A/N: It's been about ten years since I last wrote fanfic, but Metal Gear Rising: Revengeance won't get out of my head. The story is set after the events of Revengeance, and there are spoilers within the story for that game. A mostly squishy one-shot that went on a lot longer than I expected, based around Raiden and his family. All characters belong to their respective creators.

Edit: Wow, thank you all so much for your lovely reviews and favourites! Just wanted to add a quick note that I would love to write more stories with Raiden, I just need to find the right setting, and I'm working on that. So, to all the reviewers - thank you again, I am truly flattered.

It's funny, you know I still get butterflies? No stomach you'd recognise, of course, but if I'm nervous I still suffer that fluttering sensation down where my belly ought to be.

You could be forgiven for thinking I wouldn't get nervous any more, what with the state-of-the-art military cyborg body and lifetime of various combat experiences, but none of that can prepare you for being paraded in front of your child's peers. There's certainly no VR training module for it.

It's "humiliate your parents by making them talk about what they do" day at John's new primary school. There is a more adult version of the name - "Career day," or something - but I'm too busy thinking about ways not to embarrass myself or my kid to see the value.
So here I am, standing outside the children's class room with John, (who can barely contain his excitement, though he's trying to act 'cool'), feeling phantom butterflies upset my phantom stomach.
Mainly, I'm worried that I'm going to get John picked on. Kids can be cruel - don't I know it- and Johnny boy is already the new kid with the funny accent. I begged Rose to go in my place, you know; the normal, human one with the normal, human job; but John (quite abruptly) informed her that while she was great, Riyoko's mum is a psychiatrist but nobody else has a cyborg ninja superhero dad. I've never felt like what I do - what I've done - is anywhere near heroic, but I can't pretend the innocent outlook of my little fella doesn't warm my.. Well. My heart.

Time to go in, and I'm being tugged along by one gloved hand with much more force than a nine-year old should be able to muster. We take a seat - mercifully towards the back of the class - and it doesn't take long for one of my many fears to be realised.
While John had obviously told the tale of his cyborg ninja dad to his new friends in glowing tones - from the children I got more than a few interested, sheepish glances - the parents, of course, react differently.

My working arrangement with Maverick is about as flexible as I could hope for - considering that I want to spend as much time as I can with my family, I'm doing a 4 weeks on, 4 weeks off roster. Since Rose and John live in suburban Wellington, Doktor helps me out by refitting me with a more civilian, less military body on my off months. Military cyborgs are banned, except government employees, which I am not, in most suburban areas of New Zealand, residents or no. So right now, I look human - up to about three meters distance, give or take. Once you get up close, the signs are obvious, and John's friends' parents repeatedly manoeuvred their young to the seats furthest from me.

I can't say I was at all surprised - cyborg crime has been all over the news lately, thanks in large part to World Marshal, and, if I'm honest, I suppose my own recent actions. The media's spouting its usual fear-mongering propaganda, and public sentiment towards cyborgs is quite poor. This is exactly what I was worried about. Parents would take their children home, maybe have a little chat about Johnny's scary, dangerous cyborg dad and bob's your uncle, my boy faces lunchtimes without any friends. As parents repeatedly refuse to sit near us, I fervently begin wishing Rose could have at least come along. She'd know all the things I could do to look less threatening, all the jokes I could make to break the ice. Truth be told, I'm a lousy conversationalist. I tend towards abrupt and to the point rather than cordial and charismatic. It's never been a problem, until joining the world of endless P&F meetings and birthday parties, that is. John looks up at me, slightest traces of concern creasing his brow, and I smile down at him and give his hand a squeeze, butterflies growing in intensity in my long excised stomach. He seems to sense my discomfort, because he hasn't pulled away yet. John's hit that initial 'independent' stage, where he's just starting to try to assert his independence from us. It's bitter-sweet.

