Disclaimer:

1) I don't own the Metal Gear, Boktai, Airforce Delta, Silent Hill, Castlevania, Gradius, Twinbee, Lightning Fighters, etc. series. Konami owns them all.

2) I make no claim to own my OCs because they're just tools with names.

3) Every attempt has been made to emulate the sparse description, long-winded dialogue style of actual militia-, extremist-, and terrorist-produced literature, but I do not endorse or condone their views.

4) This is the censored, unannotated version to comply with this site's rules. The original is on a private wiki.

5) I don't make any money from these writings.

A/N (Jan. 20, 2013): This fanfic was started before Revengeance came out. Chapter 13 is my saving throw and where the horror/fantasy starts in earnest.

Philanthropy's leaders believed that destroying the Patriot AIs would end the War Economy. They failed to acknowledge basic human opportunism, cruelty, and hatred.

There were those who suffered from the global ceasefire caused by Liquid Ocelot's Guns of the Patriots. Investors saw their fortunes evaporate in an instant, and some lost everything short of their lives. Warmongers, extremists, armchair generals, militarists, and the machismo-obsessed were robbed of their bloody entertainment. Conspiracy theorists, "libertarians," and "patriot" militias thought themselves vindicated at first, but after hearing that the AIs still regulated necessities, they took it upon themselves to rid the world of these last traces of control.

For some vindictive individuals, the wars never ended. They would have their vengeance, no matter the cost. It began slowly: some survivors from the wars gave harsh looks at former mercenaries of the Big Five, which soon escalated to brawls between former rivals wherever veterans congregated, which led to a few former contractors being beheaded in revenge killings. Some former PMCs, in return, gave as good as they got, ripping the eyes out of former survivors who looked at them disrespectfully, beating down on former terrorists wherever they dared to show their faces, and lynching those who murdered their comrades.

That these were supposed to be former enemies never registered to anyone. Few understood or cared for the causes of this animosity, seeing only that acts of violence had been committed against their side and that the blood of those responsible was the only possible remedy.

Within five years, the embers of the War Economy had sparked an era of extremism and low-intensity wars. Within ten, the flames had spread to the five states that comprised the permanent members of the United Nations Security Council. Within two decades, the inferno had engulfed all seven continents. Not even Antarctica was spared.

In 2035, twenty-one years after the end of the War Economy Era, countless millions of bloodthirsty zeroes had once more turned Earth into a hellhole, and this time, there were no Snakes to save the world.

His first name, John, was given to him by his mother as a reminder of his father. His surname, Campbell, he had retained as a sign of respect for his stepfather, the man who protected him and his mother from Patriot retribution during his early years.

It was irrelevant in any case; here, he was simply Drebin 2012, an arms dealer who sold to any side that could afford his prices. Granted, he differed from most of his brethren in that he bought weapons and sold only munitions and battlefield luxuries. He wasn't the most profitable green-collar around, but he had the most regular customers out of the thousands of second- and third-generation Drebins out there.

Then again, unlike most Drebins, he never used a Stryker to get around. He didn't have to—the vast majority of his transactions were with domestic customers. They had money and guns to trade for ammo, and he had cases of M193, M196, M855, and M856 cartridges just collecting dust in his warehouse.

An ACU-clad militiaman ran into his tent. "Drebin, you hear?" he breathlessly asked. "We've been attacked! I need a case of 5.56—fast!"

"Sorry, Ralphie," John shrugged. "You're a few minutes too late. Folks before you bought all my Lake Cities and IMIs. All I got left is that old, corrosive Russki junk."

"Shit, it don't matter! Just gimme what you got, bump Charlie, and arrange an RV at the old oak, would you? I gotta get a move on!" Noting the Drebin's inaction, Ralphie demanded, "Well? I ain't got time to fuck with you!"

"All right, all right!" John retrieved a case of vintage steel-cased plinking ammunition and wiped the dust off before handing it over. "One case of lacquered, as ordered. I'll put it on your account."

"Thanks, Drebin! Bye!" Ralphie rushed back to his vehicle and sped off.

John watched as the militant headed toward the smoke plume rising in the distance and chuckled. Once he was sure Ralphie had gotten far enough, he took out a cell phone and dialed a number.

"Yo, Charlie?" he began. "It's Drebin. Don't speak, just listen: There's something strange going down. Ralphie said it was an attack—may be narcs, may be the feds. I'm guessing it's trouble at the lab, 'cause he wants you to RV with him at the old oak. You might want to bring as many of your boys and girls with you as can. Laters!"

He turned the phone off, waited, and grinned. Those people deserved a head start and a final few minutes of freedom, even if they were complete dumbasses.

Sunny Gurlukovich buried her head in her arms. Despite her education, experience, and motivation, she was utterly unemployable. No one wanted to hire an employee whose actions caused the downfall of major multinational corporations.

If she had known better, she reflected, she wouldn't have exposed those trade secrets. Sure, what her bosses were doing was unethical and illegal, but they paid her bills. Sure, bribing anti-Western terrorists and crooked government officials for assurances of protection was tantamount to treason, but it was how the companies were able to keep profits up and costs down. Sure, whistleblowers were protected from unlawful termination, but they weren't immune if the businesses went under and everyone had to be laid off.

Sunny had a long history of ruining businesses whose practices went against her ethical code. Before turning eight, she had destroyed no less than five corporations. She inadvertently took out a sixth as a teenager, when she exposed a senator's corruption and linked the attacks on his detractors back to goons paid under the table by his security firm. During her college years, a veterans' organization suddenly found its headquarters shelled by barrack busters after calling her Uncle Hal a "terrorist," "traitor," and other assorted insults.

None of those incidents could be traced back to her. Going public about the corruption within the soft drink industry—and its gum arabic sourcing methods in particular—was a different matter. Now she was out of a job, blacklisted by the corporate world, and responsible for causing the company that made NARC Cola to be absorbed by its archrival. Drebin 893 had been particularly displeased of the last consequence, though he simultaneously applauded her for doing the right thing.

To say that the subsequent bounties, hits, termination orders, fatwas, and letters of collection put on her head were minor irritants was an understatement. Her enemies had guns and bombs at their disposal, but she possessed things that made armies of Metal Gears seem harmless. Chief among these items was her DREBINS limited-edition scarf, an article of designer clothing with symbols for negative emotions and infinity embroidered on it. It caused her to itch like mad, but it was a small price to pay so she could keep her enemies at bay.

Sunny looked at her beeping wristwatch and groaned. It was time get back to fighting off the worst of these enemies: debt. She'd wiped out her life savings to buy the scarf, and while she couldn't get a job, she could still earn money selling fired cases and empty mil-spec magazines to reloaders and scrap dealers.

All she had to do was put the damned thing on, let it grant her the power of infinite ammo, dump a few hundred mags' worth downrange, sweep up the cases afterwards, and sell the brass to the millions of cheapskates and perfectionists looking to invalidate their warranties. If it were practical, she would have sold cartridges instead, but she wasn't a licensed dealer and had no desire of bringing the boys and girls of F-Troop down on her head again. She'd shot her way across enough borders for two lifetimes.

Dejectedly, she rubbed her bruised right shoulder, stood up, donned her scarf and protection once more, and trudged back to her elephant gun. She dropped to a prone firing position, grabbed the large-caliber rifle, and loaded it with cartridges that seemingly materialized out of thin air. Bracing herself for the pain, she narrowed her eyes and squeezed the trigger.

Fuck! she mentally cursed through an aching shoulder and ringing ears. There's gotta be an easier way to make money.