FAIRWEATHER FRIENDS — revolver ocelot

[THEM]

[align=center][div style="text-align:justify;width:55%;font-family:verdana;"]He'd held his silence. Held his tongue.

They crossed paths once, and he swore that would be the end of it. If he saw him again, he'd kill him. No questions asked. He'd spent enough time in these lands to know that running into anyone from his past was more than unlikely. It should've been impossible.

Should've.

On New Year's Eve he'd spent his evening at some meaningless social function, milling about with a steady knot of anxiety tightening just beneath his sternum. Everything felt wrong. Nothing should've been wrong, not when he'd passed years without such a hitch; yet as he lingered in the open threshold he'd caught a too-familiar scent, too-familiar eyes, and felt the urge to fight or run claw up from his throat like bile. And he'd said nothing. Kept his distance, as he ought. His fears were proven true. Thus, non-confrontation held in the highest, he slipped away from the event and prepared for the inevitable.

He'd barred his windows. Locked the doors at night. Kept one eye open and a paw on his knife, no matter where he traveled. The party had been a warning shot - the knowledge that he was being watched and every step cataloged haunted him, even when he knew, deep in his heart, that he was most certainly alone. Ocelot was good at these games. It was no error that the spy had shown his face in public, but instead a hand meeting the stopwatch, counting down the days Kazuhira had left. Paranoia built to obsession, imploring him to consider every lapse in his focus, every falter in his stride, a perfect moment for the enemy to sweep out and slit his throat. He knew too much, after all. He was a liability - too sharp to outsmart, too proud to keep his mouth shut. It was only logical that Ocelot wanted him to be afraid.

Sometimes, when he bordered on manic and it felt as though the whole world was watching with its breath held, he was.

If Ocelot was playing coy just to lure him, he was succeeding. This was not out of the cheetah’s control just yet, and he was drawn all too easily by the urge to take matters into his own hands. Too smart was contested by the fact that he was too impulsive, ready and willing to charge head-on when waiting pensively for over a month had proven futile bait. This wasn’t his first time in an unfamiliar jungle, and he knew that there were channels he could take to assure that his antagonism aligned with their political ties. He could keep himself in the right, play this as an act of self-defense. Wait at the border. Talk nice. Walk them in circles until they were wound to the point of snapping. He had a certain finesse about these things that made his past ventures a success - Snarl could stand to learn a thing or two if she wanted to pick fights and still play the underdog. He’d call himself a professional smooth talker, if only Ocelot hadn’t been trained in the same language.

As the game entails, he waits on the border like any joiner, but keeps the boot knife strapped to his forelimb close. The snakes that writhe along the sand, staring cautiously at him from the brush, pull a bitter taste from his mouth. He doesn’t touch the bell. If this was laid out exactly how he expected - with Ocelot waiting on a spring, ready to lunge for his throat the very second he decided to walk to the Typhoon himself and put his life on the line - then he had no need to call.

[ocelot .]

"So."

He stepped forward, out of the brush, leaves rustling as his long limbs pushed past, each step delicate, precise, calculated, as he moved to stand next to the snakes. Fitting that this should be where they met and had a nice little chat.

Grey eyes passed over black lenses, a smirk plastered onto his face, as precise as the steps that moved him here. "Figured I should be expecting a house call sooner or later," he said, simply. It was the truth - ever since that fateful meeting at the party, he knew it was only a matter of time until Miller came looking for him. He didn't suspect the stress that his existence would exude upon the cheetah, no, not until he saw said cheetah sitting in front of him, muscles tensed and ready to move at any point, but he did know that he'd be getting a visit one of these days. The past, it seemed, didn't like to be buried. It was very much constantly trying to reveal itself, to mess up any carefully laid plans that the one known as Ocelot might have - and yet, he hadn't taken action. The result of a change of heart, perhaps, if one was foolishly optimistic; the honest answer, however, was more in line with his beliefs: the potential negatives of being found murdering an allied citizen in cold blood far outweighed the possible damage Miller could do to his plans.

That, and he honestly didn't consider the cheetah much of a threat.

He decided to show this, to show power in this scenario, by relaxing his muscles, keeping himself purposefully calm, as if he was in no danger here, even if he knew the cheetah would come armed. Revolver knew he wasn't stupid. To waltz over into a potential enemy's domain without any means of defense beyond your claws and teeth, especially an enemy that was known to be armed at most times - well, it certainly wouldn't impress any tactician, that was for sure. As he looked at his former ally's body, though, he knew such preemptive insults were misplaced. He could see the strap, as small as it was, from the front, confirming his thoughts. All according to plan, then.

He reached up a paw, adjusting his scarf, a blearing crimson thing that had remained around his neck for a very long time. "We should be alone, unless you hid some people around here," he said, eyes remaining trained where they were, not even giving him the satisfaction of glancing around even somewhat conspiratorially, "which gives us plenty of time to talk."

tags - "speech"

[THEM]

[align=center][div style="text-align:justify;width:55%;font-family:verdana;"]Some time ago he would've been willing to drum up the additional support. Lord knew he'd tried once before, a prisoner with the perfect plan - perfect, if you cut out the part where he forgot that the world was not always working in his favor. But he'd learned, after that. Nobody was going to run to his aid. They'd flock to the lying spy before him, if anything, for he knew Ocelot wouldn't join a clan without swaying a few in pursuit of his interests. This was his fight, and his alone.

There is, of course, a moment in which he considers the less flattering of his options. Lunge for the neck. Take him out like he'd always wanted. It's an alluring thought, doing the dirty work for once in his life rather than waiting for the enemy to bite first. (That is, if he considered Ocelot an enemy at all.) The knife feels heavy, cold. He says nothing but bridles, a little, in the wake of his subdued impulses. If Ocelot would put on a show, so would he.

"It's been a while," Miller comments, with that same breezy, nonchalant air he brought to any table. They knew each other too well to play games, and yet, what was Ocelot if not the chessmaster? They'd work their way around the board all the same, eyes locked, defenses raised. He gestures out a little with the unarmed paw, ignoring the other's idle comments; the jungle offers little but oppressive humidity, distant birdsong in response. "Keeping yourself entertained, hm?"

ooc: short uglyass post as i get back into writing.... forgive me :pensive: