#[ (📝) replies : mal (🧩) ]

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Mal shook like a leaf, swaying back and forth on her heels, doing everything she could to not make eye contact with the man in front of her. He unsettled her. He felt wrong. Most of the people on the base she understood. She had met others like them before. Different people felt—well—different. But no one she’d ever met gave off the same aura as Revolver Ocelot.

His expression and stance now reminded her of when she had gone to the Animal Conservation Platform, and she’d seen the caracals. They had looked so soft and inviting, like sweet housecats but with tufted ears and russet fur. One of the conservationists had told her that the wild cats could leap ten feet straight in the air to catch birds and had an incredibly strong prey drive, sometimes hunting and killing animals larger than themselves.

Deceptive appearances, like the man in front of her. Like the caracal, the ocelot was no tame housecat, no matter how convincingly it pretended to be.

“I-I-I—was j-just telling s-stories—“ she stammered, staring at the metal grate beneath her. It wasn’t a lie. It was a story. But her stories weren’t fiction.

Mal had seen the man with a skull for a face. And, as she was apt to do, she asked questions. Apparently too many of them.

@specteredjackal​​ ;; starter call

these kids are rough to deal with. children always are      what with their inherently egocentric tendencies and complex against authority. it’s a moral mess but luckily ocelot has never been particularly concerned with morals. HIS EYES ARE SET ON WHAT’S IMPORTANT, vague as that descriptor may be, and what was important now was knowing. this is a diplomatic interrogation, characterized by the softness of his hands and the low of his voice.

he looks at mal with the right pair of eyes: the kind a trustworthy adult has. acting is natural to ocelot but this time around he didn’t exactly need to force a lie. the subject piques his interest on his own (GHOST STORIES       oh, how long it’d been since he’d seen the figures beneath the white sheets and felt the coldness of their breath!), so the line between kindness and questions is SEAMLESS〝it’s not that you shouldn’t know what you know,〞he starts, bending forward to meet her at eye level. they are faux equals now. 〝but that you don’t fully understand it. the more you’d tell us, the better we could all make some sense of it.〞

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junglecatt

he nods his head in understanding. ocelot knows that mal isn’t the type of child that was particularly strong. her answers are to be drawn out with time, with a gentle hand and a gentle voice. if she sees things now she’ll see things more. get better answers. maybe she could repeat his words, though that might be a long shot, but it’s important now that he instills some sense of TRUST.

〝for him to look like that? can’t say i know.〞

ocelot glances over his shoulder. his brows knit together.〝the next time you see him—– or anyone again—–  tell me. we can figure it out. IT’S VERY IMPORTANT.〞

Mal was quiet, nervously passing her weight, however little that was, from foot to foot. She wasn’t sure why he was being so kind, so patient. Usually Miller was the only one to treat her with such tolerance and it was unsettling to see the wildcat act so tame.

“I s-see them all the time,” she said, looking around them. “M-many Diamond D-dogs, many not Diamond Dogs. A symbol,” she paused, patting her shoulder where a uniform’s insignia would be. “Skull and earth, all as o-one.” Though she hadn’t recognized MSF’s logo, she had seen it many times. Once even on an old book of Kazuhira Miller’s. He hasn’t wanted to talk about it when she had asked.

“W-why is Miller so sad?”

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edenvs

walking tank machine called sahelanthropus, huh. so they would be rounding back upon another weapon of mass destruction. looks like your fights with them won’t be over anytime soon, snake—–  though none of them expected for that to be the case. ocelot’s thought rolls over his head quickly, because this bombardment of questions leaves no room for any unnecessary dwelling on the important.

〝i haven’t seen him,〞he admitted. if he had he wouldn’t be here, after-all; his own eyes would’ve been plenty confirmation over a child’s. 〝i haven’t seen them for a long time. when i got older, THEY STARTED DISAPPEARING.〞yes, he remembered them. he remembered his father’s ghost and his strange same-eyes and the blood beneath them and the slow amble of the dead as they brushed through the russian jungle. he remembered thinking himself crazy, and never telling anyone about it. that was when it was at its strongest. that’s when they yapped their heads off and congregated in great, suffocating groups. not when anyone else was around, but in the putrid silence of his solitude.

it’d been a long time since he’d had to think about them. they didn’t bother him, of course. nothing bothered him back then (save for the KGB uselessly killed by volgin; save for granin, because their words were sad and angry and didn’t belong in the plane of the dead).〝we’ve got a sharper eye than most. an affinity for the supernatural. that’s why we see them, and they’re here because, well—–〞it’s only his best guess, but it’s a damn good one. pulled right from the mouth of the ghost on the river with the hurt eyes. 〝THE DEAD AIN’T SILENT. they talk til’ someone listens.〞

It was somewhat counterintuitive, how much Mal immediately trusted Ocelot, considering she herself knew how to skirt her inability to lie by telling half truths and leaving pieces out and answering questions different than those that were asked of her. She knew how to tell neither the truth nor a lie. But she did not see that others could do the same to her.

