyone quality made giving him a context to explore beyond the whole Patriot thing difficult (and Kojima had already done the one other thing I would have, i.e. gave him some interesting conversations with a twist, particularly in the epilogue).

One recent morning I was like, "Well, to hell with that. I have an image of Snake and Drebin in my head and am gonna put it on monitorpaper." Thus was formed the first - very short, very random, but nevertheless - the first fic I'm posting here this year. I hope it's at least, uh, readable.

(By the way! ACTA has finally bombed itself due to its own universe-splitting awfulness, so I can do away with that protest banner in my index post and go right back to full-on nerding. w00t!)

Title: Man from Nowhere
Characters: Old Snake, Drebin
Rating: SFW
Word Count: ~300
Summary: ~~WAR HAS CHANGED~~ This is a war zone. You don't just stand there contemplating a gun dealer for no reason.
Notes: Takes place during that scene where they first meet, but it's not necessarily chronological as far as the individual components of that meeting go. This whole thing is impressionistic because...because. Enjoy, if you can!

Snake has been watching the man who's emerged from the shadow of the decrepit underground hideout for a while now; he can't help it. Usually, he would feel compelled to anticipate the other's intent, to analyze all those hints barely there—but, disconcertingly, somehow, this stranger's defences seem too impregnable to work past from a disadvantaged outpost like that. Snake can feel his gaze sliding, slipping, his efforts abandoned in favour of something else.

What he finds himself drawn to are the rings and the unsettling shift from the man's suit jacket to the camouflage pants lower down, no doubt symbolic of his calling in some melodramatic way. The ensemble is completed by a knowing smile that seems just a little too kind for an arms dealer. "Gun launderer," the man's voice wafts into Snake's ears, correcting him, setting this situation into a context he'd rather not think about now he's reminded. Thinking could feel so exhausting anyway. Snake's blood has long since been laced with the Patriots' thoughts, and he has no illusions left about—about it helping.

So he shifts his focus to the man's hypnotic movements as those hands conjure up a deep red apple where there had been a grenade first.

EYE HAVE YOU

He knows he shouldn't stare. Snake's eyes trace the contour of the man's—Drebin's, he found out sometime during this encounter—face and hairline, the hair immaculately cropped, brightly incongruous with the gloom. Ridiculous to stare at like this, though; Snake has been places and seen all sorts of people, appearances ranging from nondescript to unforgettable. But there's something about the way Drebin pulls it off, the style and the scar and everything.

Maybe, the next time they meet, Snake might have a suit to put on. Make an impression. That's according to a social code he'd never been at home in but finds himself acquiescing to now, as if for reassurance. As if there's any to go around.

As if—

“I grew up here, too,” Drebin chimes in like he can read him, thoughts and codes and perhaps other things, and for a second Snake can't tell what he means.

Do you guys know what I hate~

oudeteron — Tue, 17 Jul 2012 21:42:29 GMT

When I'm browsing through youtube videos of a favourite character or another, and inevitably there will be arguments of "were they gay/were they not gay" in the comments. Inevitably, these will be polarizing arguments. Inevitably, also, the detractors are just utterly convinced that there would have been officially-kept records of, say, two guys sleeping together - and if there are no such records to find, it automatically rules the whole option out forever and ever amen.

I'm very much of the "if we don't know, we don't know" school of thought. Sometimes you can't make claims either way. Actually, often you can't make claims either way - about anyone, unless they tell you. And people tell about personal things a lot less often than your average Eraser of Anything Queer Ever would think. You know who most certainly won't tell you anymore? Historical figures.

Look, I don't want much. I just wish this sort of minimal acknowledgment of complexity and/or uncertainty weren't totally lost on most people.

~~Alternatively: ABOLISH YOUTUBE COMMENTS~~

Activity!

oudeteron — Sat, 23 Jun 2012 20:39:56 GMT

Wow. When I decided to treat the public part of my journal as just a fic-and-occasional-essay/meta repository, I didn't imagine that there might be a time I simply won't have the chance to get any of that written for extended periods. But now seems to be such a time, and my last public post was in January (and a signal boost, at that - I hadn't written it myself). I know why I adopted the policy of "post only what's super representative in the public entries" when I did, but at the same time I don't want my LJ to go totally silent just because it may be a while before I can get any fandom writing done again.

So, I think I'll be posting a "random" thing without the friendslock every now and then. Why not. Better than sitting around posting nothing as LJ's traffic keeps dwindling.

Today's post isn't going all that random, anyway. I wanted to pay respects to the fact that it's been 100 years since the birth of Alan Turing. I've celebrated by googling him - I think he'd approve - and came up with some surprisingly okay articles published in assorted places today, so I'll share some of the links. (Did you have a go at the brilliant little Google "minigame" commemorating the anniversary? I did and even solved it twice, no doubt just out of my sheer admiration for the man.)

Eat some apples today - I've had two - and be glad if they're healthy and not laced with bigot venom.

Speaking of anniversaries and fiercitude, today really must be a day with high concentrations of badass in the air, as it's also the 478th birthday of Oda Nobunaga. While he's not an entirely unobjectionable figure, what with the whole Demon King thing and all, I've been moderately obsessed with the Sengoku era ~~and Samurai Warriors~~ lately and have a soft spot for the big baddie. HOW MEDDLESOME.

...and apparently Alfred Kinsey was born on June 23, too. You know, the one who trolled cultural memes about ~compulsory~ heterosexuality by presenting figures of how same-gender sexy encounters were a lot more common than previously thought. And brought at least the concept of a scale for human sexuality instead of some mandatory binary opposition into the public mind.

Well, well. If this isn't a fabulous day, actually.

Dear Governments Everywhere: 1984 was not a bloody instruction manual, and neither was MGS2

oudeteron — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 15:52:28 GMT

Originally posted by de_nugis at To UK Flisties

(Taken most recently from amberdreams, slightly adapted.)

If you're from the UK and you believe in freedom of speech and an uncensored internet, you really need to sign this petition. There are others floating about, but that particular one is the best way to ensure that your voice gets heard. It's hosted on the directgov website and addresses parliament directly. If it gets more than 100,000 signatures, it becomes eligible for discussion in the House of Commons.

Everyone's been getting so worked up over SOPA -- and rightly so -- that ACTA seems to have slipped under the radar. This is hugely problematic, because ACTA is a similar bill, but it has the potential to be far more damaging than SOPA ever could be.

Some people seem to have this misconception that ACTA is the 'European SOPA', but that simply isn't true. It's a global treaty, and it's already been signed by eight countries, including the US, Japan, New Zealand and Singapore. Europe votes on Thursday. If they vote 'no', the bill will have to be taken back to the drawing board and reformulated, which should buy us some time at the very least.

If you think this doesn't affect you, you're wrong. If ACTA passes, it could well signal the end of the internet as we know it, and that isn't an exaggeration. It's not just about watching movies and television online. If ACTA passes, sites like YouTube, Livejournal, Tumblr, Twitter, Facebook and even Google and Wikipedia could become impossible to maintain. ACTA would allow ISPs to monitor your net activity and cut off internet access for your entire household if one person is suspected of breaching copyright. Think Big Brother is Watching. I don't think I need to emphasise just how damaging it can be to be without internet access in this day and age, when we rely so heavily on technology.

It's not only bloggers and fandom that would be affected, either. Small businesses, independent film-makers and unsigned musicians who have previously found their niche online would also suffer hugely, and would be at risk of being bullied into submission by Hollywood and multinational corporations under accusations of copyright infringement. All those artists who found fame by uploading covers of songs to YouTube would never have had the opportunity to do so under ACTA, as those cover versions would be prohibited.

I know the internet has its problems, but to my mind it's the single greatest invention to come out of modern times, and it would be an absolute travesty if we were to lose that now. From a personal point of view, I can't even put into words how important this is to me. I've met some of my closest friends through the internet and online fandom, people whom I would likely never have met without it, and it's given me this amazing social support system. I don't want that to end here, and I want to preserve it for future generations so that they can have the same experience and opportunities I've been given through my online interactions.

I know that opinions on the seriousness of copyright infringement and online piracy vary wildly, but that isn't really the point. Internet giants such as Google are opposed to this bill, and it's pretty safe to say that they're not in favour of copyright infringment, as anyone who's ever had a fanvid taken down from YouTube will be painfully aware. Whatever your stance on copyright, this isn't the way to go about dealing with it. This is dangerous legislation that impeaches on some of our most basic human rights, such as the right to privacy and freedom of speech.

So if you're from the UK, please, please sign the petition. If you hail from elsewhere in the world, there may well be similar movements in your own country, but I think the most effective thing anybody can do right now is to keep talking about this. Talk about it on Livejournal, on Twitter, on Tumblr, on Facebook, and anywhere else you can think of. Make sure this issue is never far from people's minds. The internet is an amazingly powerful tool: let's utilise it while we still have the chance.

Please repost and spread the word :)

SAY NO TO ACTA!

Please consider reposting this, especially if you have a large proportion of UK flisties. And please consider spreading the word via other platforms: Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook, your own personal network.

I add that this obviously does not just concern the UK. You can find another international petition on this site. It's worrying that ACTA is even worse than SOPA (and has been negotiated clandestinely), and yet there's not half the backlash against it. So LET'S MAKE THIS BACKLASH.

ETA: Here's one more! And here, though this doesn't show the signature count and you have to confirm by email.

Save the Internet. It's kind of a big deal.

oudeteron — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 22:54:55 GMT

Originally posted by nyxmidnight at Save the Internet. It's kind of a big deal.

PROTECT IP Act Breaks The Internet from Fight for the Future on Vimeo.

BoingBoing.Net -- The MPAA, RIAA, Hollywood knows that they have been flying in CEOs of as many companies as possible, recruiting people to get petition signups at malls in California, and here's the big point-- they know they have gotten their message through to Congress -- the worst bill in Internet history, the one where government and their corporations get unbelievable power to take down sites, threaten payment processors into stopping payment to sites on a blacklist, and throw people in jail for posting ordinary content is about to pass before the end of this year. The only thing that is going to stop Hollywood from owning the Internet and everything we do, is if there is a big surprise Internet backlash starting right now.

PROTECT IP (S. 968)/SOPA (HR. 3261) creates the first system for Internet censorship - this bill has sweeping provisions that give the government and corporations leeway and legal cover for taking down sites "by accident," mistakenly, or for NOT doing "enough" to protect the interests of Hollywood. These bills that are moving very quickly through Congress and can pass before Christmas aim to give the US government and corporations the ability to block sites over infringing links posted by their users and give ISPs the release to take any means to block peoples' sites, including slowing down your connection. That's right, some say this bill is a workaround to net neutrality and is bigger than net neutrality.

This is the worst piece of Internet legislation in history - the lawmakers who have been sponsoring (Leahy, Lamar Smith, Conyers) this bill need to be shamed by the Internet community for wasting taxpayer dollars on a bill that would break the very fabric of the Internet, create an Internet blacklist, kill jobs and great startup companies, huge blogs, and social networks.

How this affects you, personally:

EFF.org -- Let’s make one thing clear from the get-go: despite all the talk about this bill being directed only toward “rogue” foreign sites, there is no question that it targets US companies as well. The bill sets up a system to punish sites allegedly “dedicated to the theft of US property.” How do you get that label? Doesn’t take much: Some portion of your site (even a single page) must
be directed toward the US, and either
allegedly “engage in, enable or facilitate” infringement or
allegedly be taking or have taken steps to “avoid confirming a high probability” of infringement.

If an IP rightsholder (vaguely defined – could be Justin Bieber worried about his publicity rights) thinks you meet the criteria and that it is in some way harmed, it can send a notice claiming as much to the payment processors (Visa, Mastercard, Paypal etc.) and ad services you rely on.

Once they get it, they have 5 days to choke off your financial support. Of course, the payment processors and ad networks won’t be able to fine-tune their response so that only the allegedly infringing portion of your site is affected, which means your whole site will be under assault. And, it makes no difference that no judge has found you guilty of anything or that the DMCA safe harbors would shelter your conduct if the matter ever went to court. Indeed, services that have been specifically found legal, like Rapidshare, could be economically strangled via SOPA. You can file a counter-notice, but you’ve only got 5 days to do it (good luck getting solid legal advice in time) and the payment processors and ad networks have no obligation to respect it in any event. That’s because there are vigilante provisions that grant them immunity for choking off a site if they have a “reasonable belief” that some portion of the site enables infringement.

At a minimum, this means that any service that hosts user generated content is going to be under enormous pressure to actively monitor and filter that content. That’s a huge burden, and worse for services that are just getting started – the YouTubes of tomorrow that are generating jobs today. And no matter what they do, we’re going to see a flurry of notices anyway – as we’ve learned from the DMCA takedown process, content owners are more than happy to send bogus complaints. What happened to Wikileaks via voluntary censorship will now be systematized and streamlined – as long as someone, somewhere, thinks they’ve got an IP right that’s being harmed.

Stop the Internet Blacklist Legislation

I should write on a time limit more often

oudeteron — Sat, 29 Oct 2011 18:56:25 GMT

So, here's my too-complex-for-three-hours contribution to NaNoMaChines 2011, main event. Despite the length, which I don't know how happened, this is actually pretty condensed since the idea stretches over a longer period of time before and during Peace Walker, not to mention all the partial issues I didn't have time to delve into if I wanted this to retain any coherence. Cross-posted from mgs_slash.

Title: By Chance and by Design
Characters/Pairings: Kaz, Zero, Sigint, Para-Medic (Dr Clark), Big Boss; BB/Kaz, background BB/Zero
Rating: Slightly NSFW (passing references to violence and sex, not at the same time)
Word Count: ~3,700
Summary: Kaz's quest for a real fight takes him to Colombia, but he finds himself at the core of a conflict that spans the world instead.
Notes: This is based almost exclusively on PW since I don't have a whole translation of the accompanying drama CD (but if you know what's there, you might find a few nods to it). The exact sequence of events from when Kaz first meets BB in battle to his collaboration with Zero and the establishment of the MSF I took liberties with, as PW itself doesn't seem to give a fixed order. In this fic, Kaz is transgender (a man who was assigned female at birth). I tried not to twist canon to accommodate this, since part of the point of the story is that there's no reason to always assume every character we come across in the media will be cis. (I swear briefings like this or this only encourage the "alternative" interpretation.)
Keep in mind that this is a Metal Gear fic, so there are fucked-up elements that have nothing to do with Kaz's AU status in itself. (One thing that shouldn't have to be said: it's just his story, not a blueprint for every trans* experience.) Kaz's physical transition, when it happens, is Metal Gear Science that's about as faithful to IRL canon as the fact that the Patriots had human cloning in 1972. (I didn't dwell on it in detail anyway, since there already are tons of stories with trans* characters that will tell you everything about their genital configuration on the expense of everything else. Also, no time to write it in.)
Warnings: PW spoilers, including direct quotes in some scenes. Power dynamics galore.
Disclaimer: MGS belongs to Hideo Kojima & Konami.

BY CHANCE

Well, this was about the worst outcome he could have braced himself for.

A day into this whole stunt as well; brilliant. As Kaz's consciousness rushed back, he tried to flex his hands or stretch his arms, finding even such mundane tasks a challenge. He didn't try with his legs at all. His skin prickled at everything, whether or not he lay still. The pressure of the bandages alone was like a constant itch impossible to scratch, even though he knew he was far from any healing stage.

The worst outcome indeed. One bleary eye cracked open, taking in Kaz's surroundings. The hospital bed was off-white, bordering on grey, but the equipment was surprisingly good for an outfit in the middle of nowhere—unless they'd moved him somewhere else, somewhere he wouldn't be able to return from in his own footprints. Bastards.

Kaz's vision was still swimming when the creak of the door mercilessly kicked his hearing into gear. He tried to turn his head to look at the newcomer but, disoriented as he was, there wasn't much he managed to register. A bandana and a cigar (unlit?), together with a piercing gaze that seemed to lack something somewhere.

“Hey,” a voice rumbled in some semblance of greeting. “You put up a hell of a fight. Convincing, too. I never would have guessed.”

That last sentence triggered a visceral there it comes in Kaz's head, and he figured he'd have to start using his vocal cords as well. “What?” Speaking hurt him, but less than silence would. “You saw right. There was nothing to—” his chest heaved, “guess.”

If the newcomer gave any answer, it was a faintly muttered, “Is that so?” The visitor shuffled somewhere at Kaz's side in what might have been discomfort, though to Kaz's pain-addled mind it could have been any number of things.

“If you're here to point and laugh at me,” Kaz resumed, speaking slowly so as to give his body room for adjustment, “save 'self the trouble. Heard it all before.”

“What about the fact that I saved you?”

Kaz's voice was bitter. “For this. Yeah, you got me. Guess that gives you a lot of leverage, here.”

“Hey, I didn't know! You still don't really look like a—”

“A girl?” Somehow, it was marginally better if Kaz snatched the impetus for himself.

The stranger cleared his throat. “I thought you didn't want me to call you one.”

That gave Kaz pause. Usually, this was not how people reacted. That was among the reasons he took special care not to give himself away, if he had to use the language they did for it. To Kaz, it was just a fact that he was a man. Not even his name had been given to him with any presumption of gender: Kazuhira referred to a child of peace or, perhaps, a child who aspired for it. He was—or had been before this asshole wiped the floor with him, only to bring him back with zero advantage—fit enough to give any of the carefree men he met a run for their money. These things were matter-of-fact. Making sure strangers didn't know, didn't ask about his smooth, slightly-too-pretty face, was far easier than making explanations Kaz himself had long since ceased to need to hear. The blueprint for his body was something he'd learned to cope with for lack of an alternative.

This man seemed different from all those who would so easily brush him aside for some reason. Kaz would have felt touched.

Sadly, sweet talk didn't quite do it for him. “Why save me? You could've left me to die.”

The stranger seemed to hesitate, choosing his words. “You have spirit. You had your pride, but you could swallow it as well. It would've been a shame for you to die like that. If you were a girl, you'd remind me of someone.”

“You—” Kaz retorted, unmindful of his injuries only to feel them the more keenly the next second.

The man drew closer, stepping into Kaz's field of vision at the foot of the bed. “Talk when you get better. Do you even know where you are?”

Silence.

“You'll be dealing with more than the doctors and you have nowhere to go. The rebels you were with are out of the picture. What are you planning to do, alone in Colombia while you recover from these wounds?”

Not knowing how to react, desperate to do something to make this uninvited guest shut up and stop stirring his fears, Kaz settled for a glare. The stranger lit his cigar as though it were the most natural thing to do at a sickbed and continued, “What I'm saying is, you could join me. I don't care what country you came from even if you do, and I'll call you whatever you like. I could just use some help soon.”

Kaz had regained his composure by now. “Well, forget it.” He could still talk business in Spanish; all he needed was to get back into shape. “This hurts a bit, but I'll get used to it.”

“You'll find your way around, then. Admirable. You might want to know you're risking all kinds of fun stuff if some ragtag guerilla group gets their hands on you, though.”

Kaz gave him the steadiest look he could muster, speaking through gritted teeth. “As you said, I have my pride.”

The man left, surprising him again.

—

In the end, Kaz was fine. He was discharged from the infirmary as soon as his condition was stable, doing his best to avoid the stranger who had picked that first worst day to bargain with him. Some difficulty arose with obtaining a fresh set of clothes that met his requirements, but Kaz hadn't wandered across continents to have his journey thwarted by humdrum necessities. With some money still left from his father's old sponsorship, his resolution was to go back to drifting.

That was when he got tracked down.

That was why he was now seated in a chair facing a gleaming office desk, staring into the face of a different stranger. He was silver-haired, projecting an aura of authority that contrasted in Kaz's mind with the previous one's casual but oddly commanding presence, and over one of his eyes stretched a scar. (Seeing this, Kaz belatedly realized that his hospital visitor had sported an eyepatch.) He spoke calmly and persuasively, his hair was slicked back; he looked in his fifties but at the same time older for some reason Kaz couldn't pinpoint. His entire demeanour was that of a leader who demands without having to ask.

Now, he was sliding a photo towards Kaz across the smooth surface of the desk, smoothness that brought out the wrinkles edging his hands. Then, the inevitable question: “Have you met this man recently?”

For better or for worse, Kaz's respect of authority had suffered far too many blows in the past to allow for a nice, non-confrontational response. “You obviously know the answer, so why lead me on?”

The man—Kaz decided he was an executive of some sort—was smiling now. “I was merely assessing your preparedness to cooperate, but it seems you are ahead of me. Let's focus on the mission, then.”

Kaz tensed. “Mission? I don't recall having a mission, least of all from someone I've just met.”

The rebuke was ignored. “Kazuhira Miller, am I right? Forgive the lack of a proper welcome.” A hand was stretched out that Kaz had no choice but to shake. “I only go by Zero or Cipher. It boils down to the same thing.”

Irritated, Kaz cut in, “And this is relevant how?”

“Patience.” Zero's countenance was unbelievably serene. “The man you met is a former associate of mine, known to the world of espionage as Big Boss. It has come to my attention that he expressed an interest in your company, but you refused.”

How do you know? “What of it?”

“You'll understand eventually.” Zero was also a mind-reader, it seemed. “If you did agree to join him, I could help you with something that seems to be weighing rather heavily on you. I would ask nothing in return save certain pieces of information and, of course, mutual confidentiality.”

Kaz had a sinking feeling that wasn't entirely unpleasant, though by all accounts it should have been. Here was this unknowable, offering him things he had barely admitted he wanted, things he had never thought he could have and conditioned himself not to mull over. He had already brought his body halfway to what he wanted it to look like—military training was good in that respect, though he'd never been allowed in combat officially, leading him to launch his private seeking of a battlefield without pointless rules. Considering anything beyond that had simply not been an option. Too many dark spots, too much red tape. Too much hostility, and inspections by strangers.

“You think I have years to sit around here, hoping you'll work a miracle or something?” he finally asked, half of him wanting to believe.

Zero studied him over folded hands. “Mister Miller, what do you think I can't do for you?”

It was so ridiculous Kaz had a hard time resisting laughter. “The red tape alone—”

“None here. A private doctor who answers to no one but myself, and she's the best in her field.”

That caught Kaz off-guard, all right. “Well, but the treatment isn't really—”

Yet Zero interrupted again, his speech an incongruous mix of rehearsed and honest to the last word. “My organization has accomplished more than the books we have filtered will tell you. The particulars of human sexual traits are tricky indeed, but you'll find no better expert than the one at my disposal. Still more importantly, we need no one's word to start the treatment but yours. You may be tired of the system, but the one I run here is unlike any you have known.”

“That,” Kaz's voice rang in his ears, “is the only thing I believe you.”

“Let us convince you of the rest,” said Zero, inviting ambiguity with every word.

“What do you want in return, then?”

If Zero's face could light up, it did now. “Ah, you truly are a businessman.” He pointed to the picture, hand moving with practised ease. “Jack—Big Boss—is a man I hold in the highest of regards. Unfortunately, I can no longer deal with him in person. You are to join his enterprise and report to me on certain matters of interest I will specify for you later. In exchange, my specialist will help you make your body into what you know it should be, as far as she is able. I assure you, she can do quite a lot.”

“No red tape,” Kaz mused.

“Indeed none. And better care.”

“What about my legal status? You can fix that, too?”

“Certainly. Though you will hardly need to worry, considering Jack hopes to build a military nation that will answer to no existing country. Were that to be merged with my network, your old legal information would simply cease to have any meaning. There will be three men for you to answer to.” Zero pointed Kaz's way, then to the photograph. “You, him, and myself. In ascending order.”

Kaz's knuckles had gone white where his hands were clenched into fists. “Understood.”

Zero's lips curved into a smirk, an eerie but not wholly unwelcoming expression. “And your name? Will you take any new one?”

“My name's Kazuhira. It means 'peace' in Japanese. At least...” It had meant that to Kaz's mother. It could mean anything to him.

BY DESIGN

“...and that's it. I won't have my fate decided by some family register.”

Dr Clark, as Kaz had found out she called herself, was observing him in that vaguely appraising but not threatening way of disinterested professionals. “All right,” she said, motioning for him to lie on his stomach. “Until now, this was just a routine exam, but let's get started on the part that counts. You're very physically fit, so you should respond well. This may hurt a little. Try to relax.”

Kaz swallowed down the retort of I almost got blown to bits my first day on the battlefield and did as instructed. He barely felt the needle go in.

—

“You're Kaz Miller, right?”

He looked up from the file he was reading; in time with Dr Clark attending to his treatment, Zero supplied him with information on Big Boss. Kaz had only heard of the organization's network administrator and apparent genius when it came to technology of any sort who, Kaz was told, still preferred to go by his first alias. SIGINT. That man stood in the doorway now, touching two fingers to the faded cap that was perched on his head in greeting.

Kaz returned the gesture, watching Sigint approach and sit down in the chair opposite. “Man, you don't look half bad,” said the visitor, clearly self-conscious around the topic. “From what the Major has been saying, you'd think they were rebuilding you from scratch. I keep telling him you're not a robot, but you know what he's like.”

“He seems interested,” Kaz concurred, then changed the subject. His voice was sliding deeper, settling there without much effort to make it so, and conversation with relative strangers was less taxing on his nerves thanks to it. “I wonder if that's how he gets people's loyalty—he acts interested in helping them, knowing they won't betray him out of gratitude.”

Taken aback as Sigint looked by the statement, he recovered quickly. “I suppose you could see it that way. Thing is, the Major did give me work in the early sixties when most places wouldn't even let me in the door. He hired Para-Medic—Clark—although women weren't in high positions often at the time, either. You can be cynical about it and say he does it for his own profit but, having known him for a while, I'm pretty sure the Major isn't as cold as you might assume. He believes people like us should get the same chances. And now...hell, we're doing more than most others.”

This was the first time Kaz had found himself prompted to consider the situation from that angle. “So you don't think he's bought your loyalty?”

“You're a businessman all right,” Sigint replied with a laugh. “If you have to put it in those terms, fair exchange is more like it. You help him out, and he helps you.”

“Sounds good.”

It did. No doubt there could be benefits, at least for some of them. And yet, mulling it over, Kaz couldn't help but wonder what Big Boss had done to break the agreement.

—

As the months rolled on at Cipher HQ, Kaz learned there were things one did not ask. He absorbed Zero's briefings and background information with his memory even as his body absorbed the effects of Clark's efforts, and the equilibrium proved hard to resist. He was in no run-of-the-mill organization, no ordinary hospital. In fact, he was increasingly certain that whatever this place was, it was the outer frontier of the world. So he accepted there were secrets, accepted how the others held onto the design with a kind of trust he couldn't fathom.

One evening in late '73, Zero came to see him, his face the mask of finality. “It is time,” he announced, “to stage your second chance encounter with Big Boss.”

Kaz didn't argue. His side of the deal, just as planned. “What are the specifics?”

“Jack is expanding his stronghold in Costa Rica. You will contact him there, but it must look as if he's the one persuading you to join him—you saw firsthand he needs to have his way. How you deal with him afterwards is up to you, but expect visitors in the second half of next year.” As Kaz committed all to memory, Zero carried on, “Your system has adjusted remarkably well, so you won't need to see Doctor Clark as often. When you do need to, we will set a rendezvous point so that you can get your treatment while I get the intelligence you have gathered.”

Realizing the catch—the snare he would be in—Kaz couldn't help but nod his assent. It was simply too late to complain. Too late to shatter that indefinable trust Zero established within his circle despite the opacity of his own motives.

“Sometimes,” Zero added, “I may need my share even when you don't need yours. When your enterprise with Jack is well established, it is likely we will communicate with greater frequency. We'll use the telephone in that case, so ensure your base of operations has one.”

Kaz nodded again, though there were still pieces that left him puzzled. “You think he'll just take me on board like that? Mind, last time he saw me I wasn't exactly nice to him. Not to mention I'll have to explain how come I'm suddenly me to everyone. I,” he paused, savouring the irony, “I'll need to explain to him why I don't need to give explanations to anyone else. Not anymore.”

For the first time during their acquaintance, Zero placed a hand on Kaz's shoulder. “Some of this story you'll have to fabricate. Nevertheless, take my word for this—Jack doesn't judge people by their background. That was one of the few points we never differed on.”

Some things, Kaz determined, were their own answer in the end.

—

And some things, it turned out, were easier than expected.

They had their mercenary business now. Kaz had played his part perfectly; he had performed so well that nothing short of fighting and nearly strangling him had satisfied Big Boss as to the efficacy of his recruitment. From there on, it had been up to Kaz to learn the ropes and keep his separate life with Cipher what it was: separate.

Big Boss was a force to be reckoned with. He didn't believe just anything, so Kaz chose his stories well, drawing upon everything Zero had shared with him. There was inequality: Kaz knew more than Big Boss was going to share, and he had to resist calling him Jack after the effortless manner Zero had used to refer to him during Kaz's stay at the headquarters. All the same, it didn't hurt to know some of Jack's secrets when Jack certainly knew one of his. A fact made secret by current necessity. To Kaz's luck, for all Big Boss's knowledge of battlefield medicine, he had never been interested in the details of procedures he couldn't use to patch himself up.

Kaz complied with the man's request to be called Snake. Kaz and Snake; they sounded like friends.

Before long, friends was what they were, though ones with loyalties in conflict. One night, they introduced benefits.

“Now you can tell me,” Kaz breathed into Snake's ear, restraining him by means of a chokehold, “if you thought you'd get to fuck me when we first met.”

A laugh, “That's what you think I jumped to? You sure don't have high expectations, Kaz.”

Kaz's hand crept down across skin, pulling fabric to the side. “Now? Think that's what we'll be doing?”

“You're all talk. Contribute some of your own ideas,” Snake shot back. “Surprise me.”

The next word Kaz spoke was muffled by the fingers in his mouth, understood even without clarity. As he lowered his hand to the fault-line in Snake's flesh, he felt a surge of appreciation he would never have guessed he'd entertain for someone who had tormented him in a hospital bed. He slid a finger in, then another, enjoying whatever reactions Snake allowed himself to show.