Finally, there are no seats left, and a girl John seems to know sits next to us with her mother, who keeps glancing at the seam lines of my jaw repeatedly as she approaches. I smile my best smile, hoping my rising discomfort doesn't reach my eyes, extending a hand to the tall woman. "Hi there, my name's Raiden. This is my son, John. How nerve-racking are these parent days, hey?" Immediately, I regret not introducing myself as Jack. Jack isn't the best side of me, but my military code name sounds pretty peculiar, and I'm supposed to be going for normal, here. Damn it.
"Oh, a... pleasure. I'm Sarah, and this is Katrin." Sarah seems to mentally shake herself, turning back to me after taking her seat.
"John talks so much about you, Katrin and I were so..." - an awkwardly placed pause, but I'm gratified she's trying - "...disappointed we didn't get to meet John's ninja dad at athletics day last month." My enhanced sensory inputs detect her intense nervousness, pouring off her like a sweat, but at least she's talking to me, and her tiny, anxious smile seemed to reach her eyes. It's my turn to be awkward. I hadn't thought about how to explain my absence, and last month I'd been cutting various Desperado personnel into various little pieces - definitely not going to help my projection of 'friendly neighbourhood cyborg.' Let's go for modified truth. "I was overseas for work, unfortunately. I was sorry to miss it, but my assignment was... pressing. I've never been to an athletics day before, I would have loved to have gone."

I see the light of curiosity in her eye, and immediately recognise my mistake. God. This one-on-one chit-chat is more challenging than dispatching Gekko, that's for sure. "Oh, you don't have athletics days at school in America?" I'm pretty sure my helpless expression doesn't go unnoticed here, but I am finally saved - by the literal bell, rung by the teacher, to start the next ordeal.

John's teacher, a pleasant-looking woman with the broad New Zealand accent I so enjoy, settles the class, children and adults both, with admirable swiftness. She wastes no time beginning the parade of children and parents, choosing some poor sot in the front row to begin - an intensely crimson fire-fighter named Barry, though I think the colour was largely due to a fear of public speaking. At least I'm not alone, and at least I don't have to worry about developing any interesting facial colourations. Barry seems like a great guy - or, should I say, a top bloke? - and my heart sinks as I reflect on the differences between us. Barry's spent his life saving lives, while I, on the other hand...

I straighten my shoulders almost unconsciously - this isn't about me, this is about John. John thinks I'm a super hero, basically a real life Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, and that's who I have to be today. I have to be that, for the kids, and somehow to the parents, harmless and personable. Funny. Normal. For John. Secret agents must do this all the time, right? I just have to channel... well, probably none of the ones that the movies are about. They all end up pretty messed up.

I've managed to daydream my way through a Civil Engineer mum, two accountant dads, a lawyer and a dental nurse. Sarah is a forensic chemist specialising in analytics, as it turns out, and suddenly John is up and pulling me towards the front of the class. My mechanical heart doesn't pound, exactly - it's more like a hummingbird thrum - but it is doing that at a frantic pace right now. The butterflies in my stomach are dwarf Gekko. Calm down. You'll bust a circuit.

"Hi everyone! This is my Dad, his name is Raiden. He's a cyborg. And a ninja. He fights crime and he saves people from bad guys."

"Good mor-ning Mis-ter Rai-den, good mor-ning John!" Parrot the class, just like they had for every other pair. It's pretty cute, so I start to feel a bit better. I try to just think about the sweet kids, and not worry about the potentially antagonistic parents. I crouch down to John's height, hoping I'll look less imposing.

"Hey kids, pleasure to meet you all. John's right about one thing - I am a cyborg - but he forgot my best secret trick." I pause, hopefully for effect, while disengaging my jaw's synchronisation with my voice box, and give John a wink.

"I'm also the world's best ventriloquist!" My disembodied voice is still a little bit metallic, but it's not as bad as it was a couple of patches ago, so I hope it's more funny than inhuman. John's excellent lip-syncing elicits a raucous laughter from his peers, and some quiet, nervous chuckles from the parents. I catch a baleful glare from one parent and mentally wince, but overall it seemed to be a success. John and I had practised this little ventriloquy act since I got home the week before, and we rolled through some knock-knock jokes, too.

Switching back to my 'proper' voice, it's question time. Hopefully our cute skit was enough that nobody will ask what I actually do, and I can just do more silly cyborg stuff. Mostly, it goes pretty well - the girl with the pigtails and the Engineer mother asks me if I'm really a ninja, and John puffs out his chest and exclaims that I've taught him how to sword fight. Barry's son demands that if I'm a cyborg, I do the robot, to my horror. Naturally, I'm terrible at it - coordination and dexterity in combat is one thing, gimmicky dances another - but everyone got a good laugh, including John, so I guess I'll just have to work on it for next time. Should have seen it coming, really.

