DISCLAIMER: Metal Gear Solid 4 is the property of Hideo Kojima and Konami.

This is a non-profit fan-fiction.

Because re-writes are what I do.

PROLOGUE

A lone figure stood before one grave among many. The lone figure wore a black suit, the fabric thinned considerably since the far away year it was first made. It smelled of smoke and cheap detergent. Its owner was a simple one, living the spartan life style of a life long soldier. Shaking hands, a left arm trembling with the effort required to lift it through the shooting pain that coursed through it, lit a cigarette. Smoke pulled through the filter, into his lungs and then made the short, all too sweet, journey back out his mouth. Sharp blue eyes drifted closed, the smoke wafted up and through his short, swept-back brown hair. He coughed, a clutching, sharp pinch in his chest told him his next dose of medicine wasn't far off. "Signs of wear and tear from you?" He muttered, his growling, gravely voice more inquisitive than angry. He'd been talking to his cigarette. "Well... if so, promise me I'll get to finish this last one, at least." He closed his eyes, again, relishing that sweet, momentary high afforded to those daring enough to smoke tobacco. But then his eyes drifted open again, considering present company. "Sorry... didn't mean to be rude." He removed the cigarette from his mouth, placing it on the old tomb stone. "I don't know if you ever smoked," said he, patting the epitaph, "but it's probably been a long time since you've had the chance." He left it there, burning. Taking a step back, he took in the weathered stone, its every imperfection and sign of decay. No chip in the rock, nor stain from water, stood out more than the words carved into the center of this small memorial.

In memory of A PATRIOT, who saved the world.

"I wish I knew you..." muttered he as he saluted a comrade he'd never met, "the woman who inspired the fools responsible for this whole mess." He coughed again, lurching forward a touch, a hand gripping at his aching chest. Breathing ragged, unsteady, he reached to his pocket and procured another cigarette.

Laughter, laughter he recognized, caught his ear. "Those will kill you, you know."

The man smiled, "so I've been told." Turning around, a melancholic smile on his face, he found himself looking at an old friend. "It's been a long time... Roy."

Colonel Roy Campbell. Ex commander of FOXHOUND, former follower of Big Boss and a certain legend's longest lasting friendship. "Too long, David." He reached his hand toward him, palm open and waiting, with a smile on his face. "How've you been, Snake?"

Coughing, the soldier accepted the handshake with his weakened left hand. "A little frayed around the edges, Colonel." So the strength of his handshake illustrated for him. "Otherwise... concerned for the world at large."

The Colonel laughed. "As any sensible man would be," with his other hand he patted Snake's left, holding it with both his own. His own smile took on a more somber note, "after Shadow Moses... I thought that was the last time we'd see each other for sure." For a moment, he paused. "Almost... hoped that was case, considering who you left with."

Meryl... Snake's smile faded away, his eyes averting the Colonels. "How is she?" His hands free, the left went to his pocket while his right took hold of his cigarette, holding it in place as he puffed a long drag.

"About as well as you'd expect," Roy sighed, "back in the fight, trying to save the world."

Snake couldn't help but chuckle. "That sounds just like her..."

The Colonel hummed, affirming what the soldier had just murmured. "Only I fear she's gotten herself caught up in something far grander than she realizes." Snake raised an eyebrow, eyes returning to the Colonel. "Is there a place where we can talk privately?"

Now Snake was concerned. "What's going on, Colonel?"

"It's best if we vacate the area before getting into it," he gestured to the grave, cigarette still burning atop it, "you never know who might be listening..." the implication was obvious: Patriots.

"Heh..." Snake chuckled, "Follow me." Right hand waving, beckoning for him to follow, Snake started walking.

"Where are we going?" Cane in hand, the old Colonel fell in step, limping by the soldier's side.

Snake, exhaling a large cloud of smoke, smiled. "Home."

Crackling, sizzling of eggs cooking in a pan faintly colored the air. It wasn't as steady and monotonous a sound as the droning of the plane's engines, but it was far more soothing. Humming of the little white-haired girl cooking was the definition of innocent. She was a terrible cook, but she loved it all the same. Scooping the eggs onto a pair of plates, she carefully carried them away.

"As you know," the voice of Uncle David's friend carried to her ears, "this particular region in the middle east in particularly unstable, thanks to the rebels fighting against the PMC groups sent in to stabilize the region from the last conflict."

"PMCs... Private Military Companies..." Uncle David murmured.

"Mhmm," said his friend, as she entered the room. She didn't like the look of him. A friendly face, weathered and beaten by the elements and time, seemed more like a mask than his own skin. Like the man behind it was accustomed to lying whenever it suited him, or his superiors. But Uncle David seemed to like him anyway. "Currently commissioned by the US military to act in their stead, if you can believe it."

Uncle David scoffed, "Since when does Uncle Sam not have the resources to fight his own battles?"

"Well..." His friend shrugged, "that's just the official story."