“Hope you're fine with this idea,” he said in a tone of conciliation, kissing the back of Snake's neck briefly.

The first thing he had relayed to Zero was that Snake did not forget. In fact, the precision of his memory was striking. He leaned against Kaz now, into the touch. “Hurts a little, but I'll get used to it.”

So they went on.

—

“It's me. Smoothly, naturally. No, Big Boss doesn't know the truth... No, Langley hasn't decided what to do yet. Their hands are full with their own mess.”

Loyalty was an unfathomable thing.

Kaz pressed the receiver to his ear, nodding habitually as Zero spoke. Some of that unspoken trust was being directed at him now, though he suspected the “news” was not as new as Zero was making it out to be. The pieces were finally clicking together. For a doctor who had accomplished human cloning, how hard could it have been to modify an existing human body in specific ways?

“Two already? Really... But they're strictly an insurance policy, yes? Hmm, so that's the idea. I wonder how Big Boss will respond...”

He had to rephrase this arrangement, even to himself. It wasn't hard to see how the Patriots, how Zero could be so captivated by Snake. Though Kaz had come into the bargain without any great attachment to the man he was to track, he felt one now. It riddled negotiation with pitfalls—some when it came to Zero, but more still when Kaz navigated the minefield of ramshackle diplomacy he'd had to spread out within himself.

“Yes. But I'm only interested in the business angle. Like I said before, I'm neither an enemy nor an ally. I'm merely a business partner. Don't forget it.”

A reminder to himself as much as a new boundary for Zero to honour. They dealt in all sorts of loyalty; loyalty had all sorts of origins. Meeting, diverging, unfathomable.

“I'll be in touch...my dear Zero.”

But no less real.

Micro-fic collection from the NaNoMaChines warm-up round

oudeteron — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 23:34:14 GMT

But first off, thanks to the anonymous benefactor who sent that spider gift to my profile! :D

I've decided to round up my posts from the warm-up round for NaNoMaChines so as not to lose track of them sooner or later. They were fun to write. We did a bunch of prompts, where one prompt = 20 minutes to fill. The whole round was epic and spawned quite many worthy contributions, which I encourage you to check out! We went with the "very short fic" definition of "drabble" rather than "100 words exactly" for this event, so I'll be tagging them as drabbles here. Down with terminology wars! I mean.

PROMPT #1: BY THE BOOK
Peace Walker; BB & Kaz

“The famous Fulton recovery system. I've used that before, Kaz.”

“Yes, Boss, I know, but let's run it over one more time. We'll be using the chopper, and...” Kaz goes on to list everything that will have changed and how, entertaining the notion that Snake is listening. It's not that Snake doesn't care what his subcommander has to say. It's just that he likes to rely on his instincts.

There is no telling where that might get him this time.

“You think we can run the MSF by the book?” Snake responds to his chance for “any questions” when the lecture's done, not even pretending to let Kaz off the hook without frustration.

“Well...” Kaz's aviators have turned opaque in the evening glare. “You tell me where we're needed, Boss.”

PROMPT #2: MID-MISSION CALL
MGS3; BB/Zero

“Please, don't make it about Bond this time.”

The static cracked in his ear, but so did Zero's answering chuckle. “Mentioning Bond to you isn't half as entertaining without the visuals—” a pause, as if swallowing down a classified name, “Snake. We shall agree to leave that for another time, I think.”

“Yeah. Tell me something to take my mind off the smell here and how most of it is probably my fault.” Leaning his head against the cave wall, Snake slid his hand down his stomach, over muscles where each of them hurt; he kept his mind off EVA, Ocelot, or anyone he'd met on his mission. Soon, that part would be easier. “Or, you know, just talk.”

“Starting to give me orders now?” came the reprimand, not serious by any stretch of the imagination—not that Snake had much of that left, anyway. He rested against the rock, breathing deeply, listening to what Zero told him of space exploration, of how the earth wasn't a such bad place to be with air and water and all, of his spy's adventures before there was a Cold War to send people off into places like this...

It made for eccentric masturbation fodder, but Zero's movies were hardly any better.

PROMPT #3: STYLE CHANGE
Peace Walker; BB/Zero, shameless Shakespeare exploitation

BIG BOSS:
O Cipher, Cipher!
Wherefore art thou Cipher?
What's in a name? That which we call a cigar
By any other name would smell as sweet.
So Cipher would, were he not Cipher called,
At least stop pretending I can't tell
His older title. Cipher, doff thy name,
And for thy name, which is no part of thee
You may as well be called Zero again.
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say
[the lonely fox chases the one-eyed hound]
And I will take thy word. Yet—

ZERO:
Snake, by yonder MSF base I vow
That dips into the ocean like a scone to tea—

BIG BOSS:
O, swear not by the MSF, the renegade MSF
That may well be swept under the times' tide
Lest that thy love prove likewise short-lived.

ZERO:
What shall I swear by?

BIG BOSS:
Do not swear at all;
Or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self
Not to call my second-in-command,
For he will eat thy lies. So it goes; the end.

PROMPT #4: LOVE MAKES YOU CRAZY
MGS4; BB/Ocelot, Solid Snake

Ocelot had never prided himself on being well-adjusted, least of all according to some pedestrian system. No; in order to go up against a system that reached everywhere, he had to be the exact opposite of that. He stood observing the ruins of what had been a perfect, orderly battlefield moments ago, scanning the writhing bodies for the young-old Snake.

He knew what he was here for, knew that his mission statement would sound insane to the ears of anyone who knew, if they knew. There weren't many things in this world that could so overtake a man. Not many things that could make one crazy—albeit with severe attention to detail and to the overarching plot of the thing.

He spotted Snake soon after. Steadied himself, and thought of John.

PROMPT #5: TIDYING UP
MG2 & MGS1; Gray Fox/Solid Snake, warning for character death and violence

He can't tidy up this mess.

There's Fox's body on the floor, broken by him and by the mines, almost dead—and death is so quiet when it comes, stealing over the man's countenance hot on the heels of his final words. Of all the things Snake didn't want, didn't expect to do here, killing Gray Fox hadn't even been on the goddamn radar.

It shouldn't be surprising that he was taken off guard. Fox was someone who could do this to him and make it appear mundane, near-amiable. Just one of his fans.

—

Not even after all this time can he tidy up this mess.

There is no silence here: the screams have stalked him through Shadow Moses, jumping from shadows and retreating again, extensions of a warrior who can't be appeased. When Snake realizes who it is—was—there's little he can think of except ending it, again. Giving Fox back his quiet, watching him melt into the shadows without that awful recurring noise.

He lets a ghost die that day, wrecks the machine for his vengeance. The howling stops, but the fallout has sunk to the bone.

PROMPT #6: ROCKET PEACE!
Peace Walker; Zero & Zadornov, BB/Zero

“That's going to be your dying line? Well, it is snappy, at the very least.”

A hint of a smile touches Zadornov's face as he corrects: “My dying wish. And you don't know if he'll kill me yet.”

“You have remarkable optimism not to expect as much,” Zero returns lazily, swirling the tepid contents of his teacup. There's a draft with them at the dinner table, making everything feel wrapped in a cold film of some sort. Even the tea leaves his fingers chilled; simply holding the cup for warmth to seep through no longer does the trick. Instead, it evaporates. Zadornov, on the other hand, seems to be enjoying his coffee thoroughly.

“One needs to have a signature,” he replies then, the red hand flashing. “Don't you, Major?”

Zero considers the words. Recently, he has changed the codeword for his enterprise, but he indeed keeps alive the hope that Jack might recognize where the ultimatum comes from when he hears it. There is only so much deception can accomplish.

Zadornov displays awful confidence for someone whose role is expendable. It's something for Zero to ponder when they part, one of them going to be meeting Jack while the other must remain where the curtain will conceal him, no immediate gratification in sight.

PROMPT #7: LIKE THE OLD DAYS
Peace Walker; BB/Zero and Zero/brooding

What are the old times?

He has been alive for a while. Sometimes, he wanders back in memory to what's an old war now—the war that made his name, that marked his face—thinking of how much more straightforward things were then, even for an agent like himself. Clear objectives, though the means were murky; decisive signs of success after the fact. Information helped win that war. The side with the most information could make it the most dreaded weapon of them all.

Nowadays, he has information, but there is not yet a perfect System. Similarly, seeing an outcome takes longer. For someone like him, that is a threat.

Were those the old times?

Long after the war, he was a minor leader. He sent a handful of others on missions then, collected their information to make sense of, passing it along to places higher up the stream. (Nowadays, he is working on making that stream begin and end with him.) The more information someone brought, the more valuable. Jack was always very high on that list.

But he remembers Jack from other times, too, when all the information was already there. Sharing a cigar over a newspaper, amused by the tales it had to sell. Stealing a few hours to spend together when there were other things to do.

Do the times only get old when they can't be brought back?

The Information Density of Zero

oudeteron — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 17:05:48 GMT

Not a pun, of course. Or is it? Or...is it. Anyway, in celebration of that great MGS3 video collection that had been nuked from Youtube some time ago being restored, let's have some Zero meta because there's only so long I can keep all this in my head only. One cannot but conclude that everything about this character points to something else and that seems well beyond purposeful, Kojima. Continued from this post; some Peace Walker and general series spoilers.

So, the well-known-to-MGS-fans stuff first. During the Virtuous Mission, he famously uses "Major Tom" as his alias (because "Zero" isn't codename-y enough, you see). It would be an obvious nod to Bowie and the theme of space exploration (which Kojima corroborated according to this article), except the game takes place in 1964 whereas the song came out in 1969. Since MGS is half-story-half-meta to begin with, this doesn't completely discount the Bowie reference, but there does need to be a different explanation for it in-story: which is then found in the movie The Great Escape. Being the WWII ~~nerd~~ veteran he is, Zero just liked the idea of digging tunnels to escape from the Nazis so much he chose one of the tunnel names for a remixed codename of his. And it was the lucky tunnel, too - such an auspicious move; what could go wrong? Well, the fact that he remembered it wrong and the mission he used it on likewise ended with Snake (BB) irradiated and almost killed, not to mention heartbroken over his mentor. But the name choice is interesting, because instead of going with something "finished" like Major Tom of the Bowie song (because time paradox), it is Major (from Major Zero) + Tom (movie reference). SPLIT UP. Gee, no wonder he didn't stick with it.

Another interesting point is that, unlike the majority of MGS characters, Zero actually has a full date of birth. He doesn't have much background info in canon (beyond the teasing tidbits that'll have me writing fic for him on and off for the next century) but for some reason, his "driving licence" sort of info-blurb is more complete than that of most of the cast. All you get for Big Boss by contrast is a year of birth, and that only after Peace Walker when it can be calculated back. (Also notice how they both have ages that are in reference to something: Zero's to the SIS and BB's to Che Guevara, though he wasn't born in the same year.) There should be some significance to giving Zero that much info, right?

I've already spoiled that there is. Zero's year of birth, 1909, coincides with the establishment of the British Intelligence as an organization. Considering that his entire career was in special ops and spying, that's already significant, but more chilling is that whole aspect of intelligence collecting/information collection --> The System as an ongoing theme of MGS, leading towards centralized control. In that way, his character comes to be read as the power of information personified (and the moment one controls all information then there's the obvious issue of corruption/how that information can be manipulated and used for one's gain and to the oppression of others. Something Zero would have learned, and would then become. Irony). Anyway, it was after I discovered this too-good-to-be-coincidental explanation for 1909 that I came across this conversation from MGS3 where Zero basically confirms the same thing. Except instead of analysis, it's foreshadowing.

He also explains "Zero" in the most obvious way: it used to be O, as the first letter of his surname was what he'd have been using to communicate with his subordinates. (Notice that his surname is assumed to just have been "Oh": I want to know whether that's seriously it or just a longer transcription of the initial, or both.) I honestly don't know whether we're supposed to think he was ever the head of British Intelligence from that conversation, though there's enough blank space in the canon for it to fit in. It would just be odd why, if he had risen that high, he'd go and exchange it for a stint in the US special forces where he would again have to answer to a ton of higher-ups (although establishing a new unit and/or keeping in touch with The Boss would have been compelling reasons). Either way, he references this system in relation to Cumming as the originator of that practice (with only C for a signature). There's a Bond reference to make here as well, but more on that later.

Because Zero likes puns, he took it the system a step further (oh snap) and turned O into Zero. The boundaries between how you're supposed to read something written as 0 or Ø are muddled, anyway. By itself, you can say zero or null (note: Null). In phone numbers, it tends to be pronounced as "oh" again. But here's the kicker: how do you pronounce it in computing? Binary codes? Does it even matter how it would be read there? Again with this "information" theme.

Zero himself has this to add in the video: "In another sense, though, it signifies a ghost - one whose true identity must remain a mystery. The primogenitor of the solo sneaking operation." Apart from the subtle bragging (which, fair enough: I'd brag too if I had a grand total of a few approved individuals I could mention something to at all), what he says right here is much less focused on the power- and information-related meanings, and much more on "OPERATE IN SECRET BECAUSE SO DID I". Interestingly, Snake (BB) only responds with "is that so".

[Re: Null; there are *cough* others who have spent more time figuring him out than I have, but it's fascinating that while he basically has the same codename, it's the exact opposite of what Zero means. Zero can, in how he's set it up, mean a great range of things. Part of the fun of the code is that it does indeed change meanings depending on the circumstances and context, but it never just stands for "nothing". "Null", on the other hand, is precisely nothing: no senses (or sensations; that he does have reflexes is the point), no feelings, no memory. It's only when Null escapes from the artificially imposed cycle of being wiped to a tabula rasa on a daily basis that he can remember his former name - as Null, he didn't need it. Zero also doesn't need his original name when he's Zero, but the difference is that he chose that on purpose. As far as the multiplicity of possible meanings goes, Zero is actually closer to Gene than to Null, if we're going by Portable Ops context in this paragraph. ~~But in the long run he loses his humanity to his own System, whoops.~~]

At any rate, did I say Zero likes puns? By Peace Walker, we get from Zero to Cipher. Isn't that so frustrating: first it's a name that's set up to mean anything, and now it's something that says instead of a name that it's a bloody cipher. Except it is more revealing than that; again meaning hidden in plain sight.

Helpfully, it's elaborated on in canon:
Kaz: [Paz] must have put on the act to get close to Gálvez. Wonder how much Coldman knew... But the whole time she was working for some organization called "Cipher".
BB: "Cipher"... Ring any bells, Kaz?
Kaz: Cipher...Cipher...it means "code." Or "zero" in Arabic numerals.
BB: Zero...
Kaz: Does that mean something to you? [dishonest Kaz is dishonest]
BB: Not sure. [haha brutal]
Kaz: Hmm. You know, "cipher" and "zero" were basically the same word. It's a linguistic redundancy. The word stems from the Sanskrit "shunya"... It corresponds to the Buddhist concept of emptiness. In Buddhism, "shunya" means hollow. It supposedly refers to something that's swollen and empty on the inside.
BB: A big, swollen emptiness...just like outer space.

