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Grey Area
Alaskan Military Facility
Routine patrol – That's all it ever was. At least, that's the way it seemed to Dimitri Krowchenko, who was currently re-tracing the route around the top level of the complex for the seventy-third time. Yes, he counted. There wasn't much else to do.
The Красная Смерть, or Red Death, had taken the facility around seven hours ago, when the last of the action ended with the slaughter of two Marines who had holed up in the dining hall. Aside from that little incident, which claimed the lives of four Russians, there had been little resistance from the Yankees. This disappointed Dimitri as the lack of fighting on the Americans' part meant immediately falling into his default role of: Patrolling guard.
It was a position issued to all newcomers of the organisation – One Dimitri couldn't wait to leave behind in a string of promotions. Other than that it was plain boring.
The Red Death had hit three different military bases in the last six years, in search of their objective. And apparently, the objective was elusive – After all, all three bases had been left empty handed or, worse, with heavy casualties. Dimitri had only been along for the last raid, pulling patrol guard duty the whole time and not doing a damn thing in the process. Once it was clear the objective was not where intelligence suggested, they had fled. Empty handed, but completely intact.
That was another thing: The Objective. Being the lowest life form in the organisation, Dimitri was not privileged to the knowledge of what the objective actually was. Instead, he, along with other recruits, was given the speech on how their faith should be in the Motherland and it's leaders; How such faith should be acted on without explanation or debate. A sugar-coated translation of: "We're not sure who among you are spies so we're fucked if we're telling you anything of value."
But Dimitri was able to fight back the annoyances with his personal ambitions. The guarding duty, being in the dark – It was all taken with the first step toward a prosperous career. He was a man of ideas. A born leader. And a great believer in the ideals the Red Death fought for. All he needed was the opportunity to show his worth to the organisation. Just one chance to convince Colonel Michailavitch that Dimitri Krowchenko was a man he couldn't do without.
These thoughts were all that kept the young Russian from pushing the barrel of his AKS-74U into his own mouth and decorating the facility with a textured shade of crimson.
One day I'll make a difference, he thought. I'll be in a position to restore the Motherland to it's glory and--
Huh? What was that?
Dimitri had been walking past the locker room entrance when he heard it: A dull thump on something metal. Like a knock. A knock? He was the only guard on the upper level – The rest had been distributed outside the facility and within in, underground.
"Is someone there?" He asked the locker room door in accented English. Unsurprisingly, the automated door gave no reply. But neither did anything else.
Perhaps a Marine they had missed?
For several long moments, Dimitri stood unmoving. He debated calling it in before proceeding, at the risk of looking like a incompetent newbie. That wouldn't do at all. And if it was a Marine, and Dimitri managed to capture him on his own…well, that would speak volumes, surely.
A decision easily made weighed by the benefits, Dimitri stepped through the automated door as it hissed open, revealing--
A body.
The form of a Russian soldier was sprawled over the floor between two racks of metal lockers. Dressed in white combat fatigues, it was clearly one of the perimeter guards. A closer examination revealed him to be dead – Cause: Broken neck. An intruder.
Dimitri's mind raced – This was the opportunity. If he could hunt down and apprehend the intruder single-handedly the Bosses would see his potential! His eyes glazed. Everything was perfect. Doors would open! Red carpets would be rolled out before him! This…this was only the beginning. In a few years, he could be President of Russia!
Had his senses not been blinded by aspiration, Dimitri may have been aware of the looming presence belonging to a figure stood behind him who was about to break his neck.
Several cracks later, the limp body of Dimitri Krowchenko slumped on top of the dead perimeter guard. Beneath the balaclava that hid his face, Dimitri was smiling. He died in the company of the two things he loved most: His dreams and himself.
"Snake? Is something wrong?"
The Intruder propped the compliant body of the facility guard into the locker he himself had resided in just seconds earlier.
"Had some company." Replied the Intruder to the voice in his ear, in a low, gravely tone as he shut the locker door "You were saying?"
"The leader is an ex-Colonel of the Russian army named Michailavitch." Chimed the Codec enabled transmission.
"Michailavitch…" Echoed Snake, recalling the name from the recesses of his memory. "The Russian Officer who shot a news reporter on national television?"
"That's him."
With the perimeter guard settled in a neighbouring locker, Solid Snake turned his attention to the source of the voice in his earpiece.
"Alright, Otacon. Keep the information coming as you get it. I'm heading for the lower levels."
"Roger that, Snake." Otacon cut the transmission, leaving Snake alone in unfriendly territories once more.
Alone, unarmed and outnumbered. He wouldn't have it any other way.
"I want that door open. Now."
A masked soldier read Colonel Michailavitch's poker-worthy expression and thought better than to argue the impossibility of the situation. He gave a meek nod and headed back toward the standoff point.
The Colonel hated delays. Given the hit-and-run nature of his assault group, everything had to go to plan, and it usually did. Only this time it hadn't. Intelligence of the compound was off. Way off – there were more than Marines here. Some sort of Special Forces group were making things difficult on the level below. Holding off the Russian advance with well-placed bursts of gunfire from good cover. But on the other hand, that meant there was something here. Something worth protecting. And Michailavitch was anxious to find out what it was.
"Don't be so hard on them." Came a flat, feminine tone from the corridor behind the Colonel. He turned.
Framed by the blued metal of the hallway stood the sleek form of Sasha Droski. A talented Russian mercenary with a penchant for all things bladed. She was dressed in a uniform identical to those worn by the Red Death's internal soldiers, with her long blonde hair allowed to rest along her upper back.
"Where the hell have you been?" Barked the Colonel.
"I ran into an intruder on B3," She began, only to be cut off.
"An intruder?" Michailavitch's eyes instantly developed a thick glaze. They know we're here? Already? He added mentally. But that means--
"Yes. An unarmed American dressed all in grey. He had already taken out four guards. Dead now. A disappointing challenge."
Warning alarms blast through the Colonel's mind. A lone operative dressed in grey. This was bad. This was very bad. In the flurry of thoughts that followed the analysis of Sasha's words, Michailavitch was betrayed by his own mind. It suggested flight back to friendly ground.
Not when we are so close!
The suggestion cowered and retreated deep into the Colonel's subconscious. His eyes gained focus once more and settled on Sasha, who was suddenly very close.
"We have run out of time. Get below and take care of the Americans."
She raised a gloved hand in response to his order, and touched it lightly to the Colonel's unresisting lips. Whose response was less than encouraging. He was being mocked and he knew it.
"Yes, boss." She replied with a fleeting wink.
Michailavitch stood aside as she brushed past him and watched her slink toward the stairs from eyes tainted with lust. He was only human.