Uncle Hal, busy typing away at his computer, let out a bitter laugh. "And we all how that one goes..." She walked up to him, his side, and held out a plate; offering him what she'd cooked. He didn't even look up. "Sorry, can't right now," he just kept tinkering with his computer, and that little robot of his while she pouted, "I'm busy, Sunny."

She huffed, pouting moodily as she walked away, hoping their guest would want some. He just ignored her too. "Indeed, after some digging I found out the actual source of their funding: a shell company using the US Military as intermediary to deliver the payment." Feeling discouraged, she turned to the only other soul in the room, already fearing he'd say no too. Uncle David just looked right at her with a raised eyebrow. In reply she held up a plate and he smiled. "From there it's just a series of proxies and shell companies all leading back to a private source."

Uncle David held out his hand to her. "So... you think it's them." Smiling, Sunny trotted over and put a plate in his hand. Quietly, he said, "thank you." and she sat down next to him, her own plate in her lap. "But that's not exactly concrete evidence, Colonel." Uncle David shifted slightly, making room for her beside him. "You must have some other reason for seeking us out for this bit of recon."

His friend sighed, obviously feeling very tense, nervous. "I do." Reaching into his coat, he procured a pair of large photographs. "I recieved these this morning, from an old friend in the region."

Uncle David reached over and took the pictures from his friend. His eyes flashed open for a second, eyebrows jumping up too. "So this is what you meant..." said he, looking closely at the photo. "But who's she saving the world from?"

"As of yet, I have no idea." The Colonel frowned, gazing off to the side. "Except... what's in the next photo." As he spoke, David swapped photos. He growled, eyes narrow, furious. Sunny, curious peered at the picture. It was... just a picture of an old, rusty revolver. A note was lying next to it, reading 'I think she's hunting big cats.' "Our mutual friend," said The Colonel, "has apparently seen him in the region as well."

His fingers dug into the photos, wrinkling them. "Ocelot..." Snarled he, under his breath. Sunny couldn't help but be scared in that moment.

"Snake..." Uncle Hal's voice gently snared his attention, then he motioned to her.

Sighing, David turned and patted Sunny's little head, ruffling her hair. "It's okay, kiddo." She smiled, reassured just like that, closed her eyes and hugged him. Not that she saw, but David rolled his eyes, shaking his head while Hal laughed.

"Good old Snake." Giggled the old geek.

Shaking his head at the three of them, The Colonel spoke up. "So... how about it then?" David's attention turned to the old Colonel. "If it really is Liquid Snake, or Ocelot, we need to know what he's up to."

"We do." David agreed. Polishing off his eggs, he set the plate aside and stood up. Walking to the center of the cabin he gazed at the map. An electronic map of the globe, showing each and every active battlefield along with the players involved with them.

"Considering the part he played in the Big Shell incident..." said Hal, "Whether he's working with or against the Patriots at this juncture is important." David's eyes closed, head lowered a fraction as Hal spoke. "If he's with them, we need to apprehend him and find out what he knows or if he's against them..."

David sighed, growling a little as his face upturned to the map again. "He could be an ally..." the words tasted bitter in his mouth. "I'd almost rather get tortured by him again."

"This is no time for old grudges, Snake." Said the Colonel. "You know the state the world's in, what the Patriots have done to it since the Big Shell incident."

Silence hung over the room for a moment, the three men not uttering a word. Then, taking a deep breath, Uncle David spoke again. "Yeah," he breathed, "their plan of control has started something that can't be undone..." he reached into his suit pocket, procuring one of those nasty cigarettes she hated so. "War has changed..." breathed he, lighting the thing up. "It's no longer about nations, ideologies, or ethnicity. It's an endless series of proxy battles, fought by mercenaries and machines. War-and it's consumption of life-has become a well-oiled machine. War has changed. ID-tagged soldiers carry ID-tagged weapons, use ID-tagged gear. Nanomachines inside their bodies enhance and regulate their abilities. Genetic control, information control, emotion control, battlefield control…everything is monitored and kept under control. War…has changed. The age of deterrence has become the age of control, all in the name of averting catastrophe from weapons of mass destruction, and he who controls the battlefield, controls history. War…has changed. When the battlefield is under total control, war becomes routine." Taking a long drag from his cigarette, he puffed out a dragon's breath worth of smoke. "War... has changed..."

"And the world along with it..." Hal murmured, fingers curled into fists in his lap. "The future we've been fighting for since Shadow Moses... I'm not sure if we'll live to see it now."

"Hey..." David turned around, giving his friend a playful smirk. "So long as we don't give up, one of us definitely will.

Hal chuckled, evidently her other Uncle's efforts had worked. "Provided you kick that nasty habit and keep taking your meds, I'm sure you will."

"Gentlemen..." The Colonel gently scolded, "I know this isn't an easy topic, but-"

"I'm in." Said David, turned back toward the map, puffing at his cigarette. "Just give me a chance to suit up first... Something tells me this is going be a long mission." That 'something' was experience, and of course it would be right on the money.