Welcome! mater-suspiriorum here (formerly RingLupine and I Must Scream). I hope you all will enjoy this fanfic. I have some important notes on this fanfic on my tumblr page, which you can access through my profile on here.

As I walk through the city streets,
these frightened people watching me pass;
there is an evil that holds them here,
and yet they won't try breaking its grasp.

-The Protomen, The Will of One

PROLOGUE

It was a grey day, with ash-white clouds that obscured the golden sun. The summer air still felt sticky and thick, making the cemetery grounds stagnant and stopped in time. The fields were small, and a stone's throw away from a similarly-sized suburb in South Carolina.

The place was stunningly empty, as it was a week-day. Save for the groundskeeper, there was only one other man, who was crouched by a good-sized headstone. He had been in that spot for a little while, and was constructing something meticulously. The man looked odd, his clothes were a hodge-podge of military gear – the only everyday article was a well-worn, brown leather duster jacket, which was strewn over the dewy grass. His long mahogany hair was pulled back, and only had one blue eye; the left one was covered by a black patch. In his calloused hands, several long flexible sticks were entwined in a circle, with some small vines of greenery to hold it all together.

The grave he sat near was for two. The names on it were rather worn, but legible. On the left was Ralph Taylor, and on the right was his wife, Susanna. He knew their son, and watched him die. The man grabbed two thick pieces of bark at his side and put one on top of the other, in the shape of a cross. Even though the architect no longer believed in God, the man who he thought of did until his last breath.

Once the cross was secure, the man reached into one of his many pockets and procured a knife. A steady hand guided the blade as it began to dig into the wood. He paid half a mind to the distant sound of tires over gravel, followed by the slam of a car door. By then, the man was half-done with his etchings when he heard approaching footsteps crunch down on the grass and earth. Whoever it was, they walked with a limp. They stopped a few feet behind him. The busy man was tempted to tell them to fuck off, but was too concentrated and nearly finished to care.

"Snake?" Someone asked. "Snake Plissken, is that you?"

The man abruptly stopped and looked over, his brows knit. Behind him was another man who leaned on a cane. He was portly and had a bit of a belly. Wispy white hair crowned the top of his head and sprouted along his jaw and upper lip. His attire was completely black.

Snake blinked and narrowed his eye. At one point, he lived with his man in faraway barracks, among the entire Black Light squadron.

"Conrad Wily," he said.

The older man laughed jovially and clapped Snake on the shoulder when he rose.

"Damn, boy, I never thought I'd see you after Leningrad," Conrad's green eyes looked a little watery. "I'm glad you're alive. Real glad."

Snake's lips curved into a small smile. "I thought you learned that anybody who says I'm dead is full of shit."

Another laugh, and the grip on Snake's shoulder tightened affectionately.

"Why are you here?" Snake asked softly.

Conrad's smile became sullen. "I thought I'd pay my respects to your and Taylor's parents. I don't have a lot of time."

It made more sense of an older man to say that, which Conrad Wily was not. Sure, he was a senior to most from the old squadron, but he was far from ancient.

"You've got more years than that," Snake said.

Conrad smile grew but became hollow, with his gaze eventually lowered towards the grassy ground. "What's that?"

The one-eyed man looked down at the near-finished monument. "It's for Taylor," he said quietly. "He should've been buried here."

That's how it all worked. There were too many criminals in the United States that it was better to burn all the bodies of the dead in the huge furnaces in a mass-cremation facility rather than have them buried someplace decent. Snake's grip tightened around the blade, and the engraving was finished.

WILLIAM TAYLOR

June 4th, 1967 – October 21st, 1997

There was room for an epithet, but Snake sheathed the blade. There was nothing that he could carve to describe what kind of person Taylor was or what they went through. Anything that short would be an insult. He put the lovingly-crafted bundle in front of the Taylor headstone, and in a way, he was nestled in between his parents. It leaned up towards the grey sky and waited for the sun. Snake turned towards Conrad, whose eyes were noticeably misty.

"Tell you what, Plissken," his voice was quiet. "Let's pay our respects, and then let's go to my place. I'm an hour away and I've got some good plans for dinner. I'll tell you why I don't have a lot of time."

Some discomfort phased through Snake, even with his and Conrad's past history. It was not that the older man did anything off-putting or gave off a bad vibe, it was just to the point where Snake Plissken felt like he could not trust anybody. That ability was gone once Taylor got shot. In this world, being paranoid meant the difference between life and death. He regarded the older man – his green eyes were as kindly as ever, almost pleading. Whatever it was, there was a surge of urgency and importance that Conrad was holding back, and Snake could see it all. Maybe it was a dying man's last wish. Snake owed him that much. At the thought, the younger man seemed to scoff and looked away.

"Fine."

Snake Plissken only lingered around the Taylors' for a moment before he walked away, feeling his boots sinking into the damp ground as he traveled. They were close by – he could feel them. A worn headstone, similar in size to the previous one, stood stalwart as if it sprouted from the ground long ago. The stone was not strong, as it was a pauper's grave. It was already weathered, and would probably crumble as time passed. The bottom edges were covered by encroaching moss. Even though it did not obstruct his ability to read the names (not that he needed to), he brushed the green away. Slowly, he crouched down, not quite resting his knees on the earth. Finally, his downward gaze shot up.

NATHANIEL PLISSKEN

March 5th, 1942 – September 22nd, 1988

THERESA PLISSKEN

August 16th, 1944 – September 22nd, 1988

Their names stared back at him, and they were close by – buried underneath the earth, but their presence was long gone. Thoughts of his homecoming and finding the long-ruined remains of his home emerged in his mind. Thieves invaded the house, and rather than rescue his parents, the United States Police Force burned the whole house down. It made his stomach churn to know that the remains of those bastards were intermixed with his parents. From that day on, he tried his best to elude the past, but here he was, silently recollecting years later. After all, they would never truly leave him – there were memories that he would always have, and sometimes he dreamed of them. He was fine with that.

Snake barely heard Conrad approach, and only offered a hollow glance when he turned around. The older man shifted against his cane, and nodded gently at Snake.

"Take all the time you need," he said.

For a moment, Snake thought that Wily looked like his father. "I'm done here."

Conrad nodded and the younger man trailed after him towards the car. It was an old, but lovingly-kept little vehicle. The inside was clean, save for a few specks of dead leaves and dirt on the black carpeted floor, however, the rumble of the engine signaled its age. It felt like it would be a somber journey, but that seemed to be alright. As the car lurched forward and began its journey away from the cemetery, Snake Plissken, the man who prided himself in his ability to not look back, looked at the image of the gates and land in the side mirror as it swept behind them.