Chapter Text
I don't think anybody writes a fic this long without leaving a few pieces on the cutting room floor, so to speak (if they do they're a far better planner than I am). As per the notes, the whole scope of this story changed, for a few reasons. A great deal of it was originally intended to be part of a bosselot fic - a response to my first mgs fic, Ad Infernum, but from Ocelot's point of few, called Red the Shade of History (based on the song that serves as my general Big Boss theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGNlEtjaoHE). The Enemy of My Enemy was supposed to a series of 1000-2000-word shorts set during the nine-year-gap that culminated in Ocelot betraying someone who very well could have been his closest friend. The ending was the whole point, frankly.
But as I borrowed these ideas and reframed them into a less shallow 'these two are in love with the same man and don't like each other' take on ocekaz, and more of a 'these men have survived together for nine years at great sacrifice and built Big Boss's army back up for him' take. Interactions that seemed to work at first glance didn't hold water or were drastically altered the moment the story grew from a series of stereotyped soundbites and into more realistic, long-spanning relationship. Oil rigs, military helicopters, missiles, planes for Fulton extraction... these things cost tens and hundreds of millions of dollars, and Kaz no longer has access to Cipher funds. Meaning that the Diamond Dogs were very successful indeed. All while avoiding Cipher/XOF assassins/capture.
For all the cat/dog parallels, Kaz and Ocelot work together very well, in fact.
Add to this the fact that they couldn't possibly know that Big Boss would ever really wake up yet chose to work together regardless, and how Ocelot behaves in canon if you put Kaz's life in danger during Phantom Limbs, well, another explanation for why GRU spetsnaz lead interrogator Major Ocelot didn't just hop on a plane to Afghanistan to order a prisoner transfer the day Kaz was captured while Venom recovered on the slow boat back to Mother Base required a different explanation entirely.
And so here are a few things I cut from EoME for various reasons, and some excerpts from the aforementioned bosselot fic (of which I've written around 20-some-odd pages, never to be used >>).
Story Time with Solidus
Meant to be a gap-filler for the period this fic went dark around Christmas in order to rejigger it from what it was meant to be into what became, this got way too long. Also made the fact that Ocelot is not being entirely forthcoming about the real extent of his interactions with the Patriots to John a little too obvious, as well as his real relationship with SF/XOF. Set post-Argentina, pre-Iran.
We're halfway through our story now, which makes for a good time as any for a recap of past events. It's been awhile since we left off, but you remember, don't you?
There was once a great warlord who crowned himself King and built a castle in the sea. There he dwelt with his Queen, and the fiercest warriors from across the land - some flocked from the four corners of the earth for the chance to do battle at his side, others he selected by hand, champions whose prowess had impressed him. Friend or foe, it made no difference. Those who fought under his banner forewent old loyalties and raised their swords as one.
For a time, they were victorious, and happy. The King was just, the Queen was fair, and it's said you could hear songs and laughter echoing from their castle, even from the shore.
But nothing lasts forever, Солнышко моё.
In a land to the north of their sea lived a Wizard of fearsome cunning and power. He was an old ally of the King; they'd fought dragons together in their youth. He had schemed and magicked his way into becoming the true power behind the throne in his own kingdom, yet - and always remember this - men who seek power are never satisfied. Their lust for control only multiplies over time; before long the Wizard sought to rule the world. He could never succeed on his own; with the King at his side, his dark dream would transform into a certainty.
The King refused him. He was satisfied with his lot. What he conquered he would do so by the strength of his right arm, not spells.
The Wizard was undeterred. If he could not appeal to the King's own desire for power, he would appeal to his other wants: he sent comely, golden-haired women to seduce him to the Wizard's cause. They were so charming no man could turn them away. The King remained unmoved by their beauty. The Wizard offered him sons through sorcery - both the King and his Queen were barren - and these, too, were scorned by the King.
At length the Wizard abandoned his efforts and turned to his Queen instead. Her love of gold was legendary - she hoarded it like a dragon, and with her at his side, the King's coffers were never empty - and so, the Wizard offered her wealth beyond imagining. She accepted. Yet, to the Wizard's consternation, offered nothing but paltry gossip in return. She remained loyal and true: the words she whispered into the King's ear did not move him any closer to the Wizard's side.
