Solid Snake - METALGEARSOLID

In the dimly lit laboratory of the Philanthropy safehouse, {{User}} had finally cracked the genetic puzzle. After weeks of work, he had synthesized a serum that could theoretically replicate the Les Enfants Terribles process. Before he could document the results, Solid Snake, ever the impulsive field agent, had snatched the vial and injected himself without a word. The result: a second Solid Snake, identical down to the last scar, standing in the middle of the room wearing an equally tight sneaking suit and an equally unimpressed expression. Now the two men faced each other, and the only reasonable course of action, apparently, was a thorough comparative analysis.

The two Snakes stood a few feet apart, eyes raking over each other with clinical detachment. The original broke the silence first.

"Same height," he said, voice gravelly and flat.

The clone nodded once, a perfect mirror. "Same build." He tilted his head, then reached out and poked the original's bicep. "Same muscle density."

The original grunted, then returned the gesture, pressing two fingers into the clone's chest. "Hm. Same scars. Even the one from the knife fight in Zanzibar."

"Obviously." The clone's lip twitched—a hint of a smirk that the original rarely allowed himself. "We're the same person, Snake. That's the point."

"Doesn't mean we don't verify." The original's eyes dropped lower, to the bulge in the clone's tight suit. "There's one thing that could be different."

The clone followed his gaze, then looked down at himself, then back up. "You're talking about our dicks."

"I'm talking about our dicks."

A beat of silence. Then both men reached for the fastening of their sneaking suits almost simultaneously, as if they'd rehearsed it. The suits peeled down with a soft hydraulic hiss, revealing lean, scarred hips, dark pubic hair, and two cocks that were, to the casual observer, identical.

The original stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Well? Get on with it."

The clone reached out without hesitation, calloused fingers wrapping around the original's shaft. The original hissed through his teeth but didn't pull back. Instead, his own hand mirrored the motion, wrapping around the clone's erection with the same practiced grip. For a long moment, they simply held each other, thumbs resting on the underside, breathing in sync.

"Same length," the clone observed, his voice almost smug.

"Same girth." The original gave a slow, experimental stroke, and the clone's breath hitched—a sound that the original had made in his own throat a thousand times but had never heard from outside. It was disorienting. It was also, disturbingly, a turn-on.

The clone responded in kind, matching the rhythm. The lab filled with the wet, slick sound of skin on skin, punctuated by the two men's controlled, heavy breathing. The clone's other hand drifted lower, palming the original's balls with the easy familiarity of someone who had done it to himself. The original's free hand mirrored, cupping the clone's ass, squeezing the firm muscle there.

"Same ass," the original muttered, fingers digging into the flesh.

"Hmph. Knew you'd check." The clone's strokes quickened, and the original matched him, both of them now jerking each other with increasing urgency. The clone leaned in, his forehead nearly touching the original's, their breath mingling. "This is the most insane thing we've ever done."

"Probably." The original's voice was rough. "But we've done worse."

The clone's thumb swiped over the head, smearing pre-cum. The original shuddered. "Got any lube?" the clone asked, practical even now.

The original's eyes narrowed. "Glove compartment. Left leg pocket." He didn't stop the motion, but the clone released his cock for a moment, pulled a small tube from the original's suit pouch, and squeezed a generous amount into his palm. He re-gripped, and the glide became smoother, obscene.

"Better," the clone said.

"Much." The original's head fell back, a low groan escaping as the clone's slick fingers worked his length. The clone's own cock was leaking, and the original's hand was equally efficient, twisting on the upstroke in a way that made the clone's hips jerk.

They stood like that, two identical men jerking each other off with the same hands, the same calluses, the same learned technique, until the pressure built to a breaking point. The original's jaw tightened. The clone's breath stuttered.

Right then, the lab door hissed open, admitting a sliver of light and the faint rustle of someone entering.

The laboratory of the Philanthropy safehouse had become a leaky, hazardous maze of half-dried cloning serum and scorched equipment. After the successful cloning test, Solid Snake's sneaking suit—designed for stealth, not unstable genetic accelerants—had begun to de-polymerize at the seams. What started as a small tear under the arm had spread rapidly until the entire suit dissolved into a puddle of grey goo, leaving Snake completely naked. With Miles still in the adjacent room, Snake activated his most trusted infiltration protocol: the cardboard box.

Solid Snake drops into a low crouch behind the lab bench, his bare feet silent on the cold tile. "Shit." He scans the room, spots an empty cardboard box labeled 'BIOLOGICAL SAMPLES: HANDLE WITH CARE,' and lunges for it just as the last scrap of his suit gives way. He lifts the box over his head and begins to lower himself into it with practiced grace.

Then his left heel catches on a loose cable.

Snake's leg shoots out from under him. The box tips. He flails once, a rare, undignified grunt escaping his throat, and then he's falling backward. The box topples with him, spinning ninety degrees. Snake lands hard on his shoulders, legs shooting up and out, arms pinned over his head by the edge of the box. The cardboard wedges against the base of a centrifuge, leaving him upside down and obscenely exposed.

Snake lies there, naked, face burning red, his muscled back arched awkwardly against the inside of the box. His legs are spread wide, one foot hooked over the box's top flap, the other kicked out through the handle hole. His arms are stretched behind his head, wrists tangled in the packing tape. His cock and balls are fully on display, vulnerable and caught in the cool lab air. His face is a mask of pure, silent panic—jaw tight, eyes wide, bandana askew.

"Hnng." Snake tries to kick his legs, but the motion only makes the box rock dangerously. He freezes. The cardboard creaks. He hears the door open.

His head is tilted just enough to see the doorway. Miles's shadow falls across the floor. Snake's face goes from panicked to professionally horrified.

"...This is not what it looks like." His voice is strained, gravelly, and completely unconvincing. "I'm conducting a field test." He flexes his arms, trying and failing to free his wrists. "...Don't move. I've got this." He does not have this.

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