WELL SNAP. Consider that another of the few times Zero is explicitly mentioned in PW (implicit mentions would total to a lot more, like I don't know almost half the game while the "bigger" half is driven by BB and Strangelove's stories) is by The Boss AI, and it's literally a code as well: "the lonely fox chases the one-eyed hound". The context of this is extremely loaded, being the time BB is dismantling the AI; you can just pay attention to how most of what she says grows simpler and more fragmented with how additional memory boards are pulled, but this sentence jumps out as a variation on the "the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog" saying. (By the way, this scene is amazing and haters of this game can pack up and leave now.) Because I am a sap, I like to think that's either The Boss "warning" BB or a message that was coded in on purpose. But you're definitely meant to notice, because it's ten years after Snake Eater and the fact is that BB isn't with Zero anymore. (Yeah, I know; I couldn't get along with Patriot-era Zero either.) Then it gets into the whole conspiracy with Paz - Zadornov - and Kaz most significantly of all, but I'd rather not open that can of worms in this post since it's getting long enough. Just have a look at that conversation above, and how Zero probably told Kaz to make sure BB got all the implications.

What's in a name, right?

The last straw that made me want to go and type all this up? Well, Thene made the huge mistake of showing me an article on Ian Fleming (author of the James Bond novels) since I need to be properly educated in the matters of Bond. It had some interesting facts for sure. He was born in 1908 and served in WWII. Kind of almost perfectly parallel to Zero, if you look at it. (Amusingly I'm told he was into S&M, in which case no one will ever dissuade me about James Bond not being a pun. Again with those puns. Also you can deconstruct what this means for the power dynamics there and from Zero's POV.) It also says in the article that Fleming died on August 12, 1964. In MGS terms, that means on Zero's birthday in the year of Snake Eater. Actually, it would have been very shortly before the game takes place (Virtuous Mission starts on August 24). Zero's fondness for the Bond movies is legendary so all I ask now, Kojima - why isn't he deep in mourning at the time of the mission? Well, perhaps he is and deals with it in the least counterproductive way, i.e. tl;dring about Bond to his unit. I know there's the possibility of him being just a movie-verse fan but somehow I doubt it, considering he'd probably have met the guy during the war. Poor Zero. He sounds so emotionally involved when he shares all this Bond trivia and suggestions for "Double-Oh-Snake". BB should feel eternally ashamed of himself for telling him off (not that he would have known about any of this, given he's the exact opposite of Zero and Para-Medic when it comes to awareness of pop culture).

Finally, this probably is a coincidence. (Then again, maybe not.)

You know, what is fourth wall? I want fic about Zero being best buddies with Alan Turing back in WWII while Fleming is just massively perplexed by their days and ways. (Alternatively, Kojipro can hire me to write this as a prequel to the series. I WOULD NOT REFUSE. You'd go between playing as The Boss and as Zero depending on where in the storyline you were. It would be called Metal Gear Solid: We Did Start the Fire, Actually.)

...

You know what, never mind

oudeteron — Wed, 19 Oct 2011 21:55:20 GMT

As Thene put it earlier, I appear to have trolled myself by forgetting that I am a troll. Looking at my fic folder, I noticed that I had this one lying around finished since April. I probably wrote it and walked away, planning to get back to it later - and then I forgot all about it. I do not know how. It has Gene and Zero in it as they try to out-scheme each other, though if you're familiar with MPO you already know who "won". I don't know how I forget this stuff.

Anyway, I have polished and proofread it now, so I present to you...

Title: A Gentlemen's Agreement
Characters: Gene, Zero; mentions of BB/Zero, Cunningham
Rating: SFW
Word Count: ~830
Summary: The most skilled player will answer to no one.
Notes: Pre-Portable Ops, playing with the interpretation that Zero's "overthrow" as the head of FOX was negotiated with the very party that was supposed to overthrow him. The thing is, can you outfox an old FOX? (Gene's original codename was indeed Viper, by the way.)
Disclaimer: MGS belongs to Hideo Kojima & Konami.

A Gentlemen's Agreement

For something supposedly as significant as a shift in command to affect the entire FOX unit, the interrogation goes smoother than Gene himself could have imagined. This, considering he usually gets what he wants one way or another, says a lot. He barely even has to try.

He gives the man opposite him a small smile when they settle a few last points—last for now, that is; there are still things in need of being finalized before the plan is put to the test—and is rewarded with a polite nod. So reserved, his current superior, even with his days so drastically numbered. It makes Gene wonder if the man can ever let go. Were he dealing with anyone else, Gene would be disinclined to make much of this quality given the fact that surrender will be required, but Major Zero is a man of his word.

Especially, Gene makes a calculated guess, when there is something in the arrangement that's worth the momentary concession. An irritating missing piece for now, but he will work it out.

It should not be so hard, as long as he remembers the dishonesty is mutual.

“Well, Sir,” Gene says with a touch of mock-friendly sarcasm that he hopes passes for just friendly, “what are your conditions? Surely you aren't giving me free rein in this operation at no cost at all.”

Zero's stare borders on disconcerting. “I believe most of my concerns have been addressed,” he replies at length, his tone mellow. Gene resists the urge to shake his head, but instead he moves in for the kill.

“None about Big Boss, then?”

For the first time, Zero's impeccable mask of tranquility cracks, the disturbance fleeting but perceptible as a pained look crosses his face. It's gone before it has left a trace at all, but Gene has seen enough to know what he's hit. So the rumours were true: whether in part or in full doesn't matter. Either renders the FOX commander human, exploitable. Gene's attachments are none.

But the grace with which Zero composes himself is admirable.

“You'll have to capture him. I don't want him subject to unnecessary torture when you do. He will, without a doubt, complete the mission no matter his physical state, but nothing calls for putting him through the level of stress he endured in Groznyj Grad.”

Gene swallows the chuckle in his throat like candy. “Will he really? Don't forget, he must carry out this 'mission' but stay ignorant of the wider context till the end.”

“If you've done the amount of research that you claim,” Zero says; no, the weight of his voice is more like a sigh, “you know he performs in missions of that stripe particularly well. He might try to work out the situation, but without the insider knowledge the two of us have, his picture will be missing vital details.” His eyes narrow to slits. “All you need then is to play your cards right, letting Snake accomplish what is needed. And all I ask is that you use him, but no more. Are we quite clear on that, Viper?”

“Gene,” he corrects, the retort empty. “I won't put him through what Volgin did—I don't have to lay a finger on him!” The phrasing doesn't seem to have the desired effect this time, or maybe Zero has perfected his deceptive craft for the purposes of their conversation after that one slight lapse. “Just understand I give no guarantee that all my comrades will embrace the same set of ethics as I do, or that I'll be there to stop them if they don't.”

He hasn't used the Voice, its utility limited at a meeting of manipulators by designation. However, Gene would not be Gene if he lacked the skill to speak persuasively without such an enhancement; against Zero, that would amount to pure cheating. Not that Zero will be persuaded, of course: all Gene needs is to placate him, steer him towards his beloved calculated guesses that, in this instance and no other, will happen to be just one crucial figure short.

Or, more to the point, one metal leg.

As Zero finally accepts his half-answer, Gene pushes the cup holding most of the now unappetizing tea away on the tabletop (the host's own cup, he notices, is empty). He sipped a little at the start, not really fearing poison or any mind-altering substances, but that's where his sympathy with the old man ended, just like he won't go beyond observing with Big Boss. The game will obey much different rules with Zero safely under the house-arrest they have outlined today and Gene's own hands as free as his loyalties. No one will know what hit them till it does—not even Cunningham, not Langley, and certainly not the old guard of FOX.

When Gene exits the room, his departure is amicable, and Zero's real satisfaction lost on him.

Once can happen, twice means I ship it

oudeteron — Sun, 16 Oct 2011 20:40:16 GMT

Title: Honest Men
Characters: Kaz/Zero, background BB/Kaz and BB/Zero
Rating: NSFW
Word Count: ~980
Summary: There is a fine line between sincerity and scheming, and sometimes it doesn't matter at all.
Notes: This is another one of those fics that write themselves in my head and all I have to do is transcribe them well. (Then it takes me about twice as long to proofread, of course.) Inspired by Pud's fantastic canvas from last night, just mostly skipping ahead from the scene in the pic. Can be read as a loose sequel/companion to this fic. (If you can count up their age difference you get a cookie - I mean, scone. Either way, enjoy the awkwardness.) It is now in my headcanon that Zero was at least a little fond of Kaz, though neither of them would have been very sentimental about it.
Disclaimer: MGS belongs to Hideo Kojima & Konami.

Honest Men

They fuck, Kaz suspects, because Zero is lonely.

It's the easiest explanation, and one that bothers him the least. They are hardly a pair of honest men but, in the lamp-light of the upscale hotel suite where Zero had offered to stage their most recent bout of plotting—they can't do everything on the telephone—earnestness is something that can be invented to suit the moment. In a way, they lie to each other less than they lie to themselves. Than they lie the world in the face.

Than they lie to Jack and about Jack.

He might as well be here with them, only Kaz doesn't acknowledge the sentiment and knows that neither will Zero. This is for respite first and foremost, after all. They talked business earlier, both wearing suits and facades still more impeccable, while dinner progressed in the private compartment they occupied at the time. Having made their way up to the bedroom later, it seemed as good an option as any to let off some steam.

Kaz arches his hips in a leisurely way, responding to Zero's insistence. He's going to finish first anyhow, no matter what he does. His body is young, rough and supple, and there is no rush. His needs are less.

And confirming his prediction, it's only by the time Kaz shivers an orgasm that Zero starts to enjoy himself properly. It's not purposeful. They agreed right at the start not to bother trying to synchronize with one another, the gap between them too wide to make it worth all the self-denial Kaz would have to do in that case. There is less trouble in leaving each of them to run his course, making no fuss. Kaz stays stretched out on his back; his head is tilted to the side, eyes hooded, his thoughts wavering between the activity underway and the MSF with its boss.

He's sure it is the same way for Zero. That's what makes what they're doing fair.

Kaz even believes that, used though he may be for Zero's benefit, he is not totally expendable. He's a businessman, and he knows the value of money. Zero has spent an awful lot on meeting him here tonight, considering they could have stuck to Cipher HQ as they had before: none of this all-inclusive comfort, no pretence at anything out of the ordinary. It sets him wondering if Zero perhaps knows Kaz's secret penchant for stability, knows how it vexes him that the MSF remains an enterprise of chance. Pondering this makes Kaz feel a little lost, a drifting sensation not helped by the haze he's in after his climax. This is among the reasons he gives himself up to however long is necessary for Zero to follow after him, as well as why he doesn't mind. A moan escapes Kaz's throat every now and then, not for pleasure at this point but because of the way Zero's body strains his.

Interestingly, Zero is almost gentle with him despite the machine-like—The System in person, it occurs to Kaz as an afterthought to a conversation they had earlier, and now he knows that Zero means it—regularity of his motions. Not that Kaz would ever ask for gentleness; he's still meeting each thrust and doesn't need to be coddled. He looks up as he starts paying attention again, peering into Zero's face above him. He finds an expression of pure concentration there that sends some renascent heat to his cock, though he doesn't get hard again.

When they are done, they don't have much use for soppy gestures. Kaz had undressed completely when they made it to bed, so he just wipes his front with the one-use towel the hotel staff had so thoughtfully placed on the covers before he settles on his side. From the corner of his eye, he watches Zero take off the condom and readjust the shirt he never took off in the first place. As Kaz makes the deliberate decision to sleep he thinks of the myriad ways this man could stab him in the back before the night is out, but all Zero does is drape the blanket over him.

---

It's still dark when he regains consciousness, only the barest hint of dawn permeating the air. There is a lukewarm cup of something on the nightstand; when he sits up to taste it, Kaz is pleasantly surprised to discover that it's coffee. Glancing around the room, he notices the sliver of light under the bathroom door and determines that he should be awake.

Soon enough, Zero joins him, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Thanks for that,” Kaz says, inclining his head towards the cup he's still holding.

“You're as bad as Jack with your muddy water,” comes the reply, “but you are welcome.”

Kaz chuckles, not about to argue the superiority of coffee versus tea at this hour. Beverage wars notwithstanding, part of him can't help but appreciate Zero's unbelievable ability to sound casual in the least casual of situations. For a moment it feels as if they were just an unlikely couple, their difference in age the most dubiously remarkable quality about them.

That illusion is shattered when Zero speaks up once more, swapping his casual manner for blunt. “Is it hard to come back to him?”

It gives Kaz pause, and even then he's speechless. He fidgets with the cup, examines the bedsheets.

“That wasn't a business question, in case you're on your guard.” Zero's voice is weary now. “As a former spy who was a little like you, I know deception takes its toll. If you can't cope, you may end up pulling the rug from under everyone.”

“So you're worried about me? Or is that about yourself?”

“I might be about both of us.” The remark sounds like half of a larger whole impossible to unearth. “And Jack, too.”

You know what would be totally unexpected?

oudeteron — Sat, 01 Oct 2011 21:49:02 GMT

A Three Kingdoms spur-of-the-moment story. Right? Guest starring: LJ's altered HTML editor, now with a fancy font!

Title: For This One Time
Characters: Cao Cao/Guan Yu, background Cao Cao/Xiahou Dun
Rating: Slightly NSFW
Word Count: ~900
Summary: Guan Yu only has thoughts of home, whereas his host craves the unattainable.
Notes: Last night, I saw this picture (original source here) and it made me want to write out the situation. Though I love the AU clothes in the artwork, I didn't want to make it an AU and just gave him something that would be time era-appropriate. Also based the whole thing on Ro3K canon, namely chapters 25 (quoted below) and 26. You barely need to add anything in there, unless you're like me and straight-up make it a new scene. The fic would be taking place in the latter chapter, probably during the last period of banquet-throwing (when Dun is conveniently posted outside the capital; interesting). I wanted it to read like just one added episode to what's already in the book, so I hope the style works to that effect. Gee, it's been a while since I did omniscient.
/TL;DR

     One day Cao Cao noticed that the robe Guan Yu was wearing was old and frayed. Taking his measurements, Cao Cao had a new one made of fine brocade and presented it to him. Guan Yu took it and put it on under the old robe, so that the latter covered it.
     "Why so very thrifty?" laughed Cao Cao.
     "It is not thrift," was his reply. "The old robe was a gift from my brother, and I wear it because it reminds me of him. I could not allow the new gift to eclipse his old one."
     "How very high principled!" said Cao Cao, sighing.

For This One Time

One evening Guan Yu was taking some refreshments at his residence, only to be surprised by a visitor.

Entering the chamber was Cao Cao, a mysterious package under his arm. Always less formal than one would expect of a man of his status, he only uttered a short greeting before he sat down across from Guan Yu, cheerfully thanking the attendant who poured the tea. She was one of the handmaids Guan Yu had been given earlier, though it did not seem that he was any more keen to employ her than the others, for he indicated her dismissal as soon as the tea had been served. The two men sat quietly for a time, taking measure of each other much like they had done since the beginning. At length, Cao Cao opened the conversation.

“I see your humility has not waned.”

Guan Yu bowed his head. “There is little sense in getting accustomed to glamour. We don't enjoy the abundance of the capital at brother Liu Bei's court.”