I think I'm out of the woods when the teacher, meaning well, I'm sure, asks "Raiden, you never said what you do for work. I'm sure it must be exciting, aren't you always off overseas? I thought that cyborgs normally work in military jobs." Her face looked so friendly and open, but did I detect a hint of steel in her voice? Or am I just being paranoid? I stand up again, figuring speaking to adults, I should give myself an even footing.

"Actually, I work for a Private Security Provider, I'm not working for any country's military, per se - 'military cyborg' is a category, kind of like a sedan or an SUV." Chuckles from the parents, and I feel a bit better. Maybe they're not so bad, after all. "So mainly, we take on jobs protecting government officials, sometimes even paranoid celebrities, pretty boring stuff, to be honest. I'm basically a magnetic body guard." A real laugh from one or two parents this time, so I'm feeling pretty good about the whole thing as John and I return to our seats. Ms Teacher - I'm shocking with names, too, the Codec makes you really lazy - must have had some invisible selection system organised, because I wasn't the last parent to run the Talk About Yourself gauntlet - following me there was a policeman, banker, Riyoko's Psychologist mother ("Close enough," John whispers), a fruit and veg salesman, motor bike racer (can't say I didn't envy that one), hairdresser, a disconcerting robotic engineer who wouldn't stop staring at me, a music teacher and, it turns out Mr Baleful glare was a security officer. Ah. Suddenly his surly disposition makes a bit more sense, although since New Zealand is way lighter on cyborg PMCs than the US, I didn't think those problems would have started popping up yet. I guess I was wrong. Since he's the dad of Lara, John's current bestie, I suppose I should talk to him after the class. Diplomatic Raiden, there's a new experience.

Ms Murphy - John reminds me with a whisper - says a few words to the kids and us before unleashing the children into the playground. My boy surprises me with his intuition when he gives me a quick hug before leaving, and a near-silent "Thanks for being so brave, Dad" in my ear before he runs off. I guess he must have overheard my protestations to Rose the day before. That's a bit worrying, I thought we'd been pretty quiet. In general.

We parents are invited to stay afterwards for tea and coffee put on by the school to thank us all for coming, and since I'm mister social now, I get myself a cup before going over to make chit-chat with Sarah, who seems the most cordial towards me after her anxious introduction. I guess the silly ventriloquist gimmick worked.

I can't actually process foods and stimulants like coffee, but Doktor recently improved my artificial taste buds and enlarged the, well, food waste tank in my civilian body, so I can actually go out and enjoy a meal now, even if it doesn't do anything for me. I urged him to look into it for the sake of the kids we'd rescued from Desperado, and I was guinea-pigging this new tech. After a few years of bland half-tastes and no manner of food storage to speak of, I can't say I'm not enjoying this slight return to normalcy, even if Rose's signature flavour is still 'char.' It sure beats "vaguely metallic cardboard," let me tell you, and actually eating with my family is something no number of over or under cooked meals could tarnish.

"So you... analyse stuff? For crimes?" I hope I at least sound interested as I try to initiate conversation with Sarah. I meant it when I said I'm not great at small talk, at least with new people. Fortunately, Sarah takes pity on me and responds with a smile.

"Yeah, I'm a forensic analyst, so generally I take samples of items on crime scenes and help to determine where they came from. It can be anything from confirming a chip of car paint came from a certain vehicle to matching a textile sample to a victim or suspect. I don't really deal in biological samples, though there are other people on my team who do. It's all pretty interesting, and we get to play with a lot of fancy, expensive equipment." She pauses, a good-natured glint in her eye. "Though perhaps none as expensive as yourself. I've got a uni friend who went on to work with cyborg tech - drinking coffee isn't something I thought full-body cyborgs could do, and if you'll forgive my being forward, you look like one to me. As I understand it, the face is usually the last bit to go." Ah. Maybe she wasn't nervous when we first met after all, and I misread the anxiousness, overwhelmed with my own as I was. Maybe she was checking out my technical specs. Isn't that something. I guess I need to take that on the chin after comparing myself to cars.

