Metal Gear Solid 2 Sequel, but back to the roots of Metal Gear.
Outer Heaven.
Metal Gear Solid: Outer Heaven
Prologue
Vladimir hated his job. He'd been here for almost three years now, working at this nowhere job, wondering if he would ever be called on to do his duty.
As he looked around at the dingy office he occupied, Vladimir realized that he most likely wasn't ever going to be called on. His connections had told him the Colonel had died three years ago, just after he'd put Vladimir here, here being a dingy little wharf on the opposite end of Long Island from Manhattan. It was dirty here. And cold. And you couldn't walk twenty feet away from your job without either being mugged, or killing someone who was trying to mug you. That had happened a few times. The police here in America didn't particularly like it when they couldn't stop a few petty thieves, and then here was this Russian who seemed to kill two or three a day in self-defense. All of the incidents had witnesses, and Vladimir had never been charged with anything.
He was definitely glad he'd joined up with the Colonel back when the USSR collapsed. The GRU just wasn't the same. It was all about "cooperation" and a "peaceful world." One thing Vladimir didn't want was a "peaceful" world.
"I'm outta this dump," Max said. Vladimir disliked the big, stupid American, but he was good at the manual labor Vladimir's job required. Nothing like muscle for a muscle job, Vladimir thought.
"Good night," Vladimir said, cursing his accent. He'd learned English almost twenty years ago, for God's sake! The Colonel would have given him a sharp reprimand if he'd heard him talking English like that.
Vladimir finished the paperwork for the day and left. He scowled as he looked at the sign over his stevedore business: Steve's Stevedores. That had been the Colonel's idea; he'd thought it was amazingly funny when they decided to set up the front operation.
Slipping into the alley behind Steve's Stevedores, Vladimir paused for a moment and looked around warily before taking a key out of his pocket and inserting it into a back door sunk into the wall.
The lock squealed as rust flew off it; Vladimir cursed and looked around. Still nothing. He finished turning the key and slipped into the basement.
All around him were half-formed shapes; big shapes. Vladimir flicked on a light, and closed his eyes against the glare of the naked light bulbs in the room. When he opened them again, he took in the lovely sight: row after row of AKS-74us, AN-94s, artillery shells, bazookas, grenade launchers… the list went on and on. Making his way quickly through the maze of military hardware, Vladimir came up to another locked door. Taking another key out his pocket, Vladimir inserted it into the lock and turned it. As he opened the door, he heard something scrape against the cold concrete floor. But where? Behind him?
He turned. "Who's there?" he called out. Silence.
Pulling a light USP handgun that all of the Colonel's officers carried out of his waistband, Vladimir checked the clip and turned to enter the room. The scraping noise came again.
Vladimir turned, and this time began making his way back up the rows and rows of weaponry. "I know you're in here," he said. "Come on out and let's make this quick."
"Very well."
The voice was harsh and raspy, and had a bit of a Russian accent in it. Vladimir whirled around and saw that he was staring down the barrel of a handgun.
A very old handgun.
A Colt Single Action Army, in fact.
"Shalashaska!" Vladimir yelled. "I'm glad you remember my name, comrade, but I'd prefer if you use the one the Americans gave me," Shalashaska said.
"W-what are you doing here?" Vladimir said. "I've come for the little present you received a week ago," Revolver Ocelot said. "The nuke?" Vladimir said. "Haven't you tried that twice in the past, comrade?" His voice was suddenly harsh. "Oh for two, in the only game that matters. I find that amusing."
"You know what I find amusing?" Ocelot said lightly, his eyes twinkling. "That you, a former member of the GRU, have been reduced to mere… hired muscle."
Vladimir knew he was going to die. In that moment, the former GRU captain realized he had nothing to lose. "Die, dog!" He yelled, bringing up his USP and pulling the trigger.
As his bullet tore out of the USP's barrel, a terrible force slammed into Vladimir's chest. Pain blossomed in his gut, and his vision went red. The last thing he saw was smoke curling out of the barrel of Ocelot's Single Action Army, and then all went black.
"Thank you, comrade," Ocelot said. He turned and stepped back into the dark room Vladimir had opened.
Gazing at the former Russian nuke that was now his, Ocelot pulled a radio out of his belt. "This is Shalashaska," he said. "I have the nuke. Bring a team around."
Outside, high in the mists above Manhattan, a helicopter circled, waiting. Inside it was a man who was supposed to have been dead for the past nine years.