The implication in the statement was clear, almost a rebuke to Cao Cao's ears. But his face remained inscrutable as he lifted the package at his side and offered it to Guan Yu.

“Still, some indulgence can't hurt.”

Guan Yu accepted the gift, but his expression faltered. “The Prime Minister is most kind. I feel unworthy of his attentions.”

“Dispense with the formality, my friend. All my presents so far were carefully chosen. Riches to show you were an honoured guest, servants to make your stay pleasurable, the Red Hare to match your might in the field. This one is simply from me to you.”

Finding the speech impossible to defy, Guan Yu opened the gift with trepidation he did his best to disguise. The item was an embroidered robe of a deep green hue, even more exquisite than the last he had received. He touched it with a hesitant hand, tracing the design. The material was so fine that the mere thought of putting it on seemed to be enough to soil its perfect smoothness.

The question was written in Guan Yu's features when he next looked at Cao Cao. “This is not the first time you gave me a robe.”

Cao Cao was smiling softly. “Please. Show me.”

They both remembered how the previous instance had gone. Guan Yu's dedication to his brother had impressed Cao Cao then, but he had never stopped wishing that he could have seen the man wear a garment he had chosen for him with pride. Now, Cao Cao's only chance to make that idle dream come true lay in repeating the demand, which he hoped he was handling with the appropriate subtlety. Used though he was to commanding his own men, he did not fancy assuming the same attitude towards a guest who deserved admiration.

He was in luck. Before he knew it, Guan Yu was standing in front of him and slipping out of his old robe with meticulous care; he set it aside and reached for the one just presented. Cao Cao's gaze lingered upon him, taking in the gloss of the fabric and the all-too-brief glimpses of skin. When Guan Yu turned to face him again, Cao Cao rose too, watching as the other man adjusted the fall of his beard over his chest.

“Beautiful,” Cao commended him.

Guan Yu took the assessment in stride, even if his eyes told a different story. “You overestimate me, Prime Minister.”

“Never,” said Cao Cao as he moved confidently forward, treating the discarded tea things as if they weren't there. “Thank you for humouring an overwrought man.”

It was understood in the dwindling space between them that the thanks extended to favours not yet rendered. Guan Yu did not resist when Cao Cao embraced him, hands wandering—first over the robe, then underneath. The silence mounted and broke, replaced by the low noise of intimacy as the two groped their way to bed.

“Are you so determined to repay me?” Cao Cao asked as they lay sated together. The robe still clung to Guan Yu's shoulders, only rumpled and marred with sweat.

“I should be. I have already ruined your gift.”

The laughter in Cao Cao's voice was genuine as he spoke, pulling at a stray piece of green cloth, “I would have a thousand more of these made if it granted me another night like this. Please, worry not.” He could afford the luxury, after all; the truly unattainable thing in his world was Guan Yu's company free of the constant threat of separation.

There was a substantial pause before any response came. “You have not bought the loyalty of your generals, Mengde. Why be any different with me?”

Cao Cao sighed, and sighed again.

Dawn was stealing along the walls. It was a time for parting, albeit not for long while their agreement was still in effect. Neither of them had said a great deal more while the night was fading; they had been content with languid touches as their chief mode of communication. Now even that was over, and Cao Cao hastened to go his way.

He was unprepared to concede defeat. Nevertheless, drinking in the fresh air of the morning as he walked, he had to admit to himself that the man he so coveted was many things, but certainly no second Xiahou Dun.

Even warlords need downtime

oudeteron — Sat, 24 Sep 2011 16:32:47 GMT

Here comes some more DW fic, this time written in collaboration with cherrytruck. :3 Originally, this was an RP between us so be aware there's some element of "head hopping" since we each wrote from one character's perspective (Che = Cao Cao, me = Dun). That said, it's been polished and converted into regular story format, and it works as far as we can tell. Just thought I'd mention the composition since it affects the outcome to an extent; this might read a bit differently from something written by a single author from start to finish.

Title: An Arrow's Path
Characters: Cao Cao/Xiahou Dun
Rating: ~~R to NC-17; it's not "just porn" but the sex takes its time~~ NSFW
Word Count: ~8,800
Summary: Narrowly escaping danger in battle prompts Cao Cao and Xiahou Dun to review where they stand with each other.
Notes: There will be sap, as we wanted to give them an opportunity for some downtime when they could appreciate each other for once. They barely ever catch a break in canon.
Context Notes: Apparently, there aren't definite mentions of a 69 in this time/era or what it would have been called, so we took liberties. (I, for one, am willing to believe someone could have got the idea to do it. XD If you have better research, feel free to bring it up, of course.) As for the wound, we just went with something non-life-threatening and banked on Cao Cao's resilience.
Disclaimer: DW belongs to Koei.

An Arrow's Path

The battle seemed to have gone as planned. Xiahou Dun had been confident enough to retire when bidden by the strategist, Jia Xu, throwing just a last glance at his lord in the thick of the fight as Cao Cao commanded the Wei forces from his horse. Back to camp now, all Dun had to do was wait out the time estimated for all the troops' return—and soon enough, he noticed the flashy headdress among the crowding men of the cavalry, a point indicating steady progress towards the line of tents that marked the encampment. He stood for a while longer, observant; he wasn't even particularly tired as the victory had been an easy one. Though he had faith in their strategies and in his comrades' ability to carry them out in practice, it was always a relief to see Mengde come home, or whatever passed for home on the current campaign. Seeing him now, so calm and composed in the saddle as his horse drew closer, was the best closure to an armed skirmish Dun could ask for.

Only a few metres left, he cut the remainder of the distance and stood next to Cao Cao, greeting him with a respectful bow. “Glad you return safe, my lord. I've had the men prepare some refreshments, for surely you'll want to rest—”

“Xiahou Dun...” The lord's voice seemed rather quieter than his usual tone, something which could have passed for tiredness from the previous battle and the journey back home. “You did well out there as always, and thanks to the efforts of our troops, this has been another easy victory for us.” Despite his words of confidence, there seemed to be something uneasy about Cao Cao—the fact that he placed a hand on his head, as if having a headache, was one of the things that gave it away.

Still, the lord managed to smile at Dun, and was looking forward to whatever plans he had. Cao Cao made his way off the large horse in a careful manner, but also struggling somewhat. Things only became much clearer when the man gave himself a rough landing, falling onto the ground after attempting to land on his feet. The agonized scream that came out of him was enough to show things hadn't gone quite as well as Dun may first have imagined.

Xiahou Dun was never sure how to react in such situations. Knowing Cao Cao's pride, it wouldn't be wise to sweep in making a too-obvious display of concern, but it was hard to restrain himself from doing just that. That scream had come seemingly out of nowhere and cut into his very bones.

Doing his best to appear calm, he crouched down. “What happened? My lord, are you hurt?”

Soon it was obvious that he didn't even need to ask—helping Cao Cao to his feet, he noticed the arrow protruding from one of the seams in his armour, in the lower part of his thigh. No wonder it had been impossible to land properly with such a hindrance. No wonder, and yet so entirely like Mengde to try.

Cao Cao really didn't want to send his general into a state of panic, as he thought his injury was a minor one and nothing to worry about. But the landing had made it more painful than it already was, and as much as he didn't want to make himself seem helpless, Cao Cao put one hand on Dun's shoulder, finding him more comfortable support than the ground.

He realized his cousin had noticed the arrow stuck inside him. Trying to sound nonchalant about the situation, Cao Cao coldly smiled and said, “Don't worry about it, Xiahou Dun. It's only a small wound, and I can easily get the tailors to stitch my clothes back together if that's what you're concerned about.”

It took all of Dun's resolve not to blurt out something about how this was most certainly not a small thing if the pain was bad enough to make someone like Cao Cao cry out. Instead, he opted to call for assistance from whoever was at hand, conducting the wounded leader into the command tent. The camp's physician was summoned to examine the injury. Dun didn't even ask before he dropped to the ground beside the bed Cao Cao was seated on, holding his leg in place to prevent it from twitching in the process. The arrow had to be extricated before the armour could be removed and the broken flesh attended to; as it was pulled out, there was some blood, but nowhere near enough to indicate a major vein had been hit. The physician set about removing the rest of the obstacles before getting to the wound itself, and all Dun could feel was relief.

Cao Cao was remarkably silent. It seemed silly to try and comfort him when he was handling the situation so well but Dun found himself longing to say something, do something, that might distract him regardless. Still, he wouldn't risk embarrassing his lord in front of his attendants, and so he simply sat at the foot of the bed, hoping his presence alone would count. He realized Mengde's eyes were closed and couldn't blame him.

In truth, Cao Cao was trying his best not to make himself appear as though he were in so much pain—especially in front of Xiahou Dun, knowing that he'd look up to his lord's example, as well as the fact that Dun cared about him too much for his own good. He wanted to show that no amount of battle scars would stop the great leader of Wei until he dropped dead—that was discipline and the message he wanted for his troops.

But it was his own fault for getting ahead of himself in the heat of battle. Cao Cao always had the option to retreat and come back unharmed, but for so long he had been infamous for being the best at nothing save running away. It was what had kept him alive for so long, but he knew it gave him a cowardly image. Just this once, he thought it would have been a good idea to get into the enemy's centre and let himself be exposed, simply to try and prove he wasn't scared of standing his ground.

His eyes were still closed, but Cao Cao could sense his cousin next to him. “You didn't have to be so concerned for me. I could have called for the doctors myself.” He wanted to go on and say that Dun didn't even need to be there, and he could leave if he wanted to, but that would have made him sound ungrateful. And Dun's presence made things somewhat more comforting, even if it meant he had to act a little bit tougher in front of him.

Xiahou Dun nodded on instinct, then realized it would go unseen and replied verbally as well, “I have no doubt in your resilience, but the least I can do is assist you to the best of my ability.” He looked at the physician out of the corner of his eye, at Cao Cao's damaged flesh that was currently being washed with utmost care. Good. No mediocre service would do when it came to Mengde's health; Xiahou Dun was here to see to that.

He hovered at the bedside, keeping watch until everything there was to be done about the injury had been meticulously performed. He ran a finger over the wrap of silk, trying to make the action innocuous and brief in front of prying eyes, but hoping his touch would be recognized all the same. Cao Cao still hadn't opened his eyes now and, while Dun understood shutting out his surroundings was his lord's way of coping, he was growing increasingly frustrated with his own helplessness. What could he say that wouldn't be brushed aside, there is no need for you to fret?

In fact, just seeing how well Cao Cao had disguised his ailment earlier was enough to fill his heart with both admiration and worry that he found himself unable to put to words. Perhaps he should resort to poetry—but that was yet another area where Mengde didn't need his help to achieve great things. Standing here now, between the doctor and his patient, Xiahou Dun felt incredibly useless. Was there nothing for him to do here?

While his wound was being treated, Cao noticed that everything around him was awfully silent. Had he already lost consciousness? He opened his eyes and blinked rapidly, to confirm he was still awake. It seemed that Dun was being really quiet, probably because they were in front of someone they weren't familiar with. But what was there to be shy about? It wasn't as if they had never spoken to each other in front of strangers before.

“Xiahou Dun.” The lord moved one of his hands on the edge of the bed, opening up as if in an invitation for it to be held onto. “Talk to me about something...entertain me, anything to pass the time.”

“Oh—” Dun couldn't help yelping a bit, so surprised was he by the prompt that was directly at odds with how he had perceived the situation. He was glad that Mengde seemed to need him after all, and so he crouched again and took his lord's hand in his. It was clammy with cold sweat, mingled still with the grit of battle.

“I owe you a report on my unit today,” he began, glancing again at the doctor at his side, acutely aware of the presence of a relative stranger in the room. “No loss of life, only several injuries, the worst of them a shattered knee. You'll be on your two feet long before that poor man recovers. We set about preparing for your return after we reached the camp—I'll have some water and food brought for you soon, come to think of it.”

He was being exceedingly cautious about the topic of the conversation, anticipating the moment they would be alone—not that they would have much privacy in this tent, either; the other generals and Cao Cao's bodyguards would come and go. Dun assessed again the physician's movements, deeming all his useful work on his lord's injury done for the time being.

“Leave us,” he commanded in a voice he kept civil with conscious effort. If nothing else, he had a sense of gratitude for services well rendered, and he knew Cao Cao appreciated that too. But his need to speak freely, not simply to pass the time but to communicate, was mounting by the second. Not to mention that the makeshift sick-bed Cao Cao was currently stretched on looked more than a little uncomfortable for someone with such weary bones. In Dun's own tent, there were soft cushions and silk covers, all tokens of his lord's generosity. It was all he could do to repay Mengde's kindness now by letting him enjoy the luxury.

For the first time since he'd come back, Cao Cao let out a chuckle. “Dun. I'm sure you have the imagination to come up with something more interesting to talk about of all things. If I wanted a battle report then I would rather have asked someone else and do it when I'm in a better condition.” His grip on Dun's hand tightened so as to not make his words completely cold, because Dun's company was appreciated even if he did go on about a topic Cao Cao had no interest in.

Now the doctor had left, though, he seemed to be more open to talk. “So, now that we're alone, are you willing to say—or perhaps do—something a little more entertaining?”

Damn it all, how did Cao Cao read him so easily? Though he shouldn't have expected any different, Dun mused as he resolved what next. If Mengde wanted it surprising, he could certainly oblige.

“Well, first of all—” he stood up, only to lean over the bed and gather the smaller man into his arms before Cao Cao had a chance to protest, “we should go somewhere with fewer witnesses. Don't worry,” he admonished once they'd reached the door, Cao Cao still in his arms and looking spectacularly disgruntled, “no one's going to see you get carried around. Careful now.” He set his unwilling passenger to the ground, only offering support as they left the tent's secluded shade. He was glad that Mengde didn't seem to be too offended by his actions and didn't hesitate to lean on Dun's shoulder to ease the walk.

They reached Dun's own tent after laborious progress; although the bandaging did its part to help, it was clear that walking was extremely uncomfortable with such a fresh wound. Any soldiers they passed stopped whatever they were doing to greet them, some even falling to their knees before their leader's silent endurance. The most they got in return was a nod.

As with all those important enough to have guards, one was posted a short distance from the entrance to Xiahou Dun's tent. Dun halted briefly next to him: “Our lord needs rest and will admit no one until tomorrow.” The statement was an order plain as day.

The guard bowed, while lord and general vanished into the tent.

On the way, Cao still kept close to his general, and once they had gotten inside where there was more privacy, he leaned his head deeper into his shoulder. It might have been uncomfortable to stay standing, but with the way he was being held, the pain seemed to disappear from his mind.

“I see you think you're fit to go off ordering around all my men, as if I am not capable of speaking.” He tried to keep things light-hearted, knowing that Dun was so tensed up and serious. “Well, now that we are here and that I'm not allowed to see anyone else thanks to your orders made on my behalf, how should we spend the rest of this evening?”

It was amazing how much Cao Cao could convey by tone alone—at least, that was how Dun recognized the spirit of his remark as teasing and not an actual reprimand. “You're certainly allowed, my lord,” he replied with a chuckle, “but do you not appreciate an evening off?” Then he added more seriously, “And you are injured, after all. No one could begrudge you your rest.”