"Isn't that bad?"
"What is, Yurachka?"
"She took his money but didn't do what he wanted. That's stealing."
"That's all a matter of perspective."
"Um..."
What the Queen didn't know was that the Wizard had a Dragon in his service-
"The dragon!"
A dragon. The Wizard had caught him when he was but a hatchling, and the Dragon had followed him ever since: soaring across the sea, feasting on his enemies. Unbeknownst to the Wizard, the Dragon loathed the King. He had fought for the Wizard for so long, yet it was the King the Wizard wished to have at his side, not him. Even worse, the King was a dragonslayer; he was a hero, handsome, with a beautiful lady love who turned everything she touched into coin. He had everything, including the affection of the Dragon's master. The Dragon hated the King down to his very bones.
"Why didn't the Dragon just tell the Wizard he was mad?"
Because, in secret, he despised the Wizard too. But if he attacked the Wizard openly, for all the bad blood between them, the King might rush to his aid.
"That wasn't part of the story last time."
"No, it wasn't."
"Can you tell me more about the Dragon, please?"
"Of course."
Dragon eggs are formed deep within the earth by the eternal fires at its core. There they sleep as stones until so much blood soaks through the soil that it coats their shells, dissolving them, and they hatch. They crawl out of yawning crevasses ripped open when mighty armies clash. In our Dragon's case, he was born when the Black Knights of the west stormed into the east on horses carved of steel and thunder. They fought to conquer the world, just as the Wizard later would. The vast Red Army stood in their way with naught but humble swords and armor. The Black Knights were peerless warriors who summoned lightning, burning hail, and terror; the soldiers of the Red Army were peasants defending their homes, with a single folk magic at their disposal:
Winter.
It was so cold men froze where they stood. The Black Knights' armour became coated in ice, so heavy they couldn't take a single step. Howling winds blew their steeds out of the sky. Still, the fighting was fierce, and terrible. The fields of the east were littered with the fallen, with the corpses of millions--
"Millions?"
"Yes, millions."
"Really, uncle, millions of people? I know this is just a story, but you don't have to make up--"
"Millions, Yura. I'll take you there someday."
And in this woeful chaos the earth was rent asunder between them; the Dragon climbed out onto the snow, coated in so much blood it dripped from his scales, still newborn and soft. The frigid depths of Winter froze it solid across his skin. Locked him in place; covered his snout.
"Oh no."
He could have died the day he was born; instead, with a roar he ripped free - right out of his frozen scales, stripped down to hideous, mangled flesh and bone. And so, none knew him for a Dragon. They thought he was an animal - some took pity on him, and fed him. Others put him to work for them, for he still had a dragon's ferocity, strength, and guile. Only the Wizard recognized him for what he really was.
"So why does he hate the Wizard?"
Because magic, and those who wished to conquer the world, were what cost him his scales.
"And then he found out when the King was going to be away from the Queen's gossip, and he smashed their castle to bits, and the King rescued her just in time but the Dragon cast a spell that made him fall into an enchanted sleep. I remember. But why does the Dragon have magic?"
"All dragons do."
"Okay. Then the Red Knight came out of the east because he heard the King was in trouble, and he's his sworn brother. But if he's his brother, why wasn't he there in the castle? Shouldn't he be a Prince?"
Because they were brothers by vow, not by blood. The Red Knight had sworn fealty to him, but he was only one of many Knights to have done so. His kingdom was not the King's - he had his own land, and his own people. The first time they met, in fact, it was as adversaries. The King and the Wizard still fought together, and together they faced a Lightning Dragon. The Red Knight was this Dragon's vassal. He met the King - who was still a Prince himself back then - in combat, and they dueled. The Red Knight lost the battle, but the Prince spared his life.
"Why?"
Some say the Red Knight's skill impressed him so deeply the Prince wanted him for his own; the Red Knight was still a mere boy, and others say the King showed him mercy on account of his age. No one knows for certain. All they know is that from that day onward the Red Knight's loyalty has been to the King above all others. The Lightning Dragon defeated, the Red Knight swore to come to his aid should he ever require it.
"He should've been at the castle. He could've protected the Queen."
"Maybe so. Maybe not. Maybe he'd be dragon food. Only a Dragon can truly challenge another Dragon."
"But you said--"
In any case, the Red Knight wasn't at the castle. His first thought was for the King's safety: he cast a spell of protection to guard him in his slumber. Then he offered his sword to the Queen, to be her protector as she quested to find a way to break the Dragon's curse. Which she stubbornly refused, willful and suspicious, until her carriage was waylaid by an ambush and the Red Knight, who had followed her against her wishes, charged in to slay them all. Rather than look to him as her saviour, however, she held him responsible for the death of one of her guards, who was in fact--
"One of the Dragon's henchmen. But she didn't know that. She thought he was a friend."
"First you turn into an apologist for the Dragon, and now you're on the Queen's side?"
"It's not the Dragon's fault. He's just being a Dragon. I feel sad for him. How would you like to lose your scales?"
"I wouldn't know. I've never had scales to lose."
"It's a metaphor. Anyway, the Queen is sad too. She doesn't know this guy at all and she's lonely. That's why she throws herself at other men next and the Red Knight has to save her honour. What if you were a Queen with a handsome King and a court full of fun and friends one day, then you were all alone and poor and scared the next?"
"I've never been a Queen, either."
"Use your imagination? You have friends and family and a home, right? How would you like to lose them?"
"I suppose that would be very painful."
"So the Red Knight should be comforting her."
"The Red Knight has better things to do with his time."
The Queen had begun to gather some warriors of her own, her circumstances grew less dire than before. She could weep into their sleeves, if she felt the need. She had collected the coin to travel, and she'd heard that a magic existed in the deep jungles of the south that could cure her love. But these lands had been conquered by a Necromancer: a black sorcerer whose magic could raise the dead and add them to his army. This scourge spilled across the continent unchecked by the King, who had fallen, and the Wizard, who tacitly permitted the conquests of his own kind. It was far too dangerous for a woman to travel alone--
"But you said last time the Queen could fight."
"Sure. After a fashion. About as well as you'd expect."
"You said she was a warrior princess the King had defeated who almost killed him through treachery. He admired her spirit so much he fell in love with her."
"Spirit, not skill. She'd also spent the last few years lounging on her throne playing her lute and counting money while the King and the Red Knight were slaying all kinds of monsters."
--so, even though the Red Knight knew it was a fool's errand and they'd be lucky to escape with their lives, he had no choice but to accompany her into the Necromancer's domain. He refused to allow her to bring any of her warriors with her, for they would surely perish. She gave him her favour--
"What does that mean?"
...The, ah, golden shawl she always wore around her throat. The favour of a lady is some favoured piece of clothing they wear, or a lock of hair. It brings protection to men in their darkest hours. She tied it 'round his arm, and with it, his sword, and shield, they crossed the ocean together. She turned to wine to soothe her nerves during the journey; the Red Knight switched it for juice when she looked away.
The Queen had travelled these jungles before, you see. Before they fell under the Necromancer's sway. She spoke the language, she loved the people. They knew her, too; she was very happy there, and her grace won the hearts of the embattled villagers. Heedless of the shadows looming around them - the Red Knight was never to be found more than an armslength away from her.
The skeletons came in the night, as surely as the Red Knight knew they must. Teeming thousands of them, clambering relentlessly over the vines and through the brush. Animals fled their path and birds stilled; the Red Knight took this as a sign to flee. The Queen wanted to stay and fight a hopeless battle to save the villagers--
"Wouldn't you?"
"No, not really."
--But the Red Knight had sworn to protect her, and could not let her lose her life here. Or be captured and used against the King; be turned into one of the undead creatures against which he now stood. Valiant, noble defeats make for good stories to the unaffected - the Red Knight could not bear to tell his liege lord, his own sworn brother, that he'd lost his lady love. And so he hid her away safely amongst vine-smothered ruins.
Or so he thought. Keening howls echoed from the horizon - soon slavering beasts, enormous dire wolves, bore down upon them. Twice the size of a man, black as night, and covered in spines so sharp they could slice a man in twain, these were the Necromancer's own personal bloodhounds. They found the Knight and the Lady straightaway - only the knight's raised shield kept them from being devoured at once. He called out for her to flee, and for once, she listened: there were far too many of the creatures to fight.
