Heroes do not simply fade into obscurity. No, we build them up far too much for such a thing to happen. We etch their stories in stone tablets, we build monuments in their memory, we name cities in their honor. Humans' memories are long. We pour such effort into preserving that which is dear to us.

No, when heroes are forgotten, it is because they are made to be forgotten. They are discredited and destroyed, to be replaced by whatever "truth" those in power wish to peddle. The tablets are broken, the monuments demolished, and the cities sunken.

Beams of light illuminated the ocean floor. They scanned its surface back and forth like spotlights, allowing the unmanned submarine to capture data from both its optical camera and infrared depth sensor.

In a stark white room that appeared to stretch to infinity, a man no older than 25 pored over the highly detailed three-dimensional model of the submarine's field of vision, holographically projected into the center of the room. He looked as though he had just rolled out of bed after a Silicon Valley party: bare feet, baggy jeans, a wrinkled tee shirt, and an ill-fitting suit jacket that provided the minimum level of professionalism required for his line of work. With a gaunt, pale face and dark, greasy hair, he was frequently likened to a vampire by his colleagues.

"Violet," he called out, eyes fixed on the hologram. "What's the first thing you'll do when I build you that body?"

A voice, sampled from human vocalizations yet still clearly artificial, rang out on the speaker system. "I shall run to my Master with open arms, and feel the warmth of his loving embrace."

The man smiled. He had trained his pet well. "Good girl." The hologram showed chunks of metal debris littering the sea floor. "Ah!" exclaimed the man, "With any luck, we'll hit paydirt in no time!"

"What is it you hope to find, Master?" asked Violet.

"What I hope to find…" he began before trailing off. The hologram then displayed a massive warship, a hulking vessel that appeared at once to be both military and alien in origin. The man beamed, unable to contain his joy. "...Is our foundation for Outer Heaven."

METAL GEAR SOLID: IDEA SPY

A LUCIANA GARCIA GAME

The submersible passed over the enormous masthead, a monument to Big Boss and Les Enfants Terribles. Memories of Outer Heaven and Zanzibar, of Shadow Moses, of Big Shell and Liquid's Insurrection, lay decaying in the deep, grown over with algae and coral.

"I honestly can't believe it!" the man chuckled. "We'll have complete and total control! Can you imagine, Violet?"

"No, Master," said the computer. "I am weak and powerless. You are the one who controls."

"That's my girl!" chimed the man. "Master loves you very much."

"I am grateful that you would love someone as undeserving as I."

"Good, but aren't you forgetting something?" asked the man in a leading tone.

"And I love you, too."

His lips curled into a satisfied smile. "Good girl."

The submarine floated through the ship's interior, down cramped hallways and open portholes. It came upon an open space: a graveyard of data and broken code.

"This is it, Violet!" said the man. "The final resting place of GW! Oh, they've broken you terribly! But all of my horses and all of my men can cobble you back together again! Take me inside!" The hologram scaled up and engulfed the entire room. It was as though the man were inside the ship himself, walking amongst the tombstone-like server racks. "It's surreal to finally see it."

"Do you think this will work, Master?"

The man scoffed. "What kind of fools would the Patriots be if they put their central server on a submersible vessel and didn't bother to waterproof it?" He pointed to a spot on the main terminal. The submarine, also represented in the hologram, drifted towards this spot. Extending a long black tendril, it forced the sliding panel down.

The monitors flickered, filling the room with momentary bursts of light. "Sons of the Patriots was only the b-b-b-beginning," said a distorted, glitching voice, muffled by water, barely intelligible. "The P-P-Patriots were planning to use n-n-n-n-n-n-nanomachines to implement the System over over over over the entire p-p-p-p-population."

"Oh my, they didn't just do the server racks," remarked the man, speaking over the recording. "They made everything here water resistant! They really went the extra mile, didn't they? That's the Patriots for you."

"...With a little help from S-S-S-Sunny," continued the recording. The monitors strobed at random intervals. "She helped me... She believe- believe- believed her talents could help you all put GW to r-r-rest. What she c-created was an anti-AI FOXDIE."

"I feel… fear," said Violet. The submarine connected its tendril to the terminal's data port.

"But this virus's name," said the recording as the sub downloaded its payload, "is FOXALIVE- ALIVE- ALIVE- ALIVE- ALIVE-"

It repeated the word 'alive' like a broken record. "Yes, Dr. Hunter," said the man with a smirk. "The Boss's will is very much… Alive."