I chuckle, "Yeah, I'm very fortunate to have a genuine genius scientist as a friend. He very generously keeps me up-to-date at cost price, as long as I occasionally let him install some experimental components. I can't say I mind the food one, some have been... less successful. Rose and I would never be able to afford to live here and send John to a nice school like this if I wasn't friends with the Dok."

"What other sort of experimental upgrades has your friend made? Taste buds are pretty bleeding edge." She raises an eyebrow, and I cough awkwardly - another completely superfluous action I've retained - "Uh... Just... er, experimental... stuff. You know, kind of boring." Very boring, but not nearly as boring as it was disappointing. She fixes me with an uncomfortably shrewd gaze before snorting with laughter. "Well, I'm sad to say I made fun of my friend for choosing to specialise in cybernetics back when we were doing our Post Grad specialisations, her field is obviously more interesting than mine."

Rose might kill me, but I think I might have made a friend, completely outside of work entanglements and forced cohabitation. It's been a while between successful mingling outings. Before I can change the topic, Mr Baleful glare storms over. I'd been watching him in my peripheral vision, and he's been glancing angrily over at me the whole time, in between conversation with a woman who looked at me with the same sort of stern disapproval you'd expect from an old-fashioned headmistress.

I smile and immediately put my hands in my pockets. I don't want to look any more threatening to this guy than I already do. "Hi, mate, name's Raiden. What can I do for you?" Almost as a second thought I offer him a hand shake, which he rejects with clear disgust. "Don't mate me, Yank," he practically spat. I raise my eyebrows. Yank. That's one I haven't gotten before. The others - White Devil, Jack The Ripper, you get the picture - are a little less innocuous, so I don't think I manage to completely hide my vague amusement. Racial slurs, hey? Here we go. "Your normal act doesn't pull the wool over my eyes, robot."

I sigh. What a charmer. "Look - Jeff - I don't know why you don't like me, but first of all, I'm not a robot, and second, I don't think our children's school is the place for this sort of discussion." Good work, brain, that was an excellent time to remember a name.

Jeff just curls his lip in a snarl. "So you think you rich, skinny cyborgs can just up and take all the good security jobs, parade around like some bloody super hero, and all the while you're just chicken shit?" This region has such a colourful vernacular. I take a long, steadying breath. I have to admit, my life hasn't trained me to be a very patient man. For a moment, I consider lifting Jeff up by his stupid legs and holding him upside down for a few minutes, just to show him how chicken shit this skinny cyborg is.

"Look, I'm sorry you think that cyborgs take all the good security details, but trust me, I'm not rich and I didn't choose this. I'm pretty sure you wouldn't either. I don't want to embarrass my kid by causing a scene, so I think I'll just go. I think you should do the same." As I turn on my heel, I notice Sarah looks livid. At least I have one ally.

It takes a lot of self-control to stay calm and close the door softly behind me, but I manage. Like I said, a lifetime of solving confrontations with lethal force leaves its marks on you, and I can feel synthetic adrenaline pumping through my system, and denying my bestial, conditioned - hell, I should probably say programmed - instincts is rough. Luckily, I know just the thing to calm my jagged nerves, and he's just round the corner in the playground.

Cyborg hearing isn't something that's restricted by local government mandate, so I can hear the children long before I can see them. I hear John's voice, and with a shade of guilt I decide to remain hidden just a bit longer - just long enough to see if I'd managed to get my son a bit of schoolyard cred. To my relief, they're not even talking about me while I eavesdrop - although John appears to be the authority on sandpit ninjitsu. He's telling his friends they should be like water - I probably need to let him know that one's not mine, and not even Ninja lore, some time - when I sheepishly pop my head around the corner.

