Disclaimer: I do not own Jack/Raiden nor Solidus Snake. Metal Gear Solid and it's respective characters are copyright Hideo Kojima and Konami.

Summary: A smoke shared between a ten year old Jack and the American in the middle of the Liberian Civil War. RaidenSolidus, No Slash

Jack’s earliest memory was that of fire, consuming and roasting collective flesh still living enough to scream. This did not disturb him in the least, as he’d seen much worse throughout his chaotic ten years of life. Still, however, it doggedly hunted his sparse times of slumber, agitating him into restlessness. At nightfall he would wander the dusty corridors of his current dwelling, silently treading past the occupied rooms of other children as he contemplated the repetitive nature of said dreams. Sleep would eventually come to him, but his lack of rest affected his military performance, and that would not do at all.

Frustration was relieved by beating up the others under his command, or simply utterly destroying his enemies on the battlefield. Conflict was constant all over the small country of Liberia, Charles Taylor’s rebellion spawning several other groups to act violently. There was always blood to be found, new people to end, so his necessities were easily remedied. Ever since he’d been abducted from his residence when he was four, he’d been a soldier, and that was all he’d ever be.

It was all he knew, and all he wanted. There was nothing else.

“Jack the Ripper,” the other children whispered feverishly when they believed he was out of sight. Ever since the American had gathered them up and told them the supposedly gruesome tales of said serial killer’s victims, they’d taken to calling him the pseudonym. It was a recent enough nickname that the other child soldiers hesitated to speak it anywhere near him, but it was widespread enough so that even the older officials acknowledged it as his title. Jack didn’t mind the name, and even bore it proudly when the American introduced him to a new Liberian officer as such.

Fire danced under his nostrils, the familiar stench of cooking corpses making his eyes water. Before him lay a pile of tonight’s skirmishes, a little bit of gasoline and a match serving to dispose of the evidence. His Small Boy Unit loitered behind him, smoking rolled-up papers of rare tobacco they’d filched from the village before the massacre. They were an organized enough group, if a bit too rebellious at times. Most of the children were older than him, and weren’t exactly pleased at having to serve under his command. Jack lived up to his name, however, and that was usually sufficient enough to keep them in line.

“It’s cold out,” the American murmured beside him, despite the intense heat emerging from the burning mass in front of them.

“Yes,” Jack agreed readily enough, knowing better than to question his foster father’s eccentric words when he was in one of his moods, “Cigarette?”

“Not tonight, Jackie boy,” the man said, with a slow shake of his head, “Not tonight.”

Disappointed, he stuffed them back into his army jacket, fingering a hole in his sleeve absently out of a lack of anything better to do. Jack had stopped coughing violently after his fifth cigarette, and was now cheerfully addicted to the stuff, despite it’s rarity on the battlefield.

“Tonight the sky weeps, Jack,” the American said in an unusual somber voice, his eyes reflecting the flickering of the fire, “Sheds tears of ash and blood.”

Jack looked up at the curling smoke tower meandering it’s way into the heavens, darkening the sky. It occurred to him this was just like his dream, except now it didn’t seem so important in the light of the fire fed by human fodder. He shifted the AK-47 strapped to his back into a more comfortable position, rubbing his eyes and blinking out some trash. “Yeah,” he said, “Lots of dirt too.”

A chuckle emerged from beside him, and the American patted his head fondly, snapping out of his solemn mood. “A cigarette sounds nice, actually. Let’s smoke to victory, eh?”

Jack beamed and quickly dug into his pocket, extracting two and handing one over. He extended his hand and let the fire burning in front of him light the butt, quickly drawing it close to his lips and inhaling, relaxing slightly as the drugs coursed through his small body. The American glanced at the lighter in his hand and shrugged, discarding it to one side as he too lighted up using the human bonfire before them.

The both of them were silent for a while, enjoying their smokes, listening to the roaring crackle of the fire and the quiet chattering of the soldiers behind them.

“Did you know,” the American ventured a few centimeters into their respective cigarettes, “that I named you after my father?”

“Really?” the child’s eyes were wide, his blond hair glowing a fierce orange, lighting up his deceptively naïve-looking face.

“Yes,” the American said. “His name was also Jack. Ironic, in a way. I never knew my father.”

Jack blinked, not knowing whether this revelation was a good or a bad thing. “I never knew my father either,” he ventured easily enough, smiling, “I wonder if his name was Sir, like you.”

The American laughed again, tossing his now-spent smoke into the bonfire, eyeing the charred black remains of their victims still smoldering within the flames. “I doubt it, Jackie boy.” He fell silent once again, and then turned to the boy beside him who just barely reached his waist.

“Remember this, Jack,” he said, indicating the crackling fire, “The smell of this, the feel of tonight’s air, heavy with death. You will kill until the day you die, boy, and you will enjoy their remains like we just did. Benefit from the losses of others rather than regret their departures, or else you will be swallowed by misery and die. Do you understand me? Do not pity the dead, because they are gone. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he repeated automatically, “I understand.” He didn’t quite get it, but he wouldn’t forget the words either.

“Good,” the American said, “Let’s have another cigarette. It’s cold out tonight.”

Thank you for reading!