A Snake's Philosophy
Otacon walked down the stairs of the plane and casually stepped over to reach beneath his computer set to look for the extra roll of toilet paper his best friend so desperately needed at the moment.
'I told him not to go overboard with the Banana Brandy Milkshake but he said 'noooo! I can hold my drink.''
The previous night they had been living it up. At least, Snake was, and he had every reason to considering he would be dead in a few months anyways. But still he did not like the idea that moments like these would be waiting ahead for him to clean up. As if he was the official janitor of the team or something.
He finally found the toilet paper behind a camera crate and a box labeled Memories. A surge of curiosity took over Hal Emmerich. He reached out to grab the heavy box, 'What's exactly in this thing?' and handled it in his arms, soon setting it down on the table. He peered inside to find a camera, some goggles, a helicopter head set, a snake eye with the strap broken, a box of cigarettes, a fox hound patch, and a control stick from the metal gear REX with the wires hanging off loosely.
A black composition book peeking out from the corner caught his eye and he fished it out of its place to read the title written in bold lettering. PHILOSOPHY.
He opened the book to the first page and began to read the first journal entry.
I'm a killer.
Every footstep taken, every compound infiltrated, and every giant metallic monster I've taken down was always filled with bloodshed. For those who have died, I've never felt remorse or regret. Just a deep sense of pity for the soldiers I've fought, because they had to die for the ideals of those damn sociopaths and power hungry politicians; with a few sadistic, cruel, and cold entrepreneurs on the side.
One thing they all had in common, from the leader all the way down to the grunts on the ground, was that they stood to gain from one of mankind's cornerstones that represented human society. War.
War never changes, and won't ever change until people can realize how hollow it really is. Until they hear the screams of wounded men crying out the names of their loved ones as they lie alone - cold and dying; until they see the terrifying destruction and mangled bloody corpses that a single fragmentation grenade can leave behind; until they experience memories such as these, continuingly playing over and over and over long after the fighting is done, assuming you survive it at all, that is - The war and fighting and bloodshed will finally stop.
I've set foot in more battlefields than I'd care to count, more than enough to understand that there is no saving grace for war. Maybe it can have a good cause, but no matter what anyone says or does, the battlefields will always be Hell. Those who have never fought them should best keep their mouths shut because they in no way can even begin to understand.
Though I am haunted by memories, the gruesome images I've mentioned before, I am grateful to them. They help remind me who I was back then, who I am now, whom I'm fighting for, what I'm fighting for, and what it'll end up ultimately costing in the end to obtain it. I would hardly be able to call myself a human being, much less a soldier if I forgot any of this.
I will not lie. I'm in no way a hero. Never was. Never will be. I'm just one of the few surviving messengers left trying to turn people away from this ugly business.
After he finished reading it, Hal quietly closed the book and set it back where it belonged, quickly shoving the cardboard box back in its proper place. Next, he left the room to finally go and give his currently incapacitated friend the thing he needed about one hour ago.
The notebook would be un-touched for a single day. Snake would make his 129th entry on that same day by moonlight, none the wiser that his best friend had read only the first entry.