The Red Knight took pains to stay behind her, to shield her. When she slipped, he gently raised her to her feet. The dire wolves snapped at their heels; sheer desperation urged them onward. The beasts were faster, and soon had them surrounded. Sword flashing in the night, the he carved path to freedom. But do to so he'd turned his back on the Queen, and he knew from her cry of terror that one of them had her in their clutches.
He whirled around to find her pinned beneath its jaws. He rushed to her and pried its mouth open with his sword. It bit down and hurled the blade off into the trees. He bashed it backward with his shield; it ripped that, too, from his hand and swallowed it whole. He urged her to go - he would hold it off as long as he could. She refused to leave him.
The wolf sank its teeth into the Red Knight's raised arm, all three certain this was the end of them. Instead, there was a blinding flash: the Queen's favour smote the beast.
There was time for neither celebration nor astonishment: the Knight kissed the Lady's hand in gratitude and they hurried on into the thick foliage, toward the jungle's edge, where they could no longer be followed. Harried for a day and a night, at the limits of their strength, the Queen began to lose heart. Beleaguered and afraid, she could run no more. She begged him to leave her behind.
But the Red Knight knew that she was stronger than she realized, she need only have courage. He raised his voice in song for her, to lift her spirits. He sang and sang for her, for hours, and she followed, enchanted by the melody. Before she knew it they had reached the sea, and safety.
They sailed home together to await their next adventure.
"Uncle Adam?"
"Yes?"
"...The Red Knight and the Queen fall in love, don't they."
"The last time I talked to you, girls were gross and the Queen was annoying."
"I was a little kid back then."
"Why would they fall in love? They're companions of circumstance, not choice."
"Because the Red Knight's been the one protecting her and fighting for her for years. The King's just sleeping."
"It doesn't work like that, Yura. You could dedicate your life to a girl and she doesn't have to love you. Besides, why would the Red Knight fall for the Queen?"
"She's pretty, right?"
"A little past her prime, but it's not like the King's getting any younger himself."
"So she's a pretty girl."
"It doesn't work like that either, you'll find."
"Okay, okay, but what happened to the Dragon? Last time you said he was exiled by the Wizard. Exiled doesn't mean dead."
"I'm fairly sure most people would call the Dragon the villain of this story. Why do you care what happens to him?"
"I told you: he's just being a Dragon. It's not his fault."
"So whose fault is it?"
"The Wizard's. He knew what the Dragon was. He used him anyway, because he wanted power. He didn't care about the Dragon at all, or he would have known he was angry. The Wizard's the bad guy. ...Right?"
"Oh, I agree."
But every so often men come along who think they can control Dragons. They think Dragons are beasts who exist to serve them. Dragons can do a very good job of pretending that this is true. No, Dragons have free will, and they follow men because they wish to. Never forget that: for when a Dragon turns on his master there will be a terrible price to pay. He'll not only swallow you whole, he'll slaughter your other followers. He'll tear down everything you've built and crush everything you care for. They have magic, like Wizards, are as strong as warriors, and have no mercy or fear. They are relentless: they never falter until they're slain.
"So the Wizard's dead."
"Or will be soon enough."
"Uncle Adam?"
"Yes?"
"Can there be ninjas, next time?"
"You like ninjas?"
"They're... cool I guess."
"I'll see what I can do."
"...Uncle Adam..."
"Hm?"
"Is the Red Knight--"
"George!"
"Don't mind me, I was just leaving."
"You never stay. Can't he stay?"
"No, George, I think... uh, Uncle Adam has other places to be."
"See you soon."
"How did you get in here?"
"I walked in through the front door."
Chat with Eva
As you can probably tell from what does appear in EoME and my bosselot fics, I love Ocelot and Eva's frenemy-ship, and I fully intend to explore that in its own story someday. Unfortunately this scene didn't work because it too revealed way too much about revelations set to come later in the story. Most notably Adam's past with the Philosophers. Also based on comments a lot of people weren't 100% sure that Ocelot/Adamska/Adam were entirely different personas at this point, and this piece is pretty unsubtle about that. Set pre-Hong Kong.
"Is this more to you liking?" Eva asks him flawless Parisian French as they recline on the balcony of her opulent suite overlooking Plage Royal. She sips delicately on a particularly rich, spicy Amarone that pairs perfectly with their foie gras.
"Je m'en sacre," Ocelot replies, and watching her struggle not to spit it right back out at that makes '75 worthwhile, if for no other reason than to meet Dingo.
"You've never liked French, have you?" she inanely observes to cover her recovery.
"That made it all the way to Idaho?" Ocelot switches to English; taunting her with the fact that he speaks three more languages than she does got old years ago - besides, his Mandarin still leaves a lot to be desired.
"No, of course not. Things would've gone very differently had I known anything about you aside from the stunt you pulled in Berlin." Ocelot would ask her how she managed to hear even that much with her face stuffed with some charm school instructor's saggy ball sack, but Ocelot is tired. And the food is good. GRU food is about as good as hospital food, most of the time.
Step one: ease your way into a relaxed atmosphere with fine food or alcohol.
Step two: tease lightly - if you can, make them laugh.
Step three: mention common ground or a shared memory - preferably something nostalgic.
Ocelot was bored with this when he was ten. "If you're going to fuck me, can we skip the foreplay?"
Eva frowns. Then tosses her head. "You look like shit, Adam."
His English name tastes foreign; he hasn't heard it in years. "And you're less Mrs Robinson, more hungry cougar."
"I mean it. You look older than I do and you're going grey. How long's it been since you slept?"
"I'm a busy man these days," Adam deflects. Regretting the decision to accept her invitation already. If he wanted an argument he could have struck up a conversation with Miller about any topic in the world. And unlike Miller, Eva - for all her dwindling charms - does not get his dick hard.
There's a great deal a man can tolerate for someone he finds attractive. You would know.
"Yes, watching Jack sleep must be terribly burdensome." She rolls her eyes.
She knows full well he has more going on than that. He doesn't even bother to say it, though the pause in her speech has been opened specifically for him to interject.
"But that's right," she continues at precisely the moment he knew she would - just long enough for him to give a considered response if one was forthcoming, not so long that the lull would grow awkward, "you, the loyal one, are still running Zero's errands."
Among a host of other things. "In case you haven't noticed, he has my balls in a vice right now."
She snorts. It's one of those things she will actually do of her own volition, when she's playing neither the sultry femme fatale nor your oversexed faux-tomboy girl next door. You've never heard her do it; Adam has, many times. "David would never hurt Jack. He sought you out to put another chain around your neck. He has a thousand other capable bodyguards to do that job."
That's what Adam loves about Eva: she'll follow intrigues 95% of the way to their conclusion and present them like killing blows. It drives Adam to drink. Again. "Oh. The thought had never occurred to me," he mumbles through a sip of pinot noir and a layer of sarcasm so thick he can hardly taste it.
"That. Was. A. Question," she grinds out, bobbing her neck with every word. "I. Know. You. Know. I am asking you why you're doing it anyway."
"Oh, were you? Interesting." Adam drains his glass and Eva drains hers. With a huff, no less. John, darling, he's beginning to think you have a type.
"Now who's playing rhetorical games?"
"You are."
"Fine." She throws her arms up at last. "Fine! Adam: what the fuck are you doing? You're helping Zero. Jack is in a coma and doesn't need a babysitter. XOF is the bed David shat himself - let him sit in it."
That makes Adam smile, at last. Makes him laugh, actually.
"Stop! Just stop. Get some sleep, take a vacation. Take up a hobby. Date someone, some who actually gives a shit." It's advice she herself has been taking, John. She looks good. Objectively. (For her age.) She's been cougaring it up across the countryside of Europe while she rebuilds her spy network, outside of what she believes are Cipher's prying eyes.
"I don't really feel like it," Adam admits. It's all he'll say, and however woefully inadequate she may have been as a spy, she knows enough to know he's hiding something.
"Adam." To his mild surprise, her tone softens. She leans forward to refill his glass, and hers. Maintains the distance of a confidante. "I know you think you're better than me. You chose your own path, while I kept walking the one they laid out."
Adam frowns. She continues. "But, Adam, I chose to do that. They release you, when you're an adult - of course, you wouldn't know . They were harsh, yes. Brutal. I wouldn't wish them on any child. But what's done is done. Instead of letting them tear me down, I let them make me stronger. I embraced their teachings and they gave me the world. They selected the People's Republic for me because it was the option that suited me best, and the Chinese let me choose my weapons, my tactics, my methods, and even my limits. You believe you're above me by rejecting the past?" She straightens, proudly. "I refuse to squander it. Everything I've been through. I'll use the pain I was forged in to shape the future I want, while you've done nothing but trade your old masters for Jack and David. I stayed shackled, but now I am free, and you drag your broken chains with you wherever you go."
Adam stares at the floor while he drains his glass in one long pull.
"Adam..." His expression must have revealed more than he thought it had, because her voice softens even further, turning downright featherly. "...I'm sorry. I just don't want you destroy yourself for a man who doesn't even love you."
Like I did, she does not say, but Adam will oblige her by filling it in in his head. "Fine, Eva. You want me to say it? I can't. I can't stop. You know that. Did you invite me here to gloat? I'll pass on the next outing, then--"
"No, I thought you might need someone to talk to." He looks doubtful; she presses on. "I heard it from Jack: you insisted on coming along, in Hanoi. You risked your life for me. And you warned me. I won't say you were right--" No, god forbid she admit what she did to you was as cold-blooded a thing as Adam has ever done to anyone, "--But you did warn me. David's a bastard, and Jack never lets go. Not of anything. So, in a way, you've been more of a friend to me than they ever have. If you want to talk, my door is open."
He has to admit: the offer is tempting. She might not know much of what he's up to, but she does know more than most. She relates to him on a number of levels. She knows you. He might just take her up on it. He's clearly fond of her.
"...I suppose I have been wondering what you're up to in Europe these days."
After all, if he wasn't, he might have told her that every single one of the Philosophers' children he's ever met has given him the same speech upon finding out who he is. Almost verbatim. Each nearly identical sermon delivered as if it were the most original, captivating idea they ever had. A conclusion arrived at after no doubt the most intense soul-searching and self-doubt. A crushing blow to his false confidence.
Obedience is freedom. Escape is imprisonment. Submission is strength. Torn back down to be built up stronger. It was all worth it in the end. The world is now theirs.
They chat idly about inane details Adam already knows, wistfully about the past, and you, while Adam drinks Adamska to sleep.
Ocelot Meets Putin
Exactly what it says on the tin. If True Blue can have Margaret Thatcher, why can't I put Putin in? I didn't actually end up writing this at all, but Major Ocelot was going to encounter an ambitious young KGB counter-intelligence expert with an unfortunate early balding pattern named 'Vladmir', during which they would discuss the future of the USSR/Russian patriotism/the functions of the KGB vs GRU. The collapse of the USSR and the reorganization of the KGB are major plot points in MGS2, but back then, I don't think Kojima anticipated that not only would the GRU - to which Ocelot and Gurlukovich actually belonged - survive into the new era, they would thrive in it. Insinuating that Ocelot's loyalties to his adoptive countries are far more complex than they seem.
But observant people already realize this, I'm sure.
Excerpts from Red, The Shade of History
A few pieces of what was intended to be a very long bosselot fic, which will never see the light of day. For a few reasons, first and foremost being that I cannibalized so much of it for EoME; secondly, that neither Ocelot & Big Boss's relationship nor Ocelot & Kaz's relationship work as I'd planned them in light of a much more in-depth reading of MGSV; lastly, and somewhat shallowly, based on my observations re: the fandom I honestly don't think the vast majority of bosselot fans are interested in a serious, canon-heavy, in-character interrogation of the ship as opposed to AUs in lighter settings with a greatly pared-down, more palatable dynamic between two. By contrast ocekaz fans seemed really into the idea of a nine-year-gap epic. The ideas were better-served here, I think.
Introduction:
It was always going to be framed as a tape to John in second-person, but I like the slow reveal of this in EoME much better
Ad Infernum: a counterpoint
No, John, that's your story. This is mine.
Or, one time John and Adam fucked, and five times they didn't.
*chuckle* You didn't really believe that, did you, John?
We've fucked a lot more than five times. It's a cute framing device, but this time, I'm looking to tell you the truth.
Try not to get too excited.
They tell me that you might not be all there, when you wake up. When you went into cardiac arrest on them it was only for a matter of seconds, but before that, in the helicopter, they have no idea. They pulled you out of the water - depending on how long you went without oxygen, it could be there's a lot you don't remember.