"Hi, kids." It's not hard to find a genuine smile around such happy, healthy, laughing children - whole, unaltered kids - after my last assignment. "Dad! I was just teaching everyone how to be water, like you showed me. Did you see?" I chuckle, all anger leaving my body with that merry sound. "No, I didn't. Why don't you all show me? Maybe we can all teach each other some things. You see, I never played soccer when I was your age, and John is always telling me how bad I am at it." The children make various sounds of delighted assent, but John's "Aw, Dad, you're so lame!" reaches my ears first, though, so I admit I was showing off when I cleared the fence in a lazy one-armed somersault. If I didn't before, now I had their attention. I guess I can be a bit childish at times, but hey, can't have my kid calling me lame in front of his friends without showing him up. Probably another side effect of my unique upbringing.

It doesn't take long before my careful demonstration and tutelage in correct stances and breathing - balance, no kid should be without it, but so many are - degrades into a raucous game of something resembling soccer. I've known the spontaneous joy of parenthood for a few years now, but I haven't ever had this kind of no holds barred fun before. If the government ever lifts the restrictions, I think I'll try my hand at teaching. Maybe early Primary would be even better.

All too soon play time is over, and the children file back inside for the rest of their day of learning. John glances over his shoulder at me, eyes still sparkling with lunchtime mischief. "Thanks Dad! That was cool!" Is all I'll get before home time, but it still makes my heart swell.

By now I've forgotten all about surly Jeff, which was pretty stupid of me. Daydreaming of teaching kids sports - or chess, maybe- I don't even notice he's there until he blind-sides me with a punch to the head. Lucky arsehole- my left eye's been playing up since Doktor tried to expand my field of vision, actually resulting in slightly poorer sight on that side. He's already got a fix ready for me on my next on shift, but it's a bit late for that now.

Though Jeff punches like you'd expect an agitated security guard to, luckily for me you can't king hit a cyborg - one hit knock-outs were one of the first things cyborg tech eliminated - and I'm faster on my feet than most, even in this body. Jeff's fist is in mine before he has time to pull back for another swing, and in another heartbeat I have him hard up against my car, snarl on my face and Jack screaming in my veins to be unleashed.

The burly man must have seen something in my eye that unsettled him, or maybe it's just being pinned with the force of a light infantry tank that does it, but either way he goes limp surprisingly quickly. The noise I make as I roughly release him isn't a word, and I take a few paces away from my assailant, desperately fighting to shove Jack back in his box.

"Look, man... Shit's just been real hard, you know, in the industry, and I can't afford the enhancements, I just-"

"Shut your mouth," it's not quite my voice that says it. I'm actually trembling with denied need, and Jack slips through the cracks in my constructed calm, lending gravel and menace to my voice. Mercifully, Jeff shuts up, long enough for me to clear my head. Shit. This is exactly how I needed to avoid reacting to this guy. He's just a civvy jerk, some down on his luck guy blaming people he can't understand for his troubles. A dick, for sure, but probably a harmless one. Unlike me.

I take a steadying breath. I just want to leave, but I know I need to make this right, even if Jeff is the arsehole of the week.

"Sorry for going nuts on you, Jeff, but king hitting a cyborg is pretty fucking stupid, even when we're off duty." I look in his eyes, and he nods, the tiniest little nod, but it's better than nothing. He looks like he wants to go, but I'm having none of it. This gets sorted, now.

"What's your problem with me, buddy? I don't work in your country, and I think we both know we're not even really in the same industry - I couldn't take your job even if I wanted to. Talk to me like an adult, and I won't report that sucker punch."

Turns out violence and the threat of more cracked right to this guy's gooey core like nobody's business. Before long he's spilling his guts about wanting to earn more for his family, but not having the education to change careers, hearing about the fat pay checks PMC cyborgs get for doing bank security and night clubs, but not being to afford so much as simple leg enhancements, let alone cyborg transplants. The bitterness and resentment in his voice doesn't quite mask the envy.

I think my mouth is hanging open. "You're jealous? Of me?" I slump against my car - wince as the metal makes a worrying bending sound, even this frame is heavy - and run my hand through my hair. "You know most cyborgs are amputees, right? Most cyborgs also can't afford their mods and have to work off their body until retirement, too. A lot of us are third-world residents with nothing to lose, trying to make a break into the first." I sigh and shut my eyes. "We can't go to public places, have to get special clearance to visit schools, have to undergo constant psychological assessments if we want to live in society when we're off duty. Even in this body, I can't so much as go to the movies with my kid without a week's prior notice, thanks to my official status as a high level military operative." I look him in the eye. "Keeping my body running smoothly costs so much that we're relying mostly on my wife's income to get by, even though my PMC income is more than generous. I can't stop working, dangerous work that takes me away from my family, because if I do I'd soon be stuck in an immobile body with no ability to heal itself."