Or even just be wrong.

After all, Ocelot was telling the truth. Everything he said rang true to her instinctive ability. Or rather, it was not a lie intended to deceive. Mal had yet to learn to differentiate. She did not understand that a person believing something to be true and speaking it as if it were fact didn’t make it objectively the truth. As far as she saw it, anyone who wasn’t lying was right in what they said.

“I’m sorry I don’t know wh-what he said,” Mal replied, voice less shaky now, though she still kept her distance. “I only know English and a little Russian and a little Kikongo. But that’s all.” Her brow furrowed and she thought back on what she had heard. It hadn’t been any language she recognized. None of the words had even caught her attention.

For a moment Mal weighed her options. Miller had gotten so upset when she had asked about the skull faced man. Angry and sick, his stomach had turned and she had felt it. But Ocelot was letting her ask. And maybe he knew too...

“What happened to him?”

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edenvs

〝he listens to her thoughtfully. his expression is unmoving and for once he seems like the kind and trustworthy sheriff (star-shaped badge and all!) instead of the violent gunslinger he typically was. ocelot moves a hand to hover over her shoulder, but doesn’t touch. it’s asking permission to comfort. to quell the constant stammering and hiccups between words. 

〝you don’t have to be nervous. you’re not in trouble,〞he offers, and it’s disingenuous. if big boss (venom) cared for children, he did too, and so did the basic principle that they’re beings that ought not to be marred.〝the rumor mill is where they talk about things they hear second-hand. they don’t see it for themselves-----   that’s how you heard about the man with the skull face. i just want to know WHICH RUMOR MILL churned that stuff out.〞i want to know. he wants to know. make it personal; make it between them, just for grey-eyed curiosity’s sake. 〝what did they tell you about that man?〞

It’s instinctive, not personal, when Mal cringes, flinching away as soon as his hand moves towards her. The lesson is ingrained in her mind as resolutely as the sky is blue—a moving hand means hurt. She freezes, staying as still as she can, folded in on herself like an origami swan, terrified eyes looking back up at him now. Perhaps if she doesn’t move, he’ll forget she exists. Play dead and survive.

Mal stays like that for a few moments longer, brain rebooting as she tries to process her environment once again. She’s unharmed—which is confusing but welcomed. Ocelot is still here. He had said something. Words. An answer.An answer to what a rumor mill was.A question. A question about who had told her about the man with a skull face. But no one had told her.

She still keeps crouched, as small in size as her already undersized body could get. Her head shakes back and forth as a silent response while she tries to remember how to speak. She steps back, just out of arms reach, just in case.

”N-no one told me. I s-saw,” Mal tells him, trying to be clearer and trying to stifle the stutter. Maybe once he understands he’ll let her go. Or maybe he just won’t believe her—most adults don’t. “He’s dead, but he’s here. The d-dead—the ghosts—they go where—where they’re n-not done yet. So he’s not done yet b-but I can’t figure out why—and no one will t-tell me anything. M-Miller told me to s-stop asking.”

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edenvs

“well, i’d like to hear those stories firsthand,〞ocelot said firmly, withdrawing his faux smile in favor of something more genuine and meaningful. stories they were. tales so fantastical that a mere child couldn’t possibly CONJURE THEM INTO COHERENCE. someone else had to do that for them. someone else had to poke and prod them to the right direction, towards the vicinity of things so outrageous that they had a lick of truth about them.

mal’s tall tales were too tall, even for a little body exposed to the unfathomable heights of warfare. something was feeding it. HIS INTUITION WAS SHARP FOR THESE THINGS. he tapped his foot slowly, the metal of spurs clinking lightly against the open grate. anyone who’d seen him in an interrogation (if you could even call this that) would recognize the sharp difference in his poise. he’d been dancing with the devil for some time, but the tempest wasn’t entirely unkind. there’s danger about his true person, but for now his voice spoke kindly.〝the rumor mill says they’re interesting; a wonder that someone could’ve come up with them.〞

There was no use in trying to dodge his questions or half-answer them, Mal knew. Between her inability to tell a lie and the fact that Ocelot could absolutely catch her if she tried to bolt, he might as well have had her caught in a snare.

Looking up, Mal noticed for the first time Ocelot’s eyes—gray, like hers. She didn’t make eye contact with anyone, as much as she could avoid it. She was as non-confrontational as possible with all of the staff on Mother Base, compliant with requests and always working her hardest in the education they provided for the children here. Her only interruptive trait was the unending curiosity she had, leading her to ask a half dozen questions, anytime she felt bold enough to speak at all.

Looking back down, she answered, “I s-saw him—the m-m-man with the s-skull face—f-full of h-hate—“

There was a long pause and Mal wrapped her arms around herself, still shaking badly. She has to ask. She has to know, in spite of the feeling of dread looming over her. “—what’s—what’s a r-rumor mill?”