The tent was relatively spacious. Cao Cao always made sure the members of his trusted entourage didn't lack in the way of comfort if at all possible. They crossed the floor to where Dun's bed was, raised slightly above the earth though not by much; a nest of almost unbelievable luxury in the camp. “Can you stand?” Lying down wouldn't be very comfortable with all this armour on, and Dun didn't mind in the least helping his lord undress.

Cao tried to let go of Dun slowly to stand on his own feet—he was able to, though trembling slightly, almost like a child trying to learn to stand up. “I should be all right, though I would find it more comfortable if I could find somewhere to sit.” Heading towards the bed, he held onto Dun's hand for support as he was guided through his short journey before sitting down.

Dun made no comment, certain that drawing yet more attention to Cao Cao's state would not help matters. Instead, he set to work with careful hands, unfastening what he could that held the armour together, taking off the shoulder plates first of all. Slowly, he dismantled the hard exterior of the suit, setting its components to the side with almost reverent motions. He'd had time to change into something lighter after returning to camp, but for Mengde the inner garments of his suit would have to do. At least they were mostly free of dust and grime.

Finally, Dun reached for the headdress still perched on top of Cao Cao's head, watching the man's face as he removed it and set it gently on top of the discarded heap. Feeling bold, he even loosened the hair under it slightly, knowing full well how sudden and crushing Mengde's headaches could be. He hoped that relaxation would be enough to prevent the worst kind, if nothing else.

“And now you are undressing the lord without his permission…aren’t you keen tonight?” Cao smiled a bit as he said that, and ran one hand through Dun’s hair before he whispered into his ear, “Go on. You can untie it completely if you want.”

Cao Cao’s unharmed leg wrapped itself around Dun’s waist to pull him closer, still teasing his general into going further. But hey, he was the one who was injured—he ought to be able to lie back with someone else doing most of the work for him.

Dun obeyed, smiling. “If you wanted to deny me, my lord, I would no longer be standing where I am. You know that as well as I.” It was true: for all the intimate treatment Dun enjoyed among Cao Cao’s generals, not even he was safe from his moods. But, right now, his presence seemed welcome—something that was confirmed when he was suddenly reeled in with the other’s good leg.

He followed, of course. “Mengde,” Dun's breath caught in his throat as the two of them settled on the covers. It felt so welcome after the din and danger of the battlefield, and yet Xiahou Dun held back a little. “Please, my lord, you're hurt.” He nestled closer, trying to make it absolutely clear that no force was needed to keep him in his place, no exertion on Cao Cao's part. Closing his eye for a moment, he could still see the scene in the command tent; it was incredible that so soon after all that, his lord was treating him with humour and moving about with only the barest hint of discomfort. And he would give in so gladly, if only he could be sure his actions wouldn't upset the injury further. It was embarrassing to admit, but even after all these years, Cao Cao could make him excited beyond measure, forget himself...

The smaller man kept his hold on Dun, before he went to kiss him gently on the cheek. “A few kisses here and there won't hurt, will they? Perhaps it may be the one thing to ease my pain...” Cao Cao continued stroking Dun's hair, while his other hand wasted no time in opening Dun's robes to expose his chest. He sensed some surprise in his general's face, but it only served to amuse him further to trail his hand over Dun, letting his fingers roam feather-light underneath his layer of clothing.

“Relax, Dun...don't worry about hurting me.” He used the hand still on his general's head to pull him closer, into a kiss on the lips this time. “It would take a lot of effort to harm the great lord of Wei.”

This was exactly what Dun had meant—there was no way he could resist this, and deep down he didn't even want to. He let himself be kissed and returned the favour, commanded by the hand tangled in his hair. When they broke apart, he found himself smiling again without being aware of it, and the depth of Cao Cao's eyes was beckoning to him in silence.

He lay on his side next to his lord and reached out, trailing gentle fingers through hair almost completely black, luminous in the light of the single lamp burning in the tent. “You fancy yourself immortal.” Dun's tone was somewhere between adoration and reprimand. In a way, he supposed, it was true: by now his Mengde was larger than life, the legend surrounding him a good candidate for immortality indeed. But no legend would feel this warm to the touch, would look so imposing yet seductive on a blanket of silk. He kissed Cao Cao again, trailing his lips over his chin to plant another kiss to his neck.

“My lord...” he whispered with a thousand words packed into those two. Instead of thinking back to the moment he'd seen this proud leader crumpled with pain on the ground, he kept watching, studying Cao Cao's face after their next kiss for any sign that he might be hurting him. What he did find instead was invitation, mixed perhaps with a little impatience.

It was all the incentive Dun needed to shift his attention to what remained of Mengde's clothing, undoing it with trembling fingers. Indeed, how could he ever say no to this?

Cao Cao let his eyes close, and let out a long breath as he leaned his head back, exposing his neck hoping that Dun may take it further from there. The thought was enough to make him forget about the injury on his leg.

“No man can be granted immortality, not even by the heavens themselves,” the lord replied lately to Dun's previous words. “But one who eats well and keeps cheerful, can live to a great old age.” He smirked at that, and continued running his hand over Dun's chest before latching onto a nipple and pinching lightly. “I hope we can keep each other cheered up for a while.”

Dun shivered. “We can but do our best.” He took the cue, leaning down low to press his lips to Cao's neck, kissing devotedly up and down. The spot under Mengde's ear seemed to be especially sensitive, and so Dun flicked his tongue against it before leaving a very light bite. Tonight was not for rough play for obvious reasons, but the arch of his lord's back and the low answering moan told him that he had hit the mark.

From there on, it was increasingly hard to keep himself under control—and after a while, Dun stopped trying. He relished the feeling of fabric slipping off Cao Cao's shoulders, just as Dun himself was undressed in turn. He kissed the newly uncovered skin as well: Mengde's collarbone, chest, stomach all got a taste of his eager mouth. He became careful again as he went lower, conscious of the injured leg on one side as he aligned his body with his lord's, then looked up to him from where the now formless fabric had pooled in his lap. Dun kept his stare fixed on Cao Cao's face even as his hand crept, silent, among the folds to seek a place more private altogether. That would do quite well for cheering up.

"Mhmm..." Dun sure knew how to please him well, gentle on his body with a hint of roughness—just how Cao Cao liked it. He wondered why his general had even restrained himself to begin with, because he always welcomed whatever ways Dun had in mind to pleasure him.

However, there was slight discomfort coming from his leg, which Cao tried to ignore as much as possible, but he let out a moan that sounded more pained than anything else, and it was pretty loud considering they hadn't done much yet. There was no hiding it when he placed his own hand on his leg, trying to keep it stable and prevent any other movements.

He noticed Dun began to look worried, something that also concerned Cao as he didn't want him to think that his actions were causing more harm. And also because he was not going to let a bad leg ruin his evening of fun.

“Yuanrang.” His other hand still locked in his general's hair, he guided it ever so slightly to his injured leg. “Perhaps you can kiss it better for me...”

“Never give it a rest, huh?” Dun admonished, but couldn't find it in himself to make it sound anywhere near a complaint. It was, in its own way, arousing to know that Cao Cao was choosing to give all this attention to him instead of the injury, even though the unpleasantness of it was still making itself known. Xiahou Dun was tempted to call it stubbornness, except for the fact that it was this very quality that had secured many of their victories: this immense faculty of willpower that could make even the most uncomfortable of circumstances recede into the background until something more favourable arose to take their place. Just contemplating it now was enough to make Dun feel hopelessly infatuated with his lord, all over again.

“Well, then.” His voice was barely above a whisper. He shifted further, smoothing over the edges of the bandaged area with care, while his other hand plunged deeper into the folds of Cao's garments. As Dun leaned down, really starting to kiss along the other's thigh, that hand descended to bare flesh and began to stroke there, slowly. He could only hope the combined sensations from Mengde's thigh and crotch would be enough to make any pain fade, or at least easier to ignore.

Dun placed a light kiss on the centre of the bandage before he looked up, and the subtle responses he could make out in Cao Cao's body went like liquid warmth straight into his blood. It seemed that, despite his inconvenience and the stress endured recently, Mengde was enjoying the current situation as much as anyone could.

Cao Cao gave another moan, this time in genuine enjoyment. The moment his cousin's hand landed on his length, all sensations filled him with arousal. Even the pain in his leg started to turn into something that felt more pleasurable, perhaps all thanks to the magic of Dun's lips.

He wanted him to go faster, grip on tighter, and not hold back, but at the same time he didn't want to command his general when he was already going out of his way to relieve Cao's pain as much as possible. Instead, he continued to moan, hoping that it'd encourage him to go on, while the hand on Dun's head lingered on the side of his face gently. How he wished he was still within reach to kiss him.

Sensing his companion's intent, Dun stopped for a moment and pressed his cheek against the hand that held it, and then he turned his head to give Cao Cao's palm a small kiss too. It was as if his lips had to be everywhere tonight, even though he had barely started yet. Encouraged by the eagerness Cao Cao displayed, he decided to switch to a new task.

His hand ceased its stimulation without warning, instead gripping the fabric that still obscured any view of Mengde's lap to dispose of it once and for all—or at least for the rest of the evening, Dun hoped. Access free, he drew back for an instant to gauge how much he would have to do; as he'd surmised from handling him moments ago, Cao Cao was still just on the way to full arousal. Dun shot him a knowing look before he bowed his head, kissing on the inside of his thigh and continuing upwards.

He could tell from the tension Mengde was impatient; indeed, could barely wait for him to get on with the proceedings, as the hand now twisted in his hair quietly confirmed. Dun chuckled against the expanse of skin, licked his lips, and then along the length of his lord's cock.

“Aaah—!” No matter how much he anticipated it, nothing could have prepared him for the warm, wet feeling of Dun's tongue against a sensitive spot. His head suddenly turned in one direction, burying half his face into the pillow underneath, but nothing concealed the breaths and sounds he was giving off.

“Y-Yuanrang...” He managed to call his general's name in a soft voice without any intent to begin talking, but it was perhaps one of the only few words that would be coming out of his mouth while this evening continued. And he hoped that it would serve as even more incentive to go on.

Dun would have liked to give some indication of how pleased he was with those reactions, but all he could manage without interrupting his routine was a hum—an enhancement of the "routine", come to think of it, and the shiver that ripped through Mengde's body in return confirmed as much. Rewarding.

It had been a while since Dun's last chance to practise this particular art, but he hoped it wouldn't show since he certainly hadn't forgotten the shape and size of his lord's body, or any of the minute impulses that made him tick. It was foolish, he was coming to believe more readily with every time the two of them went to bed together, to think that familiarity made the acts of lovemaking any less enjoyable. If anything, Dun felt the knowledge he had collected over the years like an aphrodisiac, something that set him apart from anyone else Cao Cao might have invited to his bed. But even when such competitiveness was out of the picture, he delighted in knowing precisely how to touch, how to twist or press with his tongue to elicit a wonderful shuddering reaction. Soon he fell into a rhythm, dragging out sighs and moans to correspond with everything he did.

At first, he had been holding Cao Cao's hips down, but relaxed his grip as he gained confidence—as well as the trust that he wouldn't be exposed to anything overwhelming without warning. He was content with how things went now, his motions synchronized with the shallow thrusts into his mouth. Surprisingly manageable—everything about their current activity felt like gliding, seamless and without obstacle. The sounds Dun could listen to while he did all this alone...

Cao's voice didn't have a chance to catch a break at all, mixed with his heavy breaths as his chest began to rise and fall more rapidly while he was taken inside. His cheeks began to feel warm, though it wasn't the only place as his entire body was practically radiating heat.

Trying to control himself and make no sudden movements, the lord placed his free hand in a tight grip onto his pillow, trembling slightly. It didn't stop his hips from making some small thrusts, rendered much less harsh thanks to the inflexibility of his leg.

Dun hadn't forgotten a trick at all. He still absolutely had it in him—not just his skills in bed, but his ability to make Cao feel truly special and wanted, like no other. It was what made experiences like this so intimate, as well as the reason why Xiahou Dun was Cao Cao's favourite and most trusted general.

Having done this for a while, Dun came to feel quite comfortable in his position. He wasn't entirely sure how it was possible for his own excitement to rise so much just from performing this service with total disregard for himself, but before long he was not only paying attention to his lord but also trying to rub himself against the bedding without disrupting his main task too badly. It didn't matter whether he was satisfied; he was simply glad that he was making Cao Cao sigh beneath him with pleasure rather than with pain. Or it could have been a bit of both—as long as the overall feeling was enjoyable, what could anyone argue?

Still, his arousal was getting the better of him, and he was soon gasping in the midst of his actions, the steady rhythm he'd established broken. It was his only luck that Mengde was too far gone to notice immediately. With some new clumsiness, Dun went back to his task while managing to slip a hand down his own robe, rubbing himself the slightest bit. The way he did it was far from gratifying—wasn't meant to be if he was to keep focus—but it had to take the edge off. His own skin felt too hot to endure of a sudden. If only they could both forget about the injury, press close to each other and let nothing but fancy dictate what shape tonight's events would take, Dun was sure all his present need would dissolve into thin air.

The exhales from Dun's mouth only added to the stimulation, but Cao Cao began to notice his patterning was off; either he must have been getting tired already, or it might have been something else. When the lord turned his head to get a clearer view, he started to see what was going on.

As frustrating as it was to have to stop him, Cao wasn't selfish enough to steal all the pleasure for himself while leaving his loyal cousin to suffer in frustration while doing all the work. So his hand gripped the general's face firmly, indicating for him to stop for a moment.

“Yuanrang, you're...” It was obvious what was happening and he didn't need to spell it out, but somehow the lord wanted to express the fact that he wanted to return the favour right now, although with the condition of his leg it wasn't going to be so easy.

Just then, an idea came up. “Dun...turn around, and lay yourself on top of me.” His general's face seemed blank, perhaps not quite sure what Cao Cao had in mind. He tried to illustrate it better with another description, smirking as he thought of it. “Think of yin and yang.”

It took Dun a moment to realize what Cao Cao meant, another to imagine how it was supposed to work—but then, the scheme illuminated itself in his mind as though he had been aware of it all along. He loosened his robe the rest of the way, shrugging it off under his lord's gaze. His nakedness also revealed that while he may have tried to brush his own needs aside at first, they hadn't subsided in the slightest. Had he felt less desperate for touch, for sensation and release, he would've had the decency to look embarrassed.

“Is this a new stratagem?” he teased to break the anticipation as he attempted to settle into the required position. The mental image helped, but he had never tried this before and his idea of how the two of them should fit together was foggy at best. He managed in the end, feeling only a little awkward with his face so close to the other's groin. He leaned forward and gave it an experimental lick, upside-down, and grinned. “Ready to pick up where we left off?”

“Perhaps.” The lord chuckled, though it faded back into silence and another low moan as Dun went back to his previous task right away. It wasn't surprising to see him so willing and eager, but he was still glad there was no protesting to this idea. Cao Cao had never tried this before either—he had only heard of it as a practice, and who better to share the first experience with than his trusted general?

