I have long grown used to the hum of the machinery and the constant clicking of the tens of thousands of micro-biotic fibers adjusting themselves to even the slightest twitch. I've gotten used to this second skin that bends and stretches like it was my own, even though I can tell just by looking at it that it's something stronger than the very finest caliber steel. I have become accustomed to the sound of my labored breath on the inside of this faceplate.

It isn't all that new to me, anyways.

Sometimes I wonder if you inherited his memories of the past; his memories of me. First would be those of a scrawny little boy, back in the days when children were used as the last resorts of desperate dictators and the death tolls ran into the triple digits every other hour. His next memories would be of a deathly pale young man, demonic in garb and hellish in ability, carving bullets out of the air with a cheap machete as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

That was the first defeat I ever suffered.

I couldn't comprehend it, even as I agreed to join the man. How had I lost – I had everything and he had nothing. I was faster, stronger, enhanced and bred for the battlefield, and yet…every time I would run at him, his hands would become a blur, and I'd find my eyes staring at the sky, seconds before the resounding crunch of bone slapping into concrete filled my ears.

I think I idolized him; that's why I was so reluctant to fight against him so many years later. Maybe it was because he was like a father I had forgotten many years ago; maybe it was because he gave me the chance to become the hero that every little boy in a war-torn country wants to be.

But most probably, it was because I knew I could not win.

Old age had slowed us both down; even if I had become the top dog in my pack, every dog knows not to bite their master. Now matter how polished my fangs were, no matter how ravaged by age the old man had become, I knew that he was still better than me. However, he wasn't my master anymore, and my new handlers ordered me to hunt him down, and like the dog of the military I was, I followed my orders.

Snake…do you know what it's like to die? So many of the people around you know that feeling, and I think that's why so many of us have such a fascination with you. We all thought we were the best – we all had so much more power and resources…and yet it is only you who can continue to cheat death. You who are the only normal man who walks this battlefield – you are the only one who will be able to walk away.

I have a history with the snakes; it's sort of funny I suppose. I had always been under the impression that foxes were supposed to hunt snakes. I've tried, you know – I really have, but it's never quite worked out. I've always ended up being hunted by them; I've never been able to make the cut. Irony hurts – back in Mozambique they called me the "Frank Hunter", because I'd let them hunt me, and then I'd kill them, becoming the hunter. But Boss…and Liquid and even you…you're all just…something else.

The servomotors in my knees won't stop clicking, and even though I'm laying still the suit is twitching like mad, I don't think it wants to listen to my orders anymore. I can hardly blame it really; it lent me its strength and I let it get beaten into the dust.

These are some of the best soldiers in the world out in this base, you know? I didn't care, because "best" means nothing if you're a warrior. The day you say you're the best is the day you put your head out on the cutting board for everyone to take a swing at – God do I know that all too well. They screamed, of course, and more came running my way, shooting like amateurs; was that how I fought when I was still a child soldier?

I don't care – the sword hums as is cuts through flesh like molten steel through warmed butter, and I duck and weave to evade even the tiniest splatter of blood on my precious exoskeleton. I can hear a tank in the distance, and the sensory array in my helmet picks up the swish of air of a miniscule barrel firing what may as well be plastic darts at the behemoth. You never change, do you Snake – you and that damned toy of a gun.

I can't really see anymore; either the power's gone out or I've finally lost that much blood. It's fairly surprising that I managed to soliloquize this long; I've never been one to think about myself like this. Maybe it's just that…I'm sad for once. Sad that my entire life can be summarized in the time it takes for me to fall from this crater in the wall to the ground I expect will be my resting place. I admit…as horrible as it is, Metal Gear is the most astounding thing I have ever seen.

Snake, you're here…that's good. The world really needs a hero right now. I wish I could have been that hero, but this old fox has lost his fangs. Still though…I want what every hero wants – to be remembered.

I want to be remembered, Snake…as a hero of the old FOXHOUND.

I want to be remembered as Frank Jaeger, the Gray Fox.

Author's Notes: Again, reviews are greatly appreciated. This time I felt like another oneshot, and just like last time, I decided to give myself a maximum time of ten minutes to write it. Frank Jaeger, the Gray Fox, is another character I love, because even though he was always "second best" compared to Big Boss or Solid Snake, he was still a true hero.