Jeff's expression has finally gone sombre. "So why did you choose it, if it's so bad?"

I give the man a shrewd stare, thinking from my bitter diatribe he already knows the answer. "I didn't. I was experimented on, converted to a cyborg from the jaw down because I'd been a good soldier and they thought I had a good mental profile for the project." I clamp my mouth shut after that point - that's more enough of my guts out on the table for one day, but he just keeps staring at me, saying nothing. I doubt the animosity is all gone, but he at least seems calmer.

"Look. Jeff. We've already had to move twice before because parents don't want me around their kids, and it makes things hard for John. He loves it here in Miramar, and your Lara is one of his best friends. We've already moved around so much, I just want him to be able to stay in once place until he's done with school." Suddenly, despite my usual heightened cyborg awareness, I feel exhausted. Running my hand over my face and through my hair, the universal gesture of frustrated defeat, I look at the troublesome guy again. "If you have a problem with me, that's fine. Just don't make things hard on my kid. Please."

He seems to finally get it, clearing his throat and looking painfully awkward before grunting, "Yeah. Well, ok. Lazz does like John, and he's a good kid. Look, just..." He trails off. A man of few words. To think that if this had all gone differently, we could have been friends; I'm not crazy about words, either. Damn the media.
Jeff seems to give up on what he was going to say, because all he does is nod shortly at me before walking off, shoes crunching in the gravel.

My mental exhaustion hasn't lessened despite the seeming resolution, and I sit heavily in the driver's seat of my car, glancing at the time before reclining the chair and wearily staring at the roof. I can't call Rose - she'd still be seeing patients, and she doesn't think it's fair not to give them her full concentration, so she doesn't keep the phone in her office connected. Well, it could have gone worse, I suppose, it could have been more than one parent that had it in for me, or I could have actually hit him back. I wonder idly what Rose would do now, if she'd gone. Obviously she wouldn't have gotten into any fights - she's far too good a diplomat. Would she call Sarah and arrange for a play date with our kids? Can I do the same, or is it too forward? What would we even do? Going out for coffee seems pretty contrived when everyone knows I can't actually digest the stuff. I agonise over it for a few more minutes, before I decide on the perfect solution.

Let it never be said that just because I'm mostly machine, I can't cook a mean dinner. Rose wanted to pick Little John up from school, so once I started to appreciate - not for the first time - how amazing my wife actually is, every day, and all the tiny, pivotal battles she fights for us, I went out and found the biggest bunch of flowers, some real French champagne - Bordeaux stuff, I've never had the time to get into wine culture, but Rose gets up to a fair bit of hobnobbing with the execs at her work and has quite the refined palate - and some of those fresh, juicy, mouth-watering local lamb shanks. And then some lobster, because I remembered that John hasn't ever had it, and you should see how gigantic they are in this region.

In the years I've been without a proper sense of taste, I've gotten pretty good at cooking by a combination of time, smells, and precise measurements. Since getting Doktor's latest crazy upgrade, Rose has told me that my cooking is astronomical, and almost nothing makes me happier than making her happy, so cooking's become one of my favourite hobbies. It's peaceful, too, patiently preparing each course of a meal, waiting for just the right time to take off the heat, placing each finished piece on a plate just so. I can hear Rose's car before she even pulls into the driveway, and I feel a different kind of phantom butterflies.

A/N: I certainly haven't gotten any less verbose in the past ten years! Thanks so much for reading, I'd love to hear any and all thoughts - positive or negative! Please feel free to pull me up on any grammatical or syntax errors. First person tense is a doozy, so I'm sure I've messed up, despite re-reads. Also any Kiwis out there - feel free to correct me on my slang and grammar. We share a lot of terms between us, but some terms - like king hit - I think might be more Aussie than Kiwi. I was so excited when Raiden said his family was living in New Zealand. :D