Rather important little note: This fic is not a fic at all. It is a conglomeration of small drabbles, pieces of stories that do not belong in any fic. These were all challenges, where a phrase and the word count were given to me, and I wrote something in response to the challenge. I like some of them, so I'm posting them here, in this story thing. New drabbles go into new chapters. None of them go together. They're just here.

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Challenge #26

Phrase: "Get up and dance!"
Word Count: 999
Rating: PG

Title: A True Patriot
Author: Rydia Highwind
Disclaimer: Metal Gear Solid and Metal Gear Solid 2 and all characters refered to herein belong to Konami. I claim nothing, I'm simply borrowing.
Summary: Jack reflects as he visits the grave of a dear friend at the end of MGS3.
Warning: SPOILERS. MGS3 SPOILERS. Normal people haven't finished the game yet since it hasn't been out an entire week in the US yet, but I HAVE because I'm lame. Just so you know. ::watches as NO ONE READS THIS:: >>

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You are dead.

I suppose it�s a little strange that I�m talking to you, addressing you as though you�re standing in front of me or sitting beside me rather than buried six feet under the ground I�m kneeling on. But I don�t know how else to tell you what I feel. I don�t know what else to do.

They tell me I�m the new boss. They tell me that I even surpassed you. Lyndon B. Johnson himself gave to me the title of Big Boss. I don�t know how many of them know what you really did for them, but if they knew, I don�t think they would be so glib to say such a thing. I understand now, Eva told me everything, just as you intended for her to do. And I can�t imagine how you did everything you did. I can barely stand to look these people in the eye after what they did to you. After what they did to us.

Now all I can do is kneel here before your grave, in a field packed with line after line of stones, all identical, and lay a bouquet of lilies here in the grass. I can read the inscription over and over, the inscription there chosen by me only because they wouldn�t mark the grave of a traitor. Ironic, isn�t it? History will remember you as a traitor to your country in the worst possible way. And yet the inscription I chose marks you as a patriot. A true patriot. Because that�s what you were. You would do anything for your country, even betray it.

Your orders. Your mission. I didn�t understand what you meant when you talked to me about these things, but I see now what you meant. I see know what you wanted. And they gave me your title, and they want me to follow in your footsteps, to question nothing given to me, to obey simply because I�m a soldier. But I�m through with that. They screwed you over badly, worse than they did to anyone. But they screwed me over too. And that�s not going to happen again.

It makes me angry sometimes, but I keep on thinking that you wouldn�t want me to be angry with them. You knew exactly what your fate was when you set off for the USSR. You knew damn well that I�d have to come and eventually kill you. You knew everything beforehand and you went through with it anyway. I don�t think you�d want me to be angry, and that�s why I�m trying to go back. To remember way back when you were training me, and the good times that we shared. The times that made me love you, as a mother, as a teacher, and as a friend.

Do you remember the time when you were trying to get me to relax after a long hard work out? You had the radio on and you had just gotten out of the shower, still dressed in nothing but a bathrobe. You always tried to explain to me how the world was nothing without joy and that I needed to take a break sometimes. You caught me reading a book on combat from the first world war, after we were finished training for the day. You plucked it out of my fingers and turned the radio louder. Then you took my hands and pulled me out of my chair and said, �Get up and dance!�

We danced around the kitchen for the better part of the night, to whatever song came on the radio. There was even a news bulletin and we danced through that anyway. I didn�t want to be dancing, so my movements were slow and stiff for the first song, hoping you�d give up on me. But you never did. You never gave up on anything, I don�t think, myself least of all. But soon the night wore on and you didn�t let go of my shoulder and we kept dancing until I was finally laughing with you.

Finally we settled on to the sofa, exhausted from our work out and the dancing. And you looked at me and you said, �Jack, do you know why I fight? Do you know why I decided to be a soldier?�

I don�t remember what I replied, but it was probably something stupid, knowing me.

�I fight because that�s what I love more than anything else in the world,� you told me, your eyes sparkling. �If I didn�t fight, I wouldn�t breathe either. There�s no reason for me to be alive if I�m not doing this. Jack, everyone has something they live for, something they love. You�re taking your training too seriously. It�s important that you find something that brings you joy, and you live for that. Let your hair down, enjoy this. You�re a gifted soldier, just make sure you�re fighting for something worth fighting for, or you�ll never be happy doing this.�

I didn�t know what you meant then. Maybe I still don�t know what you meant. But I think I get it. You named your sons after what emotion they carried with them into battle, but you never named me. Even when I bested you in that field of flowers, you never named me as one of your sons. You never gave me an emotion. Maybe that�s because I never found something that I was fighting for. Sure, I like fighting and all, but I never found something to believe in. Something to protect.

Maybe I still don�t have something I�m protecting. But now I have a goal. I�m not going to continue what you started, and I�m not going to try to be what you were. Instead, I�m going to keep fighting and building and passing on what you gave me. I�m still your son, after all, and I�ll make sure your dreams will never be obsolete. Maybe I can�t be a true patriot, but I can still live for one.