Training

The Militaires Sans Frontières mercenaries were restless to begin with, all of them men who had come into the unit by prerequisite of enough passion and will to abandon their countries of birth to fight for reasons less grand but far more true to their character. They were hardened by their experiences of combative anarchy and violent training exercises, but their group was a brotherhood tied by matching ideals and the engulfing charisma of Snake. It wasn't just the money, though some would say otherwise; it was the only real way for them to live.

But even hardened mercenaries had trouble sitting still in thick camo and heavy gear, especially when they were soaked by heavy tropical rain. Snake was only a few yards up the beach. In their antsy anticipation of his arrival, they had all immediately noticed the headlight of his motorcycle as he had pulled up.

Minutes passed. Snake he wasn't coming down the beach to begin their training, and it was getting increasingly hard to wait. They were all men of combat blood, who had been waiting hours to release their energy into perfecting their CQC for Snake until they ached with so many sprains and bruises that they could barely stumble back up the beach. And it felt good.

For a long while they wondered why he wasn't moving, why he continued to perch on his motorcycle in the downpour. They were too proud and trained to do anything but wait where he told them to. They began to talk amongst themselves. It was hard to see him through the night rain, but one pointed out that he thought it looked like he was trying to light a cigar. Another disagreed, not believing Snake could realistically be that stubborn.

Then their ideas grew suspicious. Snake had said they'd be "tested" that night. A different kind of murmur ran through the clustered mercenaries. Maybe the test had already begun. Dissent faded fast, they were eager to move. For the past week they had been ordered to focus their training on sneaking and capturing, surely it had something to do with that. Clearly Snake wanted them to show him what they had learned... and they'd make him proud, by sneaking up on the master of stealth himself.

Within a minute they had moved out, blending into the wet dunes and relics of storm-wrecked oceanside property.

It turned out he was trying to light a cigar... or, at least, that's what it looked like he was doing. Impatient strokes of his thumb flicked orange sparks against the Cuban cigar, his teeth clamped on the end so hard he was crushing it. Hoarse growls erupted from his throat, though he failed to intimidate the lighter into creating fire. He was the very picture of frustrated impatience.

A MSF soldier moved from behind. Maybe a little too eagerly, before the man could even touch Snake he was kissing sand. A couple of his companions winced while taking mental notes.

Snake quickly moved off the bike with a snarl of "What the hell is--". The kickstand failed to catch and the machine nearly fell on his foot, just as two more mercenaries came at him from the side, a little more silently and quietly than the first. Snake clamped a hand over the face of one of them and would have thrown him, had the other not grabbed both of his arm.

That was it. Once one slips through the prey falls below the wolves, with no chance of rising again.

But it took four of them to pin him. Four highly-trained mercenaries who were already well familiar with Snake's moves. The man was as strong and flexible as they get, with the kind of experience none of the soldiers could ever hope to match.

Snake finally stopped struggling, his chest rising and falling from the strain of using all his strength for nothing. He looked up at his soldiers, squinting against thick raindrops, and let out a rough chuckle. "You call that an ambush?"

They were all soaked with warm tropical rain, caked with sand and panting for breath. None could remember ever seeing Snake on his back before then. But he had struggled magnificently; one soldier was sure a few of his teeth were loose thanks to Snake's kick.

It all went to hell in a matter of seconds. Someone loosened his grip, and a moment later he was bent over wheezing. One of the others threw himself against Snake to hold him down as he suddenly bucked his hips. Another couldn't help notice as he grabbed Snake's legs that, then of all times, it looked like Snake was aroused. Even through the shock protection padding he was sure he could see the curve of his cock. The struggling was making everyone excited.

Snake's legs were lifted over someone's shoulders. Wet fingers clawed at the straps and plates, unbuckling and peeling aside armor with difficulty. Most of his complex suit was left alone, but his crotch was bared to the rain and to damp gloves that circled and pumped his thick cock. Another wet hand managed to slide under his protective vest, past the scar, seeking a nipple to squeeze. Snake pressed his teeth together and grunted, but that was the only vocalization he gave, even when someone else's cock pressed insistently against his cheek. They almost treated it like another training exercise. After the first managed to tear off the rear plating, penetrate Snake, and ride him to completion, another took his place to do the same. Snake never said a word, he allowed it without more struggle, and they took it as a sign that he was judging their performance.

The rain finally started to let up. Tropical rain was always forceful and heavy, but it never lasted long. Snake left the motorcycle lying on its side, but picked up the discarded cigar and brushed bits of sand off the end. His team stood behind him in salute, much more patient than before as they awaited his orders.

"Thirty laps," Snake ordered gruffly, looking around to see where the lighter dropped. "Since we invaded the 'Love Pack' facility, we've had new supplies to go over. Tonight, you'll be learning the advantages of cardboard boxes."