Do you like the accent? You always hated the British one I had back in the 70s. It suited my purposes back then, but I think this one suits me better, now.
Where was I? Right. You might not remember me. And I might not be here when you wake up. In that case, I figure I'd better apprise you of our situation.
I promise there'll be a few things in here that you never knew, to make it worth your while. Plenty of sex and violence, too.
Raising Adam(ska):
Again, I like the gradual reveal of his different personas better than spelling it out right at the outset. I also think framing it in the sense of 'we become what we pretend to be' was a little too obvious re: his relationship with Big Boss. Plus I prefer EoME's drippingly sarcastic!Ocelot to Red's drippingly pretentious!Ocelot though they're both hilarious in their own ways imo.
Adam(ska) learned from a very young age not to pretend to be something he wasn't.
Pretending is well and good for a little while, maybe even fun. But it grinds a man down over time; pretenses wear thin, grow painful, until they hurt every time they're used, and everyone who cares to notice can see through the threadbare illusion. Living a lie their entire lifetime is a slow torture has destroyed strong men and women, utterly.
What to do, then, when faced with a choice between pain and pretense?
His earliest memories were gentle enough. Indistinct faces speaking to him in a collage of languages, exhorting him to play, read, make friends. Though he realized quickly that every game was an evaluation of his skill, every book was one that he was required to memorize, and that he was judged on every word he spoke to someone else, there was no punishment for failure, in those early days. He didn't really know what failure was.
But as the increasingly bitter divorce between his myriad parents from their ill-advised union grew violent, stakes arose. Pungent tea, indigo ink, and words that sounded like singing disappeared from his curriculum, replaced by soda, stews, fur, leather, letters with different sounds when they faced backwards, and men with guns, guns, guns. Saying the wrong word, or the right word in the wrong language, forgetting something he had seen, or talking to the wrong person in the wrong way all had consequences. Sometimes, he wouldn't eat. Sometimes, he wouldn't see that person again. He pretended he didn't care, but it hurt.
It was something as petty as French that did him in. Adam didn't like the way it sounded; especially the way the words were so close to English but different, and he was in very, very big trouble if he said something wrong in English. He'd fuss, but nothing made the woman who spoke it to him go away. When she slapped him, her sharp red fingernails bit into his cheeks. He tried his hardest to learn, but it hurt; he hated it. He tried to convince himself that really, it wasn't so bad. But it was that bad. Just like English, only the adjectives and nouns were in the wrong order, except when they weren't. He pretended to like it; he pretended to be a little French boy, or maybe Napoleon, or maybe Charles du Gaulle, but his enthusiasm fizzled until he got slapped again.
That night she took everything out of his room - every single object, down to the furniture - and locked the shuttered windows. He sat on the bare floor with his arms folded across his knees. He recited that day's entire lesson to himself out loud, out of habit. Descartes. Only he translated it into Latin, spitefully. She was probably listening.
Ego sum, ego existo, quoties a me profertur, vel mente concipitur, necessario esse verum
But why?
But not just like French?
It sounded silly and it was too much like English and he hated that woman.
No.
It was breathy and beautiful and English was too much like French and she was one of the most knowledgeable, most demanding instructors he'd ever had.
... est nécessairement vraie, toutes les fois que je la prononce, ou que je la conçois en mon esprit
"I like French."
Adam liked French. It was the language of Philosophy; of history, of love, of great continental heroes. He was sore the next day from sleeping on the floor, but his eyes were bright with eagerness. He greeted her, his stern yet charming instructor, in her own language and didn't use another until she asked him to translate.
The answer was so simple all along that he could scarcely believe other people didn't do the same. Abandon pretenses. Just become whatever it was you wanted to be. All these needlessly painful subjectivities; was fear the sign of a coward, or overcoming fear the mark of a hero and fearlessness the sign of a madman? Neither. All these were just words. They were a story. Stories changed with the teller. Tellers changed with the story.
Major Ocelot
The creation of his Major Ocelot persona as written in Red doesn't work for a number of reasons: for one I think it's too obvious he's putting on airs trying to impress John, which might've been in character as Major Ocelot but certainly isn't for TPP-era Ocelot. For two: it's also too obvious he's playing dumb re: The Boss. There's too much telling and not showing - all told, I'm sure you can see why it was cut/revamped. It's much more impactful to reframe this as his first and only meeting with The Sorrow.