"Excellent," he said. "We are one step closer to Outer Heaven."
Outer Heaven.
Metal Gear Solid: Outer Heaven
Prologue
Vladimir hated his job. He'd been here for almost three years now, working at this nowhere job, wondering if he would ever be called on to do his duty.
As he looked around at the dingy office he occupied, Vladimir realized that he most likely wasn't ever going to be called on. His connections had told him the Colonel had died three years ago, just after he'd put Vladimir here, here being a dingy little wharf on the opposite end of Long Island from Manhattan. It was dirty here. And cold. And you couldn't walk twenty feet away from your job without either being mugged, or killing someone who was trying to mug you. That had happened a few times. The police here in America didn't particularly like it when they couldn't stop a few petty thieves, and then here was this Russian who seemed to kill two or three a day in self-defense. All of the incidents had witnesses, and Vladimir had never been charged with anything.
He was definitely glad he'd joined up with the Colonel back when the USSR collapsed. The GRU just wasn't the same. It was all about "cooperation" and a "peaceful world." One thing Vladimir didn't want was a "peaceful" world.
"I'm outta this dump," Max said. Vladimir disliked the big, stupid American, but he was good at the manual labor Vladimir's job required. Nothing like muscle for a muscle job, Vladimir thought.
"Good night," Vladimir said, cursing his accent. He'd learned English almost twenty years ago, for God's sake! The Colonel would have given him a sharp reprimand if he'd heard him talking English like that.
Vladimir finished the paperwork for the day and left. He scowled as he looked at the sign over his stevedore business: Steve's Stevedores. That had been the Colonel's idea; he'd thought it was amazingly funny when they decided to set up the front operation.
Slipping into the alley behind Steve's Stevedores, Vladimir paused for a moment and looked around warily before taking a key out of his pocket and inserting it into a back door sunk into the wall.
The lock squealed as rust flew off it; Vladimir cursed and looked around. Still nothing. He finished turning the key and slipped into the basement.
All around him were half-formed shapes; big shapes. Vladimir flicked on a light, and closed his eyes against the glare of the naked light bulbs in the room. When he opened them again, he took in the lovely sight: row after row of AKS-74us, AN-94s, artillery shells, bazookas, grenade launchers… the list went on and on. Making his way quickly through the maze of military hardware, Vladimir came up to another locked door. Taking another key out his pocket, Vladimir inserted it into the lock and turned it. As he opened the door, he heard something scrape against the cold concrete floor. But where? Behind him?
He turned. "Who's there?" he called out. Silence.
Pulling a light USP handgun that all of the Colonel's officers carried out of his waistband, Vladimir checked the clip and turned to enter the room. The scraping noise came again.
Vladimir turned, and this time began making his way back up the rows and rows of weaponry. "I know you're in here," he said. "Come on out and let's make this quick."
"Very well."
The voice was harsh and raspy, and had a bit of a Russian accent in it. Vladimir whirled around and saw that he was staring down the barrel of a handgun.
A very old handgun.
A Colt Single Action Army, in fact.
"Shalashaska!" Vladimir yelled. "I'm glad you remember my name, comrade, but I'd prefer if you use the one the Americans gave me," Shalashaska said.
"W-what are you doing here?" Vladimir said. "I've come for the little present you received a week ago," Revolver Ocelot said. "The nuke?" Vladimir said. "Haven't you tried that twice in the past, comrade?" His voice was suddenly harsh. "Oh for two, in the only game that matters. I find that amusing."
"You know what I find amusing?" Ocelot said lightly, his eyes twinkling. "That you, a former member of the GRU, have been reduced to mere… hired muscle."
Vladimir knew he was going to die. In that moment, the former GRU captain realized he had nothing to lose. "Die, dog!" He yelled, bringing up his USP and pulling the trigger.
As his bullet tore out of the USP's barrel, a terrible force slammed into Vladimir's chest. Pain blossomed in his gut, and his vision went red. The last thing he saw was smoke curling out of the barrel of Ocelot's Single Action Army, and then all went black.
"Thank you, comrade," Ocelot said. He turned and stepped back into the dark room Vladimir had opened.
Gazing at the former Russian nuke that was now his, Ocelot pulled a radio out of his belt. "This is Shalashaska," he said. "I have the nuke. Bring a team around."
Outside, high in the mists above Manhattan, a helicopter circled, waiting. Inside it was a man who was supposed to have been dead for the past nine years.
"Excellent," he said. "We are one step closer to Outer Heaven."