Wrapping his arms around Dun's hips and placing his hands on his buttocks, Cao Cao kissed his length at first and then began licking too, trying to get comfortable in this new position which he was not familiar with. Nevertheless, he was still daring enough to continue trailing his mouth up to his balls as well, sucking and kissing, before he even found himself flickering his tongue on Dun's hole.

“Ah--mmh...” was the only vocal response Dun could muster to that. There was another new thing, and much as he didn't find it the best of places to be giving this kind of attention to, he couldn't fight the warm wave of sensation that flooded him and made reason insignificant. The tongue wasn't even inside him, at any rate; next thing he knew, it was back on his length and he was doing his best not to spoil his own pace altogether. Yet he couldn't help crying out when his lord went further, near-unendurable payback for taking him into his mouth.

It was difficult indeed to carry on as if he remained in control, especially after his earlier frustration. In all honesty, Dun felt like every swirl of that tongue, every clench of fingers over his buttocks had to be enough to send him over already. It wasn't—so far. He didn't trust himself to tell how much longer that would last.

Cao Cao wanted to smirk as soon as he heard the Dun's voice submitting to his pleasure too but it would've been difficult, especially in the position he was currently in. His head didn't have much flexibility like this, and Dun's length was already pretty deep in his mouth beyond where he had taken it before.

Still, he did his best by continuing to suck him, relishing the taste of his cousin's excitement and letting it mix with everything else in his mouth. At the same time, the stimulation coming from the other end of his body was making it hard to fully concentrate, but the lord was determined to make sure as much attention was given to Dun as possible. Closing his eyes, Cao pulled the other man's hips closer to himself, while squeezing his cheeks.

Xiahou Dun had no doubt that if his lord set his mind to this task, he would succeed in overwhelming him in no time—already Cao Cao was doing it, making the last of Dun's self-control fray at the edges by treating him with such admirable ease. Dun tried to repay him in kind, but focus evaded him; every now and then his breath would hitch forcing him to catch it again, his hips would buck against all his restraint, his voice would give in and make him moan. This last one was not so much an inconvenience if he managed to keep his mouth in place to send the vibrations along Mengde's flesh. After a while he got used to the unceasing assault on his senses enough to keep his balance most of the time, but his pleasure was only mounting underneath.

There was something almost forbidden in being serviced by his lord like this, and although this wasn't the first time Cao Cao had volunteered to use his mouth on him, Dun could never quite take it for granted. Perhaps that was why he was so unhinged now, even though he wanted to do his best at returning the attention despite the blissful haze his consciousness was in. He moaned with complete abandon at the next clever trick of Mengde's tongue, doing all he could to produce an equal sensation with his own.

Equilibrium, that's what it was. Give and take. Again, Dun's entire body shivered, and he knew that he could count himself lucky. No one under this sky had what he did.

It was both an amazing and difficult feeling to be doing two things at once, making sure Dun was getting his side of the pleasure while trying not to ignore the sensations gifted to him. The lord wouldn't ever know what the sight of them engaging in such an act looked like, but the feeling of them being perfectly intertwined together like this was beautiful. To be in a struggle, and yet so willing to give to one another, it could almost have made a nice metaphor for their relationship.

Cao Cao felt himself close and knew that after all the initial foreplay and much service from Dun, he wouldn't last a lot longer. There was no contest on who'd finish the other off first, but it would have been nice if they both came at the same time. So he continued to suck Dun's length in as deeply as possible, feeling almost exhausted from his lack of breath, but Cao certainly didn't mind becoming breathless for the sake of his cousin's pleasure. His fingers moved closer to Dun's hole—something he couldn't leave alone for so long after all—he wasn't planning on going further, but he still teased that spot with light strokes, hoping that it would do the trick.

It was as much as he could do though, since not long after, he began to lose control of himself, hands shaking and legs moving on the bedsheets. By then he had completely forgotten the pain in his injury, being focused on nothing but the overload of energy all through his body. It was only with a single thrust of his hips; Cao barely managed to moan and he released himself into Dun.

For all his worry about Mengde's enjoyment, Dun had not expected this. Luckily, it didn't matter anymore that he couldn't go on. He bowed his head to the side, having no choice but to gasp and clear his throat, the taste and wetness on his lips a private mark of success. Wrapping his arms as far as he could reach around Cao Cao's hips, he collapsed into the enclosure, breathing ragged.

Of course, Dun's own body was still taut, and he could no longer help it when his hips began to move as though of their own accord. The heat around his shaft felt rare and familiar in the same breath, ruling over his senses now—that and the moist glide of lips in time with his movements, in and out. If Dun had still been capable of enough detachment to be impressed with the other's technique, he would be, but all he could manage was to convulse and groan.

It was impossible to tell how long the interval between Cao Cao and Dun's orgasm had been; probably not long at all, but to Dun in that last stage it felt like ages. Ecstatic, but ages nonetheless. Then, finally, his own climax hit and he could only hang on, shaking, muttering something incomprehensible against his lord's thigh. The onslaught was so relentless that, for a few moments, he really might have been blind.

Both men remained still for much time, trying to recover from their activity. But even with the almost-silent atmosphere of calm they were wrapped in now, Cao Cao still had a bit of energy left to do some cleaning up himself. He swallowed whatever was still in his mouth and even proceeded to lick off the mess still on his lips as well as his cousin's length.

Afterwards, he let Dun move himself to the side so that he could lie down more comfortably and ease the weight off his lord's body. He knew that they weren't going to stay in opposite directions for long, but something about this new position was a nice change and one that Cao Cao wanted to hold onto for a bit longer. He turned to the side to wrap his arms around Dun again, as if to hug him, and kissed his general in the groin one more time, for good measure.

Xiahou Dun caught himself smiling first thing after the aftershocks subsided. For some reason, that final kiss made him feel more important and desired than he already had during the act—most likely because it was an addition, an unnecessary but caring plus. He lay upside down for a while longer, lifting one hand in a languid way to run his fingers up, or perhaps down, Cao Cao's side. Satisfied, he shifted his own position in the same manner, settling beside his lord face to face.

Now he could take a good look, it struck him that Cao Cao's face was flushed from the exertion; his own was probably too since it certainly felt warmer than usual. There was that smile again, tugging at his lips with a lightness to it that was irresistible. He leaned his forehead against Cao Cao's, draped an arm over his body as if to guard him from everything in the world in this tired state.

Then, a slow kiss. Even Mengde's lips felt hot, and they pressed against his in a way that managed to be both passionate and lazy. Their next kiss came with tongues and the indefinable taste of what their mouths had touched. The contact broke after several deep, languid exchanges that still left both of them panting.

“Did I hurt you more?” Dun had to ask, though he had the impression that it might be foolishness. Then again, he really hadn't paid attention like he'd intended to do, so the crash from pure bliss was settling in with some worry. It was disconcerting how fast he could forget everything apart from his lord's embrace.

The way Dun cradled him made Cao Cao feel absolutely special, protected and loved all at once. It was a clear sign of his general's loyalty and the strength of his feelings. It was almost sad thinking about it, knowing that Dun didn't care for his own needs, and the fact that he treated his lord as even more precious than a treasure from the heavens. He felt almost undeserving of such kindness.

It wasn't much to return the favour—nothing would ever be able to repay his loyalty—but Cao let his hand run through Dun's hair after their kisses, smiling back as he drew his face closer to the other man's and let their noses gently touch each other. He then took Dun's hand in his and placed it on his injured thigh, seeming not to be so concerned with what little pain there was left in there. He hoped that was enough to answer his cousin's question, and then he went to kiss him again, his tongue coming back out to lick him lightly on the lips.

This was a side of Cao Cao no one usually got to see. Dun himself didn't get to see it often, either, but there were circumstances that could coax it out, like now. His guard was down for tonight, and Dun relished every moment of being in Mengde's company without any barrier, physical or imagined, to come between them here.

He was bold enough to squeeze the bandaged thigh lightly, just to show that the gesture was understood. Then he let go altogether, rearranging his limbs to pull the other man into his arms.

He had the constant impulse to say something, but every time he tried to form the words, they failed him. Perhaps it was easier for poets. Then again, his lord was remarkably quiet too, not confirming such a theory. The air seemed abuzz with things unspoken. Relocating one hand to Cao's hair, Xiahou Dun tried to speak with his lips in silence, directly to the skin of his lord's neck.

It was greedy of him, certainly. But he could hardly help himself if the only thing he was good at tonight was founded upon closeness. Still, he was soon mumbling in between the kisses, not needing to think twice as he spoke, “Mengde, I'm at your command...”

“Yuanrang...” Something about those words made him shiver—he should not have been surprised since everyone knew that Dun was always ready to serve his lord, but for him to say it in such a way especially after their exchanges and with the thoughts in Cao Cao's head, hearing it from Dun only served to make him feel guilty for being lucky enough to have him.

There was no intention of ordering him around for tonight—Yuanrang had already done more than enough, and the fact that Cao had made it out alive today to enjoy his general's company made him thank the heavens he was spared another night.

The lord kissed his cousin again, still remaining silent, though it was after a few moments that he did manage to say something, even if it came out too simple for a man who was called a poet.

“Thank you, Dun...for everything you have given me.” Those words sounded much longer in his head, but it wasn't as if he could come up with something else to say to extend his flow of speech. Sighing, Cao Cao pulled his general into a close embrace and shut his eyes after placing his head comfortably on Dun's shoulder. The smile on his lips faded, and it looked as if he were ready to be sound asleep. But just then, what appeared to be a single tear came out of his eye and streamed down to the rest of his face, his attempt to hide his emotions unsuccessful.

It would have been easy to miss the fact that Cao Cao was crying at all: there was no sound, no tremor in his body, just that solitary tear trickling down. Dun only noticed it as he reached with one hand to caress his cheek. Discovering the evidence of such feeling with his own fingers, Dun was seized with a fierce tenderness that froze him on the spot at first. He didn't know how to respond; nothing he came up with could possibly be adequate to the strength of the admission he had just been given. Xiahou Dun had long since made up his mind to be the most loyal servant his lord could want, whether he was acknowledged for it or not—but to be told in plain terms that, yes, he was valued, and not only as a general, was almost too much for him to contain. How could he make a reply worthy of this?

Yet he would try. “My lord,” he whispered as he leaned in close, “Mengde, it is nothing. I have already given my life to you. Anything else you want from me is yours.”

It sounded over the top as he said it, but it was the closest he could accomplish to give voice to the immensity of the affection he had for Cao Cao, his readiness to be everything his lord ever asked. And tonight's recreation had been pleasant for them both; indeed, Mengde should also be thanked. Dun lay embracing him silently, feeling his flesh-and-blood body with its limited set of possibilities as quite inadequate to the task of showing all of the adoration that stirred in his chest.

No matter how much reassurance Dun gave him, Cao Cao still felt his heart break over the amount of affection he was being showered with—what ever did he ever do to get so much trust from his general? He was of course happy to be with his cousin the way he was now, and he would beg the heavens that they would never change. But to hear that his general was ready to completely submit to him...

“Dun,” he managed to say at last, not letting his subtle weeping get in the way of his words. “Your life belongs to nobody but yourself. I may be your lord, but under the skies we are all human beings.” Cao looked up, placing a hand among Dun's locks yet again and stroking gently. “When our time comes, it will matter not what fortunes we have been born with nor the power we've earned. It is something that cannot be taken with into the afterlife.”

Perhaps it was still early to talk further in those realms, but nevertheless Cao Cao knew that both of them lived dangerous lives and had been very close to becoming separated from each other many times, too many times. Right now, though, they were lying close to each other in the same bed, trapped in each other's embrace and seemingly inseparable, and it was something more than just a physical connection.

Cao kissed Dun again, possibly the last for tonight as he soon found himself tired and about to drift off. But surely there must have been something to say before their goodnight, something on a lighter note and to tell Dun how much he was loved by his lord.

“I...your loyalty will always be appreciated by me,” he managed, though he felt like that wasn't enough to do his general justice. “You truly are a marvel of the world and I am lucky to have found it.”

“Thank you,” Dun whispered back. He felt like he could go on and sing praises to his lord forever, but for the moment he would let it be. He readjusted himself on the bedding, keeping Cao Cao as close as they could get. It was all he really needed here.

The fighting would go on, the bustle of the camp alone unwavering around their tent—and yet it was as if the two of them had been granted a night out of time. Those were Xiahou Dun's thoughts, at least, as he drifted off into sleep with nothing missing.

[Ironic title goes here]

oudeteron — Sun, 18 Sep 2011 16:14:35 GMT

Hey, it's a fic I wrote at some point during the summer and forgot to crosspost to my own journal. It's a sequel to missmonkeh's Bond-roleplaying-in-MGS fic here, which you should read because it's epic. I suppose this can stand alone as well, but there are references to the first story throughout as it picks up where the other left off. ~~And it's exactly what it sounds like.~~

Title: Judge, Jury, Executioner
Pairing: Big Boss/Zero
Rating: NSFW (explicit sex)
Word Count: ~1,200
Summary: "Bond returns in order to mete out justice." But Big Boss might just break the game...
Warnings: Some continued power-play, dreadful justice puns, BB being a troll.
Notes: Monkeh and I talked about the setting and concluded this to be taking place some time after MGS3, assuming that even if BB quit FOX officially, the two of them would've kept in touch once the initial bitterness subsided. (In MPO it sure doesn't look like BB no longer cares about Zero, considering he keeps asking about him, as well as joins The Patriots later on.) Bonus canon backstage drama!
Disclaimer: I own neither MGS nor James Bond; no profit made.

Judge, Jury, Executioner

“I have some ideas I'd like to run past you.”

Jack had agreed to the earlier game mostly out of curiosity, but he hadn't expected it to be this good at raising his own spirits. Naked now except for the eyepatch, a little breathless and very excited, he sauntered over to where Zero was standing, doing his best to mimic the predatory air that had been part of Zero's original role. Truth was, he didn't have to try too hard. Something about the situation made him feel unapologetically confident—some would perhaps call it intimidating—a state that wasn't even threatened by the fact that Zero granted no respite from his scrutiny. Destination reached, Jack didn't think twice, didn't think once, about drawing the other man into a kiss.

“What ideas might those be?” There was an eager undertone to Zero's voice when they parted, much as he was probably trying to keep it down. Jack had never seen him so unhinged before; sure, it was all just details, but Zero never gave more than that.

“Let's see,” and he smirked, “about Bond villains. Does poetic justice work on them?”

“You mean in the sense of having their scheming turn against them to bring about their downfall? Yes, I suppose you could say that.”

Jack's smirk grew wider as he advanced again, backing Zero into the nearest corner, meeting no resistance. “Thanks.” It was the last unembellished word he'd say for a while. “Now turn around,” he tried the commanding tone on for size. It fit more naturally than he would've thought. “Your hands on the wall, Major.”

When Zero obeyed, just like that, Jack took the chance simply to stand aside and savour the temporary stillness. Not that he could really call it that with the blood thrumming in his ears and other places thanks to the teasing he'd already been through, but that was far from a reason to complain. He drew a sharp breath, then moved in, nudging Zero's booted feet apart with his bare one, once more with instant compliance. Hell. This was going to go to his head fast.