Hal Emmerich, wearing nothing but a stained tee shirt, boxers, and an open yukata, hunched over his desk. Staring intently at his monitor, transfixed by a mecha anime, he shoveled instant noodles into his mouth with cheap take-out chopsticks. He wiped his big, bushy beard on his sleeve. His skin may have wrinkled, his hair may have grayed and receded, but otherwise, he was Otacon. Same as he ever was.

"!"

The computer alerted him to a visitor ringing his doorbell. He hated uninvited visitors. He pressed a button on his keyboard. "No one's home!" he shouted.

After a staticky click, he heard a familiar voice through his speakers: "Kawanishi-Noseguchi, Kinunobebashi, Takiyama-"

Hal spat out his noodles and fumbled about trying to press the talk button. "Sunny! Oh my God, Sunny! You're back! Kept me waiting, huh? Hold on, I'll let you right in!" He bolted to the door, tying his yukata closed along the way.

When he opened the door, he found that Sunny's voice was the only familiar thing about them. With a close-cropped haircut and sunglasses, they looked just like their mother (though Hal would never say it). More surprising than their camo pants and combat boots (standard fare for Sunny, but unlike anything Hal had seen them wear) was the chest-compressing binder they wore under a mesh top. "Oh! S-Sunny!" exclaimed Hal, trying to contain his shock/excitement/anxiety. "There's my… Child?"

"Child works, yes," said Sunny. "I appreciate the effort."

"I don't want to upset you again," said Hal, scratching his neck. "Not ever. Come in, come in! I apologize for the mess. Short notice, and whatnot." He led them into the kitchen. The sink held a mountain of dishes, and Sunny could barely take a single step without tripping on a pizza box. "Now, what can I get you? Coffee? Tea?"

"Hal, I need your help," they said, heading him off at the pass.

"O-oh…" Hal cast his eyes downward. "I just… thought you'd want to catch up. It's been almost…" He looked at his calendar and realized it was wrong. He flipped to the correct month: February 2032. "Jeez, has it been a year and a half?"

"Later," said Sunny. "There are more pressing issues at hand." She tossed a folder onto the kitchen table. "CODEC scans show activity in the Bering Sea, near the resting place of Outer Haven."

"Er..." His hopes dashed, Hal struggled to acclimate to the abrupt change in topic. "O-Outer Haven? Jeez, I haven't heard that name in a long time. How can that be?" Hal asked. "The only people who know about Outer Haven are those directly involved in the Guns of the Patriots incident."

"Apparently not." They pulled a map from the folder. "A set of coordinates appeared on Spartacus LeakNet that outlines a bounding box surrounding Haven's wreckage. It must have caught the eye of some rich scumbag, because I've picked up CODEC transmissions from nearly a dozen unmanned subs, all of them sending to Wahalchu, Washington, among other locations in the Telipa Sound area."

"Not smart enough to hide their location data, huh?" said Hal with a chuckle.

"They're probably operating under government clearance and don't expect a private third party to have a CODEC activity scanner. That is, they didn't account for me," Sunny boasted. "Of course, you know what operates out of Wahalchu, right?"

Hal scratched his beard. "Wahalchu... Isn't there a tech company there?"

Typical out of touch Hal. "Don't tell me you're naive enough to think Junker Expansive is just a tech company?" Sunny chided.

"To be fair, JE's one of those companies that I don't think anyone knows what they actually do," said Hal. "There's obviously the tech part, but I think they actually make most of their money through… Venture capital? Who knows. It's a lot of shady business."

"'Shady business' is JE's raison d'etre. Can you imagine what a company like JE will do if it gets its hands on Haven?" asked Sunny. "If it pieces GW back together?"

"It's the Patriots all over again…"

"La li lu le lo, or something like that, right? I can't let that happen." Sunny removed their sunglasses and shot Hal a worried look. "We can't let that happen."

Pausing for a moment, Hal carefully pondered his next action. Sunny comes back after all this time, and they don't even ask how he's doing? And then demand his help? Yet the stakes were too high to let petty family issues blind him. And of course he would do anything for his child. He pushed up his glasses. "Looks like Philanthropy's back in business."

Sunny smiled. "I knew you'd understand, Uncle Hal."

Hal took such solace in their smile. It gave him hope. Perhaps this mission could help bridge the divide between the two Emmerichs.

Perhaps he would have a child once again.

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