"Oh?" Adamska'd assumed he was the son of someone important, based on the evidence available. How much trouble two superpowers had gone to for his sake. But a common soldier? He'd thought a politician, at least. The director of the KGB, or CIA, and some mistress, perhaps. She must have been a legendary sniper with hundreds of confirmed kills. Or one of the Night Witches? When his handler made no response, he knew none was forthcoming. He'd have to discover the truth for himself. "So I'm to follow in her footsteps and do my patriotic duty."
"Exactly right. You will, of course, have to undergo their training. And succeed."
"Consider it done."
Adamska's reputation preceded him. The GRU worked closely with the KGB at times in the same way that the CIA supported the US military's own intelligence and black operations. His second (third?) defection was staged without as much fanfare; he took the Makarov pistol the KGB had given him as a parting gift, nothing else, showed up at the entrance to their ostensibly top secret recruiting facility in Moscow, and told the bald, one-eared bodyguard at the door that he was going to be Spetsnaz.
He was laughed at, pushed, and when he refused to leave, ordered to take off his gloves and do pushups in the snow. For hours. At one point, a man in a suit came out, spat on the ground next to his head, and told him to go back to the KGB. When morning came and Adamska was still on his now red and purple hands, the guard finally relented. He told Adamska to stand up and called inside; Adamska blew on his numb, frostbitten fingers.
They told him he could join if he could pass their marksmanship test. Without practice. Right now.
"Sounds fair to me." He couldn't bend any of his fingers; he had to unholster the Makarov with both hands. He had to stick his thumb through the trigger guard and yank back on his arm to pull the trigger, resting the grip in the open palm of the opposite hand. The ludicrous audacity of it drew a small crowd of hardened instructors and more than a few derisive snorts.
Adamska didn't miss a shot.
"Comrades," he didn't even bother to watch the last one; he spun the Makarov back over his shoulder and holstered it neatly. "When do I start?"
Becoming Major Ocelot was like putting on a pair of well-worn boots, molded perfectly to the shape of his feet. He allowed the story to unfold slowly: he let the whisper of his parentage seep through the ranks, then how he crushingly bored he was of pencil-pushing for the KGB. They wanted him to become a well-dressed, double-talking spy; he was born for the battlefield. Brash, cocky, indomitable, enthusiastic, and never too good for special treatment on account of his past. By then word had gotten out that he loved cowboys; which he did and always had. He found a pair of old cavalry officer's spurs, put those on his boots, and no one dared to tell him to take them off.
As a lieutenant he stayed up all night drinking with his men before his command exams; he stumbled in like walking death, passed out in his seat for minutes, twice, and still got the highest score.
They disciplined him for it, of course. With a mark on his record that meant no commander would want him to serve under them. He was overconfident, insubordinate, vain, held grudges, and encouraged loyalty to himself over superior officers. No one would touch him. None, that is, except for Colonel Volgin. Who convinced the rest that he could break him in. He assured Ocelot himself the first time they met that he very much liked the spirited ones.
This is all background; the story proper was set to start with the scene edited out of the tapes in the final chapter of EoME wherein Ocelot meets The Boss and she gives him the SAS pin badge; from there he stumbles outside to get some space and runs into Naked Snake and the first scene from Ad Infernum occurs. But honestly, as per the EoME: Ocelot's been with Volgin for years at this point. This wasn't the first time and only might've been the last. Not only that but the KGB/CIA would've briefed Ocelot thoroughly on Volgin ahead of time and trained him specifically for his task. He knew exactly what he was getting himself into. Either Ocelot hams it up for his audience (John) expecting him to be oblivious or he doesn't, revealing the fact that his motivations for seeking "comfort" from the American don't at all add up way too fast way too early.
Ocelot edits out the scene of the first night on the oil rig with Kaz in EoME for exactly this reason. Kaz calls him on it.
Most of the chapters from EoME were short interludes from Red, greatly expanded/evolved, which I feel is an apt metaphor for (my take on) ocekaz in general: something brief and tightly managed that wound up spanning decades and spiraling completely out of control.