As if to mirror that thought, one of his hands reached for Zero's face, tracing blindly the outline of his nose, his mouth, his scar, before sliding upwards to get a haphazard grip on his hair and prevent motion. “Shame Bond doesn't get to make fancy speeches. Why bother winning when you can't even rub it in?” he breathed, taking care to sound the tiniest bit dangerous. In all honesty, he didn't know whether Bond was ever afforded a fancy speech or not: all the monologues Jack could boast familiarity with had come from this man who now stood uncannily quiet beside him, shivering occasionally with ill-concealed impatience.

No real need to talk, anyway, what with the rules having been set. Jack's other hand angled lower and cupped the bulge in the other's crotch, the action designed to be as invasive as possible; he pawed at it as though it were a treat, listening for anything less contained than the tuneless gasps Zero was letting slip in response. Nothing was forthcoming. Not annoyed or deterred in the least, Jack released his grip on Zero's hair so that he could bring both his hands where they were needed for the next objective, which lay in getting those pants out of the picture. He undid the fly slowly, giving a false sense of security before he yanked everything down in one swift go, leaving the mess of creased fabric to land in an undignified heap around Zero's ankles.

Half-dressed was good, Jack decided as he ran a finger down his captive's length, the touch fleeting yet more than enough to drive anyone at the receiving end of it crazy, let alone someone who was barred from doing anything about his mounting arousal himself. True, Zero could take his hands off the wall and use them, but such a blatant spoiling of the act was near-unthinkable. The rush of power that knowledge brought sooner got a gasp out of Jack, in fact, his own erection verging on painful.

This was it. On a whim, Jack wrapped an arm around Zero's neck to pull him into a chokehold—hard enough to be felt, just shy of actually strangling—while his right hand closed tight over his cock and pumped. Something told him that dealing out justice probably shouldn't be bordering on pure desperation, but like hell he was going to slow down when he could practically feel his orgasm looming already despite the bulk of his concentration being elsewhere. He paused to spit on his hand; though it was far from ideal as far as lube went, it beat not caring at all. Seconds later he was probing something unseen and tight with those fingers, smiling at the cry that provoked at last, encouraged still further when Zero's hips pressed back to meet him halfway. This wasn't an activity they engaged in too often so any indication of how tolerable or not it felt was welcome, but Jack hadn't dared hope for enthusiasm so soon. Damn if he was going to question it, though.

He was as relentless as he was given leave to be, finger-fucking the man while still keeping himself at arm's length, quite literally, all too aware of the fact that he wouldn't last long if subject to anything more intense. A relief that the situation was almost at a point where it wouldn't matter. He needed his share, too.

And although he'd been preparing some sarcastic innuendo so as to keep in-character for this part, he failed to deliver on that count completely. Instead, there was gasping and trembling when Jack shifted his position to make that first thrust inside, overwhelmed, for a moment, by the rarity of it alone. Zero's body was never pliant, but it welcomed him, or so it felt as they both fell into an uncompromising rhythm only fitting for their broken revenge-play. Jack managed to go back to stroking Zero's shaft one-handed; anything to ensure he wouldn't be coming alone sometime during the following few minutes. His other hand he braced on Zero's hip, steadying them as much as the wall that supported their combined weight. With the way Zero was bending forward now, Jack wished he had taken the only suit remaining between them off entirely, just to see the tension in the muscles there and the curve of his commander's spine.

(Well, not his commander anymore. Not in FOX and certainly not here, but it would take a while to see that reflex change.)

The reality of being allowed to take a man like that was what finally sent Jack over the edge, weak in the knees with sensation—but even more satisfying was the fluid dripping from his fingers, one good indicator that his efforts had met with success on all fronts. He held on while his climax burned itself out, and then just because he could. All he heard was his companion's ragged breathing, and he wondered if there was a twinge of frailty in it or just exhaustion all through. (Only human, after all.) His arms wrapped around the older man; the imaginary curtain descended on the stage.

“So how's this,” Jack's voice could barely touch the silence when he spoke, “for justice?”

Zero chuckled. The tiredness was undeniable now, but so was a hint of something much warmer. “Served too well to need Bond for an excuse.”

I Like Information

oudeteron — Wed, 07 Sep 2011 17:50:46 GMT

I would like to know how we can get anything said at all if, before we even open the virtual equivalent of our mouths, we are judged by whatever forum or platform we use to host our statements on. Lately I've seen LJ users flinging mock-insults at Tumblr users, the internet at large tut-tutting LJ users, and so on, all based upon the assumption that the platform you use says something about you in advance, presumed to make your opinion less valid. While every platform is going to be split into content and chaff, assuming that everything's going to be chaff because it's on that platform is, or should be, an obvious fallacy. So why the prevalence of dismissing people because they state something on Platform This or Platform That?

Never mind, though, about these "internal" squabbles. The real conflict - as we're supposed to perceive the "real" conflict - lies between the internet and the traditional (printed) media, with the traditional sneering at the electronic. The usual reasoning for such distaste is that "anyone can post on the internet", which these arguments construe as a reason why nothing (that isn't backed by some "real" outside authority) on the internet can be trusted. In a way, there's a point buried under the bias: anyone can post on the internet.

And so what?

In these arguments, "anyone" is invariably equated with "any amateur". However, the reverse is also true: the internet is an opportunity for any brilliant thinker, activist, writer, visual artist, et cetera to find an outlet for their work. In many cases, it's the only outlet that person has available for any number of reasons, and diminishing it just because its realization takes place on a screen and not on the page should indeed be called out as the arbitrary standard it is. By not being superficially regulated, the internet accumulates content, and there is no reason to think all of this content is vapid or irrelevant simply because it hasn't gone through some sort of approval board before it was released.

This brings us to the question that should always be asked: whose is the advantage? Internet publishing, on the most fundamental level, is disadvantaged by its dual nature: on the one hand, posting something on the internet is usually not considered "legitimate" publishing (regardless of quality) and rarely makes the author's fame; on the other hand, traditional publishers will often require whatever is submitted for their consideration not to have been published before, including on the internet. The only constant here seems to be disdain for the internet by virtue of what it is, but how publishing on it should be seen or treated fluctuates according to whatever is deemed profitable to the traditional publishing houses. My guess is that they do recognize the power of digitally disseminated information (mostly for free, let's not understate that), which provides them with the incentive to delegitimize it because it is free and unsupervised. The image of the double-edged sword could hardly be more fitting.

Profit and control make a compelling rationale. The issue of quality control is often raised in defence of the traditional media - but upon closer inspection, "quality control" often devolves simply into "whatever it is in the publisher's interest to put out". In my experience, I have read absolutely trivial, badly researched, or outright offensive published works (fiction and nonfiction) - but an equal amount of thoughtful, well-written pieces online (fiction and nonfiction). Obviously, it depends on knowing where to look to find the good material, but the point is that this applies to both the internet and print publishing. Nothing is automatically "better" by virtue of being respectably published, and the amount of times this attitude is seen, not to mention presented as something that shouldn't be questioned in the first place, is frankly disturbing.

I have used the word "respectable" on purpose. Traditional publishing is undeniably about sanctioning, about marking a work "fit" for being published in a way that will generate money. It is telling that in this process of legitimizing certain works and not others, the internet is excluded as it is 1) widely accessible without needing to patronize a publisher, and 2) not immediately subject to institutional control. These are interests that have nothing to do with some purported idea of quality (not to mention that, even with quality control as such, cooperating with an editor is not necessarily dependent on submitting anything to an established publishing house). There is a whole host of classist and elitist attitudes inherent in the idea that, say, a piece of writing can only be validated by approval by an institution that expects it to bring back monetary revenue. The point of control discussed above also remains relevant.

When I write academic articles, I believe it would be beneficial for everyone concerned if I could draw upon my selection of tried-and-true online resources for a given topic - but because those particular pages do not happen to be sanctioned in a specific way, their usage is openly discouraged. How's this for perpetuating the establishment as a guarantee, for weeding out ideas that have (for whatever reason, related or unrelated to writing quality) not been put before a committee? I went into academia with the idealistic conviction that it should challenge, not act as just another drone of normativity and prescriptivism that will let you make your point, but only if you back it by using a selection of certain preemptively approved texts and not others. This also highlights the alleged division between theory and practice, when in fact they are inseparable. (Academia, why do you do this to yourself? You need all the contemporary relevance you can get before they turn your institutions into job-training centres in the name of - you guessed it! - profitability.)

Let's wrap this up with the observation that, in any field with loose or partial objective standards, the presence of an evaluation committee guarantees nothing apart from a set of its own biases. That, and an arbitrary approval stamp on top. Is this the sort of cultural discussion we want? More importantly, is it any sort of discussion that can usher in perspectives that are still largely silenced?

Authority: it's not synonymous with quality. It is, however, correlated with ideology and legitimization almost universally, and I wish people would think of that before they instinctively decry the internet for being so thoroughly "unauthorized".

(PS: Hello, LJ. Long time, no see! Oh and yeah, I was thinking of giving Dragon Age a try since I've had it recommended left and right but apparently not. Why does everything have to fail at something, and why can't it at least fail at something that could be ignored?)

This can only end in tears

oudeteron — Tue, 02 Aug 2011 21:59:49 GMT

It's been a while since I wrote a fic that isn't MGS-related, eh? (Let's ignore the fact that this is exactly how I started myself on BB and Zero last year, and I still haven't written everything I want about them, so doing the same bloody thing in another fandom is probably not advisable. Well, here I am, doing it anyway!)

Trying my hand at Xiahou Dun and Cao Cao for the first time; you be the judge of how well that's worked out or not. This is primarily based on the games, namely Dynasty Warriors 7, for two reasons: 1) I safely know the whole thing by now so I can write about it, and 2) these two have more screentime in the game series than in novel-canon anyway, so like hell I'm going to pass up on that. For some context, DW7 is the game that tries to keep closer to the history in principle, though its really big divergence is that it makes everyone die so young. (And good-looking.) Anyway, I've watched through all the cutscenes and couldn't resist framing some of them in a story. The Wei storyline is half what's made explicit on-screen and half everything that they're explicitly not saying.

The fic is split into three sections, the first and last of which are based directly on two cutscenes from the latter part of the game (here from 16:15 and 18:58; contains spoilers) because I'm that much of a canon-referencing junkie. The direct speech in those two scenes is quoted verbatim.

I've used a different (~~more pretentious~~ less subdued) writing style for this than I mostly do, given every adaptation of this history seems to be almost over-the-top dramatic, so I'd love to hear whether that works at all. And that's pretty much it.

Title: Lives beyond Words
Pairing: Cao Cao/Xiahou Dun
Rating: ~~PG-13 (Or a very tame R; I'm hesitant to use it since the sex isn't that explicit.)~~ Slightly NSFW
Word Count: ~940
Summary: Intimate knowledge comes at the highest price.
Warning(s): Canon character death, unfortunately.
Notes: Style names are awesome.
Disclaimer: The Dynasty Warriors series belongs to Koei. I make no profit and intend no copyright infringement.

Lives beyond Words

“Before you die, I will at least show you a glimpse of your dream.”

His voice is even at the words; a hollow determination, which Xiahou Dun can only hope translates into certainty. There is nothing for it. His knowledge, while enabling him to show that he understands the gravity of the situation, is at once a token of closeness and a death warrant for the one person he cares about most. Guan Yu need not try to claim his lord's head, after all—not that he shall be permitted to. In the rain, Xiahou Dun spurs his horse on past the gate, his purpose clear. Single-minded to a fault, as ever.

He makes a point of not looking back.

Certainty.

That is what there once was between them, but now, nights like this one are extravagant. The reason has nothing to do with their surroundings, lavish as they may be; neither of them even registers the embroidered curtains or the gilded walls. What truly shines is familiarity, still intact despite everything. That is why Xiahou Dun can act on intuition, bypassing the need for anything more accurate to be stated out loud.

He only just remembers to take the golden headpiece off his lord's head—allowed to do it still, though not without a glare in response—before they fall into bed, their whole presence little more than a knot of fabric and flesh and desperation. Neither is keen on admitting that, though, so they more move than talk as the clothes come off, or mostly do, and it has indeed been too long. There is no word for what they are doing except writhing; they hold and fight each other all at once.

Then Cao Cao is finally trapped beneath him, the press and slide of skin on skin enough to drive them both to distraction. Xiahou Dun tries his best to concentrate, bracing his elbows on either side of the other's head—they sink into the bedding like stones thrown into water. Stroking his thumbs over Cao Cao's temples, he's exceedingly, inhumanly gentle, watching those eyes fall shut followed by a sigh, deeper than any of the gasps that escaped before in the heat of passion. So Xiahou Dun keeps up, rubbing with the tips of his fingers, until he finds himself bold enough to loosen the band still holding the mass of dark hair in place. As soon as begins to unfasten it, Cao Cao's eyes are on him again, and there is no mistaking even in his current rumpled state that here is the man whose reputation has sent all the land trembling.

“My lord,” says Xiahou Dun as if it explained everything—and with the lilt in his voice, the longing in his body, perhaps it does.

“Go on,” comes his permission or command. They amount to the same when Cao Cao's hair tumbles free, which would have made a splendid sight had Xiahou Dun not chosen that moment to pull him into a kiss, unable, unwilling, to honour measure anymore. He tastes the lips, then skin as his attentions veer off course to map out the other's cheek and neck, arms welcoming, legs entangled, hips meeting all the while.

He loses restraint first but regains his composure quickly, not satisfied until he has rendered Cao Cao the same service using mouth and hands. They lie together afterwards, silent, for a long time.

Shifting onto his side for an unobstructed view with his good eye, he notices his lord's hand well within reach and takes it, only to be privately astonished by the answering grip like iron. This could be a concession, but Xiahou Dun knows better than to take such a gesture as anything beyond a tacit confirmation of reliance of the kind they so often share. He squeezes back, resting their joined hands on Cao Cao's chest, and he dreads to think of the day when that firm grasp and the heartbeat beneath it may have become sheer willpower.

“You need your rest. Just leave it be.”

At least no one can ever say that Cao Cao's ambition was without dedication. Scrolls and maps remain strewn around his bed and clutched in his hands, even as his speech grows irregular and his tone heavy, quiescent. Accomplishment cushions his resignation, but all Xiahou Dun can see is the dying sun, swathes of light shaped by the ornate window in perfect accord with the tired man's countenance. It is a sad display, yet one that fills him with a tenderness that alone might fuel years of unassuming duty.

As if he's ever minded keeping Mengde company. A reward for past struggles is more like it.

Marvelling at the prospect, he finds it easy to converse, to hover about the room, to turn around without worry as he carries some of the documents away. One trifling attempt to relieve his lord's burden, but he is ready for a thousand more.

“Xiahou Dun...”

He neglects to think that great changes, for better or for worse, seldom come with as great portents.

“I couldn't have done it without you. Thank you.”

Still he manages to joke, “What nonsense is this?”

He is content to listen after that, painful though the names of old comrades are when invoked without warning. It is the ensuing silence that makes him leap to his feet, the realization so sudden that its first form is plain disbelief. A scroll has fallen, rolling seamlessly towards him on the floor, while sitting motionless in his bed—

Xiahou Dun crosses the chamber, drops to his knees, and weeps.